Our Reading and Traveling reporters descended on Truth or Consequences, New Mexico to write and soak in the healing tubs at the Pelican Spa, explore the back alleys and the street benches, caffeine-up and dance at Ingo’s Art Cafe, eat delicious omelets, burgers, and veggie options at the The Giddy Up Cafe and The Grapevine Bistro, delight in the yeasted doughnuts of Bullocks, interview booksellers and tumbleweeds, and find out whatever did happen to Destiny’s Keto Kitchen.
Found Objects
by Margaret Elysia Garcia
Small towns in the West tell you who they are immediately. They have always seen better days as they fade back into the dirt and dust. And if we read our histories accurately we know that most desert towns never really had a heyday in the first place. They are an idea, an invention that attempts to graft onto the land and live without much more than a perseverance to try anyhow. Small western towns are ideal places to hide out, to reach by sundown. They are places to reinvent oneself; places to lay low and regroup. Places born out of a particular time that are now out of time. Such is Truth or Consequences.
In cities you can declare yourself an artist and your city will pat you on the head and tell you that’s nice that you have a hobby. No one will ever have the time to see your show if you ever get a show and that show won’t be at a gallery. Maybe your garage. Maybe your Instagram.
But in a hamlet attempting to reclaim itself while the sun sets on it the way it does in the age of apocalypse, you can be an artist. You can claim yourself. You can find a dilapidated wall to hang your work. You can install yourself and whatever comes to mind anywhere you want. You own your creativity and no one will call you a hobbiest in the land of the half broken enchantments.
You can walk into a religious gift store and find Christmas ornaments: big clear plastic balls with green trim and red bullet casings—and somehow it all makes sense in that western way things can make sense that don’t make sense at all.
You can walk away from your motel parking lot to a lone palm tree in the middle in a protected circle of stones with a single lawn chair and a handmade yellow sign that says “Palm Park.” If you don’t see the magic, it’s on you, because it’s there.
There in the torn up street that demonstrates the mystery between recovery and tear down. There in the expanse of sky. There in classic cars parked outside a blown apart sidewalk and foundation-less homes. A one-eyed well-fed cat appears; his thick grey coat as dusty as the town itself. He jumps into your lap, and you pet him as he asks. And just when you think he might need you, might need a home and someone to take care of him, he disappears into the night. It leaves you wondering if he, if you were ever there at all.
Margaret Elysia Garcia, whose latest book is Graft, feels most at home in decrepit, dusty places; catch up with her at www.margaretelysiagarcia.com
It Begins with the River
by Carol Young Wilson
The river flows to the names that have known her—Rio Bravo del Norte, tooh ba aadi (Navajo), as well as the Rio Grande, to list just a few. She strings together a world from the Colorado mountains to the Gulf of Mexico. Along the way she quietly and softly runs through Truth of Consequences, New Mexico. There are signs in town, warning that she is not always as quiet or soft as she seemed on a recent February wintery day. There are other actual signs bearing less direct instructions about how to approach her.
She watches as brown pelicans and herons pause along her sienna banks.
Black gray mountains have always travelled with her. She has no borders; she belongs to everyone and no one. She carries her grandeur along almost 1900 miles.
As she kisses Truth or Consequences one February Sunday, she carries the music of harsh winds whipping through a majestic solitary pine in an empty Ralph Edwards Park. It’s her quiet day, a day when wind, clouds and cold force away intruders, leaving her to reflect on her beige beauty, giving her moments to listen to the reeds and the cormorants’ wings.
She runs confident in her own loveliness, even as some may judge her too brown, too dry, too narrow, too wide, too much, too little. She flows, certain of all the vibrancy she brings with her, laughing like the grand, brave river she has always been, will always be.
Carol Young Wilson writes essays and fiction from Wimauma, Florida, a few miles from the Little Manatee River.
Getting There
Flying Manic Down the I-25.
by Jordan Fox
I forgot to pull a tarot card before I left. Damn it, I hit the steering wheel hard with the palm of my hand.
I’m flying down the 25, just past Denver now, pushing 80, my face split in two with my crooked toothed grin. The mountain range stands steady in all its majestic glory, whispering to me: you’ve got this. Look at me now, I think, remembering that only a year and a half ago I bought JJ, my first used car. I worked seven days a week for ten months to save ten thousand dollars for this car. Not only the first car I ever bought that wasn’t from a loved one and steeply discounted, but the first ten grand I ever saved and the first time I worked two jobs and seven days a week for that long. This summer I turn 43.
I am crazy, verifiably. I have literally lost my mind, saw and heard things that weren’t there, have tripped out on just the machinations of my mind, no drugs required. The disease I have is bipolar disorder, axis one, which is the severe kind. It splits hairs with schizoaffective disorder which nestles next to schizophrenia, which runs in my family. Axis one is the type that fucks you over again and again, lands you in the hospital, puts you on top of a cliff about to jump, yells at you to do things that you feel you must do and end up doing, but regretting because your executive function, and the inability to sleep, has flown out the window and you can no longer think clearly (because they’re somewhere flying). Having bipolar means it’s not as simple as just believing your way out of it, thinking your way to a new story or writing it down over and over that you are (fill in the blank) and it will magically happen. I tried those things all throughout my 20s and 30s—raised on the belief that we are all creating our own reality, and it’s all just in my head. For me, it hasn’t been that simple.
I just hit Raton, New Mexico. It’s warmer here, and the jean jacket I’m wearing is too hot, but I can’t take it off. I’m racing by the landscape at 100 now. JJ is doing great, I was a little concerned. He does have 155k miles on him, but I just had all the maintenance done and he’s having as much fun as me.
I wonder what that hill is across the way . . . hill? What is it called? I wish I could Google it, but I don’t have Siri connected, nor do I want her to hear her irritating voice during this drive.
It’s just me, JJ, and Janis Joplin. We are singing loudly about always giving your heart away.
Last weekend I spent four days in bed, called out sick to my job on my last week of work there. Now I’m racing with hypomania, which could taxi quickly into mania if I’m not careful, so I have to be cautious. I remember I have to leave in…what is it? I quickly do the math . . . 39 hours to drive home, then start the new job on Monday. The stress tugs at my face. A flock of birds flies overhead, reminding me to stay calm and be present.
I’m coming off the freeway now as I slow to a measly 30. My heart races as the speed decreases. I miss my turn on North Date Street, but turn right just ahead. There’s construction and everyone is going 20 now. I head down Clancy Street, turn left at Sims and there it is: the bright pelican pink of the Pelican Spa up over there on the left. I have finally arrived.
