stella and nell at the ranch

Took Nell out to Chico Basin Ranch last night for a barbeque and to give her a glimpse of expansiveness.... where the land and sky meet in one clear slice across the horizon. Chico Basin Ranch is a working ranch and everything about it is real. The cows I look at eat the grass and then we eat the cows. Cowboys wear boots that are the farthest thing from Santa Fe Tony Lama's strolling round the paseo... these boots are dusty, torn, buffed hard from riding in the stirrups all day. Some wear spurs while others prefer chaps to protect their legs from the miles of scrub oak. All the men wear