I’m running late to the first reading, which started at seven. All I can hear is the sound of my fear coursing through my veins. I want to meet everyone that I’ve been talking to online for the past year in the Literary Kitchen, but my doubt makes me think I won’t be liked, even though all I have heard from anyone is positivity. But, I am dragging awfully close to mania: I am sure I will be too loud and make a scene. The walls are a deep blue in the single suite called The Blue Room; old Hollywood films design the walls, and the hot tubs are just there, 15 feet away through the office, I don’t even have to wear shoes. I am looking forward to a long soak by myself behind a closed, locked door.
The walls seem to hug me and tell me I’m going to be okay. I am glad I brought the tequila and the shaker to make a margarita. I pull out my deck of tarot and shuffle the cards. What do I need to focus on, I wonder. I pick a card. It’s Revolution.
Jordan Fox is a writer working on her first book, a memoir of her experience working as a sex worker on Craigslist during the Great Recession, and is a mother of two fur-boys.
Lithium Water Welcome After Checking into the Red Pelican
by Alyssa Graybeal
The Red Pelican is one of many buildings housed under the umbrella of the Pelican Spa in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, known colloquially as T or C. No matter which lodging you booked, check in happens at 306 S. Pershing St.
The website states that the check-in window closes at 7:30 pm, so call the front desk if you plan to arrive later. Keep in mind that shift change happens at 3 pm, and staff members have no earthly way of communicating with each other about arrangements made before or after their scheduled shifts.
Make same-afternoon check-in plans if possible.
Five Japanese-style concrete soaking tubs are in the same building; arrive before 10 pm to catch the last soak. Minerals in the natural hot springs include calcium, magnesium, bicarbonate, and lithium, the last of which you may be grateful for.
Upon check-in, the clerk outlines rules that include no smoking or vaping. “None of the fun stuff,” she says, chuckling as she hands you papers to sign. You get the sense that she’s still having fun somehow and, after carefully considering her spoken directions, RAT recommends using the GPS on your phone when navigating to off-site buildings.
Be sure to double-check that the room you booked is the room to which you are given keys. Additionally, make sure you are handed a ring with two keys: one to the Red Pelican courtyard and one to your particular room. The keys look identical, but their shallow engravings are visible if you catch a glimmer of moonlight at a precise 8-degree angle.
Caution: When walking down S. Pershing St., be sure to stay on the street-side squares of sidewalk cement, as a No Trespassing sign is posted on a private home; violators who meander onto its slight cement incline will be prosecuted.
Take a right at the purple wall with the pelican mural, and drag your wheelie bag down the gravel alley. Do your best to avoid the numerous potholes. When gravel jams the axels of your tiny plastic suitcase wheels, you will have to carry it by the handle instead. Regret packing so many books and notebooks. Tuck your cane under your arm and pray you don’t fall hard enough to embed gravel in your travel-weary face.
After one block, unlock the cast iron gate on your left and let yourself into a charming courtyard decorated with cacti and buddhas centered around a shade-giving pergola.
If the light is left on in the Pagoda Suite, don’t assume that staff have turned on a lamp to ease your entry. When you let yourself in, note the open suitcase on the floor of the bedroom alongside the pristine pair of white converse. The light is on because this room is already occupied by other guests. Count yourself lucky that said guests are not currently home.
Drag your belongings back down the alleyway to the check-in desk. On your second wait in the check-in line, note the 4.8 Trip Advisor average and wonder how long ago this accolade was printed and framed. The curling paper suggests it has been at least a decade, but dust depth and degree of sun-fading may be more extreme in T or C. Watch the minutes on the digital clock on the counter as they count down to last soak (you have 5 minutes left).
After the clerk apologizes, accept your second set of keys. The room you actually booked—The Dragon Suite—is next door to the first. The lights are not on when you arrive, which you see as a good sign.
You unlock the door and clunk down your extremely heavy suitcase on the painted hardwood floors, at which point a naked lady charges you from the bedroom with a large unidentified object. “What you are doing here?” she asks. Her voice shakes with fury.
“I have a key to this room,” you say. This does not appease her. Remember the guns & ammo shops you passed on your way into downtown from I-25, and leave the room as quickly as possible.
Because you are now not only exhausted but also angry and flooded with adrenaline, leave your suitcase and backpack in the courtyard. What’s one more risk at this point?
You are now waiting to speak with the clerk for the third time. When you do, she’s even more apologetic about the double-booking of your actual room. It is on you to eventually guide this conversation back towards whether they have a room in which you can sleep tonight. Breathe a sigh of relief when you learn that—even though they are fully booked that weekend with RAT staff—the Mandarin Suite is available, and you can move into your booked room the next night.
Trek down the alley a third time, but why not turn around again to make it a fourth? You notice you cannot get into the courtyard because you’ve only been given a single key this time. When you finally land in an empty room, you are past the point of caring about the grimy bedding and the mystery smudges on the deep red walls of the Mandarin Suite.
Request a late check-out because you will need some time to recover. But be sure to leave a handwritten note on the outside of your door for the cleaning staff, who will otherwise walk into your room at 8:00am (even earlier than the standard 11:00am check-out) for no apparent reason.
Leverage the clerk’s guilt to be allowed take a 10:45 soak in T or C’s famous mineral hot springs. Turn the red emergency handle on the white PVC pipe to full blast into your private concrete tub. Appreciate the bright yellow walls and vibrant artwork. The water pressure here is excellent.
Alyssa Graybeal is a writer, editor, and cartoonist, and the author of Floppy (2023), a disjointed memoir about Ehlers-Danlos syndrome from Red Hen Press.
The Signs of Truth or Consequences
by Abby Braithwaite
When traveling in a new place, aimlessly or with purpose, a wanderer relies on signs to find their way—FOOD, PHONE WI-FI, GAS, LODGING read the highway billboards, announcing to the unfamiliar that all they need can be found here, at this exit, within a minute or two of the off-ramp. Signs inform, direct, instruct, orient. In this era of the smart phone, travelers can get most places without ever looking up from the screen, but signs on the side of the road and in shop windows provide welcome validation that the phone has not lied.
In the historic downtown of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico—two well-marked miles from Exit 79 off I-25 in the high desert of southern New Mexico—the signs painted on adobe walls and rusting doors do more than orient, though.
The signs in T or C tell tales. They tell stories of sun and wind and hopes and dreams. They tell the history of a place that has welcomed visitors since being built around the natural mineral springs that bubble up from the earth here.
The signs around town may not always get you where you meant to go, they may not be entirely legible, but they are an incredible testament to the changeability and resilience of a place and its people, and they are part of the eclectic visual backdrop of this rugged and welcoming town.
Street signs here weather in ways this writer has never seen before, black letters loosened from white backgrounds by searing sun and dusty wind, so that they appear to be painted on with a brush and ink, desert calligraphy inviting a driver into the left turn lane with just a bit more elegance than anywhere else on the planet.
There is an economizing that happens in any remote town, making do with what you have, stretching the utility of everyday objects. Fifteen miles per hour no longer slow enough on this strip of potholed alley? Let’s peel back that extra tape, reduce speed to 5.
While businesses have sprung up out by the freeway to serve the residents of Truth or Consequences with all the necessities of life found in box stores and chain restaurants in similar strips all across the United States, the historic downtown district caters mainly to the visitors come for healing waters of the hot springs, and the signs on the buildings here tell the stories of the many dreams that have built businesses in this small grid of streets over the years. Some places, like the A & B Drive-In and Diner and El Cortez Theater, are still in operation, and their signage tells the story of businesses that have weathered many eras of this downtown core.
Other businesses have come and gone, but their signs—painted right on wood or walls, or stuck on windows—remain as a portrait of what came before. When walking the streets of T or C, one feels the breath of ghosts, dreamers who set up shop here decades ago, plying their trade until no one was interested any more.
One unmarked alley between Main Street and Broadway is a treasure trove of once upon a time, with a tumble weed nestled just to the right of a dust covered eye ball on the old T or C Eye Clinic sign, once lit from within, now being subsumed by grass and dust. A little further down at the Love Lumber Co, a Sherman Williams paint sign is a testament to the staying power of that particular product, words and picture still clearly legible on the well-weathered metal siding. Walk a few steps farther and you come to the back door of the Hot Springs Herald, a local, family-owned newspaper in operation from 1948 until 2018. The Herald is gone, leaving the locally-owned Sierra County Sentinel as the only paper in town, but its story still remains on this back-alley sign. (Interestingly, the script inviting would-be customers to “Please Use Front Door” echoes the wind-peeled street sign lettering.)
There are signs, too, that leave a traveler wondering. Barbecue or pest removal? Maybe both? Just read the labeling on the seasoned salt carefully! Walk-ins are welcome at a little shop-front down the street, but there’s no indication what you might be walking in on, and closer observation reveals a small “For Sale” sign in the window, not an uncommon auxiliary notice around this little tourist town coming back to life after a global pandemic. One of the best little restaurants in town, The Grapevine Bistro, serves up a fresh and juicy green chili cheeseburger with a side of home cut home fries, but it’s moved across the street from where Yelp directs a hungry traveler, and the painted wooden sign leans up in the window, rakish and unattached. The dining room isn’t yet open, but happy is the wanderer who is not scared off by the temporary look to the place.
Around the corner at the US Post Office, the robin’s egg blue railings lead a traveler looking for a postcard stamp up a stately staircase to the deep teal door, the lettering etched on the front of the stone building looking as crisp as the day it was carved. Just to your left as you approach the door, however, is a little bit of weathered time travel—the T or C post office, it would appear, still houses a fallout shelter with a capacity of 51, refugio for at least some of the town’s residents from the fearsome nightmare of the Cold War.
Truth or Consequences is a town in flux, with tourists moving through and businesses at the mercy of the fluctuations of visitors and the tenacity of their owners, and a walk through the historic Hot Springs district is a visual feast. T or C is a place that keeps its histories on display, and feels primed for the next wave to come. There are many empty store fronts waiting for their next tenants, and many a sign blank waiting to take on the task of bringing travelers through the door.
Abby Braithwaite writes and travels from her home base in Ridgefield, Washington.
How a Bookseller Found “The Place”
Chatting with the booksellers at Xochi’s Bookstore and Gallery on North Broadway
By Rebeca Dunn-Krahn
Xochi’s is a packed-to-the-rafters, multi-room, old-school second-hand bookshop of a kind that no longer exists where I come from. I first visited on Saturday afternoon when I met Jean, who lives in nearby Elephant Butte and has been working at the shop for a couple of years, having retired from her career as a meat cutter. According to her colleague, PQ, Jean helped to organize the bookstore into the current scheme, where each room off the central hallway holds books of a particular topic, such as art, history, military, and Native American culture.
Jean’s grandson is the same age as my youngest son, so we talked teenagers, the challenges of distance learning, and what it was like to be a woman in the male-dominated field of meat cutting. Along with the owner, Stan, Jean and PQ form the staff of this multi-faceted operation.
On Monday morning, I caught PQ in between cataloguing square dance records and packing a truck full of books to take to Las Cruces.
PQ: When I was a kid, this is what a bookstore was. And it slowly evolved into Barnes and Noble and the mall things. When I found this place, I mean, he’d been closed for a year and only doing mail order and he put a sign up looking for an eBay person, and that’s how I started working here.
RAT: So you do eBay as well?
PQ: eBay, AbeBooks, Biblio. That’s the main ones. Other little nests I can find. Right now, he [referring to Stan, the owner of Xochi’s] found a collection of square-dance records. They’re the most unbelievable whole genre of records and there are like 700 of them I’m cataloguing.
I’ve been in touch with the American Square Dance Association. I think I’ve found somebody who’s interested but now I have to catalogue them.
RAT: It’s a very cool archive. So, you’ve been here for twelve years, you said?
PQ: I’ve been in town for almost fifteen and I’ve worked here for twelve.
This place has just embraced me. When I first moved here, there was a different coffee shop up on the hill called Coffee, T or C, and I was the barista once I got here. And in the first two weeks because I was the only barista within fifteen miles, almost anybody that I had any interest in meeting came, and I got to meet them, know who they were, and talk to them. So yeah, but this place, for me, has just been very beneficial and cool.
—PQ
RAT: So you’re a people person.
PQ: Certain people. Because I have Asperger’s and I’m from New York and I’m not in New York anymore, I know I can put off some people and I’m working on that, but it’s a constant work in progress.
RAT: And do you do a lot of reading?
PQ: These [gesturing at the mountain ranges of books surrounding his desk] and everything else in the world. I’ve also found, to read these days, you don’t really need books. I can find almost anything somewhere, online. I have a fifty-inch TV. For example, I used to collect comic books. I now have almost every comic book ever published in digital form. I don’t have to worry about bending it. It’s worth this, that or the oth- well, all I want to do is read them. And I have them now. And again, I have a fifty-inch TV. I sit back with my mouse, and it’s fine.
RAT: So you don’t mind reading off a screen?
PQ: It’s easy. It’s bigger. As I’m getting older. I’m getting astigmatism. It’s like having a large-type version of anything you like ’cause you can blow anything up as big as you need to. And the artwork, it just looks nicer ’cause it’s all big.
RAT: The books here seem to stay in good shape, I assume, because of the dry air.
PQ: Here, the glue they use to bind the books dries out. And especially with old paperbacks, it looks perfect, and you open it and you hear a “click” and as you read it, each page [gesturing to indicate pages falling out.]
RAT: Ohhhh, what a shame.
PQ: For the most part, we have a lot of benefits. Unless the roof leaks, the books stay dry. A lot of people store books in basements and places that will be wet.
RAT: I was talking to a used bookseller on Vancouver Island earlier this year and I was like “How come all your books look like remainders, they don’t look like second-hand books anymore?” And she said it’s just because it’s too damp, and the books fall apart. She isn’t able to keep them in stock really.
PQ: You have to really have a humidifier unit that you change the filter on regularly in every room.
RAT: Ah I see. So you’ve organized the store by topics.
PQ: Yeah we had to cut it down because our sales are online. Too many books fit more than one topic. It quickly becomes problem number one. This system, I don’t think it would work in anybody else’s store, but over the years that I’ve been here I adapted what he [referring to Stan] and previous employees created and now we have this. But to somebody walking in the door, there’s a curve.
RAT: Jean said it can be overwhelming at times and I can understand.
PQ: Oh for her, she wasn’t a book person at all and she’s come in here and taken it on and helped us organize the place. It’s been awesome.
RAT: Do you have a particular topic that is most interesting to you, of the rooms?
PQ: Well, the art room, because it’s just so much inspiration in there and I’ve always wanted a collection of that many art books. Maybe not all the ones that are in there ’cause like everybody I have my taste, and other things I’m like, Why would anybody make a book of that? But that room is endlessly inspiring. If I could have one room, that would be the one.
RAT: Are you a visual artist?
PQ: I do some pen and ink drawings and I used to do paper collages but then I learned how to do digital collages. There’s so many nice things. It democratizes the art; there is no precious original. Everybody can have an original. If somebody has a frame this big, you can take that piece and make it fit a frame that big. And I can cut up images that I would feel like I was defacing and horribly ruining a book and it’s fine, I just cut it out. And I only use images that I know are public domain. Anything before 1925, so they have this really weird old-time feeling which some people find kinda creepy, but, it’s an aesthetic. And I like bright, bright colors, which some people . . . [shrugs]
RAT: Have you heard of Midjourney?
PQ: Oh yeah I’ve been messing around with AI, and that’s just a beautiful toy right now. I haven’t yet incorporated it into my digital collages, but I’m thinking that.
RAT: That’s neat. And what made you come here from New York?
PQ: Well, I moved originally to New Mexico in the 90s, to Santa Fe, and I spent about twelve years there. Then I moved back east and was like in Providence and more or less near where I grew up, but not where I grew up. It was okay, but I got an opportunity. I had a bandmate from Santa Fe who wound up down here and he said “Come down here and check it out.” And once I was here it was like . . .
RAT: This is the place?
PQ: Yep. At least for now, I mean, I’m not averse to—I mean, I’ve been in all 48 connected states. I used to do extensive road trips. And once I found this place it’s like that wanderlust kind of quieted down.
RAT: I do find it peaceful here.
PQ: Yeah, the people who like it here really . . . but if you can’t entertain yourself, this place will drive you crazy. But I don’t see how anybody who has the internet can ever be bored. How could the words “I’m bored” ever come out of your lips? I mean there’s gotta be something you can find.
PQ had to leave then, to pack the truck, but I couldn’t resist mentioning how Xochi’s had made me think of the UK sitcom Black Books, with its labyrinth of books that could only be navigated by the protagonist, played by Dylan Moran.
RAT: The main character of Black Books is very misanthropic, he’s not like you at all, he’s very grumpy.
PQ: Well, I can be very grumpy. I’m working away from grumpy. Most people who know me would consider me still in the grumpy world.
RAT: Good to know. I got a good moment then.
Learn more about PQ Ribber at onsug.com/archives/author/pqribber and www.reverbnation.com/pqribber
Learn more about Rebeca at rebecadk.com.
Interview with a Tumbleweed
by Michelle Cruz Gonzales
Truth or Consequences is an easy-going natural springs desert town where the locals just point and nod in direction you need to go. It’s a town where you can soak your old bones and rejuvenate in any number of the retreat hotels, but don’t forget to put your clothes back on to check out the back alleys.
Back alleys hold secrets and possibility—places where kids can own the street or, in case of the alley off Clancy near the vintage Conoco gas sign where artists have claimed the back walls and fences, cactus plants painted around windows, the strong face of native elder woman and U.S. Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland rising up, pride of New Mexico.
While you’re on that side of town, head on over to Ralph Edwards Park and look for the alley made of a dry arroyo, the one with the large agave and the paddle cactus-lined walkway to nowhere. The jutting rocks look good for climbing, but the cactus spines tell another story.
There’s another alley across town near Main and Foch. Look for the multiple story building made of brown brick, take a left onto this alley to find another “alley” cut between two properties. There you’ll find a pile of old signs, evidence of nearby business somewhat recently shuttered, like Adobe Hacienda. There’s another sign at the end of this narrow side street proclaiming “Happy Alley.”
It was back on the alley near Clancy where I encountered a tumbleweed. I had to run as it rolled toward the intersection in order to catch up and file this report.
Gonzales: I’ve heard that some believe tumbleweeds kill.
Tumbleweed: We are known as wind witches.
Gonzales: But is it true?
Tumbleweed: Yes, it’s true we’re called wind witches.
Gonzales: But are you dangerous?
Tumbleweed: That depends.
Gonzales: Say more.
Tumbleweed: So folks can round us up and light us on fire?
Gonzales: At least tell the people where you’re from and what you’re about.
Tumbleweed: Look, I’m just a hearty Russian thistle.
Gonzales: So you’re Russian?
Tumbleweed: A dead dried up one rolling about dropping my seeds trying to live on like everybody else.
And live on it will, according to scientists who believe the tumbleweed like cockroaches will thrive after a nuclear event. In the meantime, put back alleys on your list, they are free liminal spaces where there rules are slack and tumbleweeds slow for a conversation.
Punk writer and author of The Spitboy Rule, Michelle Cruz Gonzales loves being home in the Bay Area after a good trip.
Running in Random Directions: One Runner’s Tour of Truth or Consequences
by Branwyn Holroyd
For me, the best way to explore a new place is to run around without a map.
I begin my tour running against the flow of traffic on Broadway towards the end of the historic downtown. I cross the road and head towards an unpaved road. I see a man leaving a thrift store with a beautiful old chair and a wood table.
I turn right off the dirt road and enter an arroyo. I follow the bending path and feel the thrill of expanse, a moment of shifting into greater attention.
The desert is beautiful. I see prickly pears, chollas, a bush I don’t recognize with thorny stems.
A bird nest sits in the arms of one cholla. I can smell the desert plants and the heat of the earth. I maneuver myself through narrow thorny sections, careful not to tear my clothes. There’s a rusted exhaust pipe lying under a bush, a silver hubcap reflects the sun, assorted small rusted objects, I presume are car parts.
At the edge of the road, beside a battered metal no dumping sign, I sit on my haunches, close my eyes and listen to the wind and the periodic rush of cars. Sounds arise and fall. Cool wind on my neck, the sun warms my face.
I open my eyes to the Black Range Mountains. Their ridge of snow-covered peaks border the edge of visible earth.
I run through a neighborhood of newer homes with manicured yards. Several have brightly coloured artificial cacti and flowers. As I move down the street, I hear a barking chorus of dogs. Many houses have two or three dogs barking through fences and enclosures. Beside the municipal golf course, I watch two dogs pace the inside of a small chain link cage.
At the corner of Fourth Avenue and Date Street I pass “GunHer’s Gun’s and Ammo,” their logo the black silhouette of a female figure, holding a handgun in the ready position. On their door a posted notice forbids customers from bringing loaded guns into the premises.
I wander, around town. Everywhere I see art: murals on the sides of buildings. On the side of a house, an image of Secretary of the Interior, Deb Haaland, another of two children feeding flowers to a disproportionately large horse. The water tower is painted with riders on horseback. Someone’s fence is decorated with hubcaps, license plates, metal sculptures of flowers. In the window of a store on Broadway, I spy twenty antique glass hydro insulators arranged in the shape of a heart.
From Foch Street towards the Rio Grande I see hot springs, trailer parks, tiny blocks of decaying row houses with the front porches covered in boxes, bicycles, spare parts, blankets, clothes. I hear more barking dogs.
At the river I see people fishing. A four-year old girl with a pink fishing rod gets a bite on her line. Her mother helps her reel it in, and I see the flash of trout as it rises to the surface and escapes the hook.
I end my run with a visit to the Giddy Up Café. My take-out bag is decorated with images, hand drawn in black marker, of a saguaro cactus and the sun.
Branwyn Holroyd is a poet based on Salt Spring Island, British Columbia where she can be found running trails and searching for hidden places and stories.
There’s Something for Everyone at Bullocks
By Lenore Eklund
If you want to know the culture of a town, one of the best ways to do it is by visiting the local grocery store.
Located at the very western edge of the historic district, Bullocks is Truth or Consequences’ local grocery store. Visitors can find parking along the dusty intersection of Broadway and Post or in the parking lot behind the store. Upon entering, you will be charmed by the low ceilings, muffled country music playing from crackling speakers, and faux wood paneling on aisle end caps not found in today’s modern chain grocery stores.
The first stop at Bullocks is at a display featuring store specials. The collection of assorted items ranges from Huggies to generic brand Fruit Loops to Modelo Special. This introduction lets shoppers know there is something for everyone here.
The produce department is well stocked with vibrant, healthy-looking fruits and vegetables for the desert climate outside. However, you will be disappointed if seeking organic produce. Two bags of carrots, blackened at the ends are the only organic offerings to choose from. However, avocados for fifty-nine cents is a score.
In the aisles, you will find a wall of Kraft salad dressings, an array of SPAM products, a wide selection of noodles in cups, a rainbow of Jello packs and Velveeta that comes in various forms.
Those who avoid high-fructose corn syrup, particularly hydrogenated trans fats or any other baking preservatives, don’t fret. Bullocks has natural items ranging from local jerky to protein powders peppered among the offerings of major food corporations. Expect to pay twice as much as the shorter the shelf life, the higher the price tag.
Those who eat vegan or gluten free are able fill their shopping baskets at Bullocks too. You can find dairy-free ice cream, alternative milks, gluten-free pretzels, breads, crackers and even pasta.
Bullocks offers a complete selection of packaged and butchered meats. As an outsider, the hefty quantities of packaged pork are most noticeable. Spare ribs packaged at nearly five pounds each suggest that the buyer plan for a neighborhood BBQ.
The deli displays chubs of cold cuts next to oversized bowls of potato salad and coleslaw, giant spoons ready to scoop by the pound. If you eye the deli without placing an order, the helpful counter attendant will inform you that there are also roasted chickens and grilled ribeye steaks that he proudly cooked himself available across from the deli in a warmer.
Perhaps the biggest lure of Bullocks are the raised yeast donuts, made fresh in the bakery department. These fried breakfast treats come in variations of glazed, powdered and chocolate striped. Be sure to pick up your fritters, bars and twists before the bakery closes at one o’clock each afternoon.
Care is seen in the selection on the shelves and also with the employees. Crossing paths with a Bullocks employee in the aisles, you can count on an offer for help finding what you need. Genuine service is also found at checkout, the bagger will pack your groceries in plastic bags, the kind that need to be separated by licking your fingers first, while the cashier who calls you “darling” will take care of your transaction. Courtesy extends to the car, as baggers can be seen carrying groceries out for customers.
Lenore Eklund is a comic artist, writer, disability advocate and one heck of a fierce mama.
Push Yourself Harder at House of Pain
by Mandy Trichell
Walking into House of Pain, the only gym in Truth or Consequences, is a bit like time traveling. Think Mighty Mick’s, the gym from the Rocky movies. The barbell plates aren’t bumpered. The kettlebells aren’t coated in neoprene. You won’t find ergonomic handles on the dumbbells. The equipment here is old school—it’s heavy, it’s hard, and there’s everything you need for a comprehensive workout. This gym assumes you know how to handle yourself, and it makes no attempt to coddle you. You came here to work out, and that’s what you’ll do. While there’s no boxing ring, you will find a heavy bag and a pair of gloves to borrow, should the inspiration hit. Get a fully immersive experience by playing “Eye of the Tiger” while you push yourself harder than usual, because that’s what a place like House of Pain calls for.
If you’re looking to get in some cardio, it’s important to note that there’s only one treadmill, or you can keep that Rocky spirit and hit the bleachers at the local high school, which is only a mile and a half up the road. If running isn’t your thing, there’s also an elliptical, a stationary bike, and a relatively new air bike. Pro-tip: if you plan on doing any floor exercises, bring your own mat, as there’s only one available. More often than not, you’ll have the entire gym to yourself, or at most, there might be two other folks.
You’ll find House of Pain, which is open 24 hours, on Broadway, situated just west of Ingo’s Art and Cafe. If you text 575.740.3835 (NOT the number listed on Google Maps) and ask about a weekend pass, you’ll be interacting with the manager, JR. She’ll tell you to drop $10 in a little black box at the back of the gym, then text you a code to get in. After your workout, make sure you go next door for coffee, where Ingo will tell you everything else you need to know about Truth or Consequences.
Mandy Trichell is a word gathering, sky scavenging, shape shifting terra roamer from Houston, Texas.
Come for the Mine Field, Stay for the Hot Springs
by Alyssa Graybeal
Miner’s Claim is your one-stop, cash-only rock shop at 306 N. Broadway St. in downtown Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, open Monday to Saturday 10am to 5pm.
If you’re considering hawking an unpleasant late relative’s gold rings because they’re still emanating bad vibes from the back of your closet shelf, Miner’s Claim will happily call them scrap and buy them off you for $6/oz. These folks will also be tabling at the T or C Rock and Gem Show on March 25 & 26, 2023.
You may be drawn into the shop by the multi-tiered platter tower on the sideway that displays geodes, desert rose selenite, and tiny amethyst clusters faded to delicate lavender from their extensive time in the sun.
If you fancy yourself a rockhound but rarely find yourself on uneven terrain with a pick axe, any stone in the pile of rubble labeled “Mine (Mind) Field”—just inside the door—is yours for $3. Up the fancy scale, you can acquire obsidian arrowheads on leather cords or tumbled pocket stones for around $10. Malachite pyramids, brightly dyed petrified wood fridge magnets, and wire-wrapped gemstones are among some of the other dusty treasures peeking out from packed displays. Carved figurines of any size command a premium.
Caution: Most rocks in the lower-cost trays are mislabeled. If you’d be bummed to learn that the “honey calcite” you purchased is actually blue apatite, RAT recommends asking the friendly owners to confirm rock identification before purchase.
Be sure to check out the one-of-a-kind bear carvings by local Chippewa jeweler and stone sculptor Michael Clear Water Connor.
Alyssa Graybeal is a writer, editor, and cartoonist, and the author of Floppy (2023), a disjointed memoir about Ehlers-Danlos syndrome from Red Hen Press.
It’s a Matter of Destiny
We asked, What Ever Happened to Destiny’s Keto Kitchen? RAT Reporter Julie Feinstein found out.
by Julie Feinstein
It wasn’t the local community’s general distrust of Keto, nor even the dreaded ‘vid that caused Destiny’s Keto Kitchen in Truth or Consequences, NM to close. It was just that Destiny Mitchell got too busy.
“She got a job teaching Earth Sciences in the high school. And she coaches the Tiger Sharks swim team. And she was elected City Commissioner,” reports her friend and neighboring business owner on North Broadway Street, Ingo Hoeppner of Ingo’s Art Cafe.
Ingo also notes that he was the one to encourage her to run, because of how the two agree on local issues such as recreational facilities for all ages of residents and the importance of supporting business development in the Downtown Hot Springs district.
“She grew up here.” He waves a hand towards the brewery up the street. “That used to be her mother’s hair salon, where they also lived.”
Being local is an unspoken pre-requisite for being elected to government, according to Ingo, who is originally from Germany and has also run for office twice—and lost. He has high hopes for his third go (Readers are encouraged to visit Ingo at his cafe and engage him in discourse about the local politics and his vision for the future of the community, both topics for which he is a font of information.)
In a recent performance at the “T or C Storytelling Lab,” Destiny talked about her longtime and multi-pronged association with the town formerly known as Hot Springs; and she also showed off her singing chops, premiering a self-penned new verse to the state’s official ballad.
(View video of her 9-minute storytelling and singing performance, here.)
In her monologue, Destiny spoke of the state’s “Magnificent sunsets, mountainscapes, mountains to ski on, lakes to boat on, it’s an amazing, amazing place,” she said, adding, “though it is enchanting, it is also known as the Land of Entrapment.
“My friends and I used to joke, ‘If you didn’t get out right out of high school, if you didn’t go to college, join the military, or move to another state, you were stuck here!’”
(She paused as laughter of recognition rippled through the crowd.)
Destiny did go to college, but she came back, and worked for businesses in town for two decades before opening her own place in 2021.
This reporter learned of Destiny in 2019 when we were eating on a keto/paleo and saw that Ingo was selling pints of Destiny’s keto ice creams out of the freezer at his creative and visionary gathering space. He told us then of Destiny’s plans to open the restaurant, and how she was currently recipe-testing and offering keto meal prep on a small scale.
We were lucky (and wise) enough to return to T or C again in November 2021 and eat at Destiny’s Keto Kitchen. By then, her all-keto menu had morphed into a keto-friendly-options menu, and had expanded to include foods that locals requested.
About the evolution, Destiny was sanguine. We recall her telling us then, “At first, when I opened, I served people roasted turnips instead of potatoes with their breakfasts — without telling them! And they liked them! But after a while, most people wanted foods that they were more familiar with.”
In addition to food, Destiny also ran a curio and resale shop in the front of the store called Enchanted Times, a curio shop selling jams, jellies, honey, and Native American pottery and Jewelry. It was a little bit of everything, just like Destiny.
But now, her curios and food-service era has come to a close.
In the vacated space, the successful and beloved Grapevine Bistro has jumped across the street and moved in. Owner Mario Portillo had been in operations just one week at the new location at the time of this reporter’s most recent visit.
“The kitchen here is bigger,” he says of the reasoning behind the move from his previous spot, adding that he plans to clean things up, arrange the furniture, and open his version of a curio shop at the front of the space. It won’t be the same as what Destiny had, but it will be a shop. For now, he is offering a lunch and dinner menu, to-go or delivered to the brewery up the street. But soon he will also have limited seating for dine-in customers.
Some locals are hopeful that Mario will get his breakfast menu up and running again.
While this reporter was waiting outside on a bench for her green chile cheeseburger and queso-smothered home fries, we encountered three such locals, who engaged us in a lively discussion about the recent changes, Mario’s plans, the fact of the new location’s extremely recent opening, and the menu.
Mary, a long-ago transplant to T or C from Philadelphia, extolled Mario’s bacon. “His chipotle bacon is the best!” We supposed to her that the bacon would be on our cheeseburger. “Oh no,” she warned, “you have to eat it all by itself. It’s THAT good.”
(In the interest of journalistic integrity, we need to note that while we did try the bacon off of the burger and it was lovely: thick, crisp, and with that hit of smoky chile spice; we ate most of it with our burger and were completely happy. A further digression not usually warranted by an article of this type, we’d argue that the bacon at the nearby Giddy Up Cafe is in fact the best bacon we’ve ever eaten in our lives — the perfect crisp and chew, the perfect thickness and hint of sweet and salt. To be even more honest, we preferred Mario’s excellent gorditas with green chile brisket, with its fluffy and lightly-crisped corn masa exterior and the not-sauce-y yet deeply-chile-flavored and tender slow-cooked beef.)
While we were waiting for our to-go order, a much older couple arrived, juggling arms-full of multiple flats of what Mary and we guessed must be the prickly pear jelly for “The Jam,” a croissant sandwich with said jelly, plus ham, swiss cheese, and spring lettuces.
A far cry from the Keto moment that once happened here. Or not, since she did sell jellies in her shop. (Some standing orders stand.)
Whereas once Destiny helped people by progressing their diets, today she works to promote progressive ideas in politics, as well as developing the minds of her students and strokes of her team-swimmers—and one hopes that while some of her charges will escape the Land of Entrapment in the future, others will return to reinvest in their community, adding to the Enchantment, as Destiny Mitchell has, again and again.
Julie Feinstein is a writer, editor, performer, and coach; learn more at www.jfacommunications.com. She lives by the beach in Alameda, California with her 15-year-old son and their two cats.
Meet the Junkologist
Junkology, the bright yellow shop located at 202 N Date St. carries a wide array of treasures.
by Krystee Sidwell
The collection in this shop is so great that it flows out onto the sidewalk. The first thing that caught my eye was a large pile of petrified wood under the front window. A tray of ice crystals sits next to the street, sparkling in the sunlight.
Pulled through the door by the welcoming scent of Palo Santo, I was almost overwhelmed as I took in the variety of knick knacks filling the shelves. Whatever era you are interested in, there is a chachka for you.
Dave, the owner and certified junkologist, landed in Truth or Consequences in 2018. After losing his former store—in a church built in 1871 in Metamora, Indiana—to fire, this part of his journey began.
He got into his Dolphin RV and drove south until he saw I-40. Taking I-40 west he then arrived at I-25. Deciding to follow that road, he saw a sign for Truth or Consequences, he knew in that moment that this was to be his next home.
A year later, after working as a maintenance person, cutting grass and raking pecans, he was able to get his store.
Many semi-precious stones are placed about the store. I saw amethyst chunks in both purple and black, citrine polished and raw, and a box of “sex rocks” for those 18 and older.
A table full of southwest pottery sits in the middle of the room. Kerosene lamps line the walls.
Dave greeted me with such warmth that I wanted to stay and discover all day. I took note that above the rows and rows of vintage record albums, there were two guitars adorning the walls. Both guitars are heavily adorned with sparkle and beads but they aren’t for sale. They hold the store’s speaker system.
Dave “cannot play the guitar but, can play anyone on his guitar.”
The guitars aren’t the only items not for sale in this magical land of, “Rocks, records, and relics.”
The counter holds a pile of rocks, that if you’re lucky the owner will shine his light on them for you and you can see how radioactive rocks glow green.
There is an also an entire room behind the counter packed with leather jackets, Asian themed decorations, more Indigenous items, and even more record albums.
Junkology, a real fun place to explore and shop. Be sure not to miss this gem.
Krystee Sidwell is an LMT living in Portland, Oregon who writes when it calls.
Soaking Up the Charles Motel and Spa
by Susan DeFreitas
The Charles Motel and Spa feels like a seedy old Western motel with a fresh coat of hipster lipstick.
The New Age gift shop in its marble-floored lobby contains all manner of healing crystals and chakra oils and locally handmade jewelry, as well as vintage cotton kimonos. A sticker for sale in this lobby enjoins the reader to BUILD SOIL by making COMPOST.
In the Charles Spa, a tent composed of dashiki fabric—of the sort sold in headshops, the better with which to beautify college dorm rooms—looms in a large, otherwise concrete-funky room with creaky ceiling pipes.
In the Charles Spa, you are free to soak in a series of bathtubs, composed largely of right angles, into which the waters of local hot springs flood in via large PVC pipes. A sign entreats the bather to turn the hot water ALL THE WAY ON OR ALL THE WAY OFF.
In this part of the Charles Spa, an attempt has been made to make the creaky ceiling pipes more aesthetically pleasing by covering them in fake ivy, which I’m not sure actually is more aesthetically pleasing.
The tagline of the Charles Motel and Spa is “care for your mortal body.” Which leads me to wonder: Is there a nonmortal body as well?
Towel off and dress now. Walk with me from the Charles Spa to the Charles Motel, down its crumbling motel sidewalk.
Sit, if you will, outside my room with me on these brightly painted metal chairs, of a style found only out in front of the rooms of old motels, or—as far as I know—on the lawns of old people in my hometown smoking cigarettes and calling out hoarsely to small children gleefully running around in diapers.
Take in, if you will, the pungent aroma of high-grade weed adrift on the wind. (The rooms at the Charles are nonsmoking, but not, apparently, their front stoops.)
Step into my room at the Charles Motel, and take a seat at the kitchen table. Observe the hipster lipstick: The purple accent wall, hung with a brass mobile consisting of triangles and circles; the mustard-yellow accents on the bed, and its tufted body pillows; the matching mustard-yellow accent chairs.
The matching mustard-yellow accent chairs, which, upon closer inspection, have been shredded by a cat.
I imagine, given the age of the chairs, that cat has been dead for some time now.
Perhaps it cared for its mortal body.
Perhaps it did not.
An American of Guyanese descent, Susan DeFreitas is the author of the novel Hot Season, which won a Gold IPPY Award, and the editor of Dispatches from Anarres: Tales in Tribute to Ursula K. Le Guin, a finalist for the Foreword INDIES.
Digging Deep and Lounging Poolside
by Lani Jo Leigh
My first surprise of the morning was finding Minnow, a softly purring tabby, near the back ledge of the upper deck pools. At Riverbend Hotsprings, Minnow is queen. Her bed fills the courtyard, and she goes wherever she pleases. At that moment, brown and gray Minnow perched next to a blue mosaic turtle—her paws, bottom and tail comfortably settled into 107-degree water.
Two friends and I had traveled to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico a day earlier to attend a writers’ camp facilitated by Ariel Gore. I had stressed for days prior to our departure with the anxiety of imposter syndrome. I was sure I had no business being in the same company as the accomplished writers who were attending. Thankfully, stress was the first thing to melt away as we slipped into the thermal pools overlooking the Rio Grande.
Krystee pointed out a Great Blue Heron on the opposite shore; its daggerlike bill clutching a shiny, silver fish that appeared to be about a foot long. “Blue” is a poor descriptor for the bird, as herons’ feathers are such a beautiful meld of blue and gray that the color deserves its own paint chip. Likewise, the term “patience” could be redefined as “heron.” The regal bird stood completely still, even with a flopping fish in its bill.
My friends and I stayed vigilant, our eyes peeled for other birds on the murky brown river, and we were rewarded when first another heron cruised the shoreline with unhurried, wide wingbeats, followed by a flock of American White Pelicans. These birds are easy to recognize with their distinctive bill and throat pouch, and huge orange feet. Their broad, stable wings are accented by black feathers, which are only visible when the bird is in flight.
I appreciated my encounters with the birds of Truth or Consequences. The previous evening as my friends and I settled into the trailer we were sharing for three days, a sorrowful sound drew me outside. I looked up to discover a small-headed, peachy-gray bird on the telephone wire, and it repeated the sad lament of “coo, coo, coo,” which gives the bird its name—mourning dove. I watched for several minutes before the dove took flight, and I thought I would be in mourning, too, if I had to work as hard as it did to fly away.
In the workshops, we listened and wrote, dreamed and schemed; while other birds made a place for themselves in my day. A flock of iridescent grackles gathered for a cacophonic symphony on the wires above the trailer. A lazy, white crested duck paddled in the pond at the city park. And on our final morning, again soaking in the Riverbend pools, another heron waded on the opposite shore with slow, thoughtful steps. Each movement deliberate, with its head and neck outstretched, it stalked fish for its breakfast. This time I watched the entire story play out before me. First the capture, as quick as a lightning strike, the long minutes as the bird held the struggling fish in its beak until it quit moving, and finally a miraculous maneuver that flipped the fish into the heron’s throat.In the Native American Totems tradition blue herons bring a lesson of self-reflection. Herons invite us to dive into the world of our feelings and face the enemy within. And isn’t this what we do as writers? Dig deep? Use our feelings and opinions to examine ourselves and the world around us? So, here in this majestic and magical desert, I discovered new ways to write my own truth, and I determined that I could live with the consequences.
Lani Jo is a writer, filmmaker, author of Unfit, and best of all, a great grandmother. She lives in Portland, Oregon.
Orange Bench Acrostic
Out in front of The Grapevine Bistro sits an Orange Bench. Listen to it.
by Juliet Waller Pruzan
Only one nice guy is behind the counter at the Grapevine but when he leaves to fast walk the food down to the Brewery, another man appears to take his place.
Really good place to hang with new friends and marvel at their lives, their projects & plans. It makes you bloom, a little, inside.
All of the new friends look up together at the endlessly changing formations created by the flock of sandhill cranes. We collectively feel lucky to have seen them fly by but we don’t say that out loud.
Not every album cover inside the glass case, inside the Grapevine, is a gem but the one with the lady in the sexy dress leaning against the pipe organ is. As is the album with Allan Sherman’s mother, who is featured in a short dress behind her son who is on a miniature ionic column holding a guitar. His mother is holding a large rubber chicken, not a regular sized one. Also on the cover of Allan Sherman’s Folk Album, there is a table on a cherub pedestal. The cherub is holding an encased sausage, the table holds sliced meat and a seltzer bottle like the kind in my grandmother’s garage in New Jersey. I can conjure the smell of that garage on command.
Going dancing after sitting on the bench is an option. I said yes to this option. I surprised myself by dancing until sweat dripped down behind my ears. To cool down, I sipped the icy birthday margarita that Michelle bought me.
Every person who passes by says hi. We save two people, who were looking for the Grapevine, from passing right on by because the largest sign, the one outside and protruding from the wall above the door says, “Enchanted Times” & features a Gambel’s quail.
Before dancing eat half your dinner and save the rest for breakfast.
Every person who passes by says hi and the woman who has on a fabulous outfit tells us she dressed up for the hell of it, on an ordinary day. We women, dressed in regular clothes for our extraordinary camp day, applaud her pizzazz. Maybe one day, she will have a musical son like Allan Sherman and wear great clothes and hold a regular sized rubber chicken on his album cover.
No one has ever listened to Allan Sherman’s folk music album. Please don’t tell his mother.
Camp is great, go to camp.
Here lies the tree that became the orange bench. A great supporter of all kinds of people.
Speaking of support, let us not forget the sturdy, turquoise sides of Orange Bench. The cheerleader of the bench, if you lean in close enough, you can hear it chant: T or C, T or C! I believe in me.
Classified Ads and Public Announcements
by Linda Fielder
June got lost during the fireworks. Oh dear June, was it July or January? Were you fleeing in terror from the hot midsummer rocket’s red glare or did you streak out the door into the frozen black desert as the good people of the town punctuated the stroke of midnight with tequila and explosives? In either case, fireworks are big and you, June, are so very small.
Truth or Consequences is fat with magic, June. This town exudes the kind of magic that sees and protects and guides lost souls and small, frightened animals. The land is wide and open, at night the skies are lit by a thick stew of glittering stars. Follow the stars, sweet June, follow the stars.
Free Senior’s Dances Every Friday. Take the stress out of life with dance! Dance to forget your debt, your diagnosis, your depression. Dance as if no one is watching (although they most certainly are). Share Rush Behnke’s love of the dance at the Ralph Edwards Civic Center every Friday. Dance mirrors life: you don’t need a partner (tell your friends). Dance is adaptable (as we all should strive to be). Dance is the natural human response when music is heard (any child would agree). BRING YOUR OWN WATER!
Looking For Scrabble Players. The ever quixotic (76 pts.) PP Johnson announces the formation (15 pts) of a neighborhood (22 pts.) Scrabble club. If the stars align in syzygy (21pts.), the jocund (16 pts.) coterie (9 pts) of logophiles (15 pts.) will meet regularly to lay down lexicon (16 pts.) both horizontally (27 pts.) and vertically (18 pts.) Beginners welcome!
Linda Fielder is a full-time animal abuse crime fighter, part-time plant peddler, and occasional writer living in a tiny house on the Oregon coast.
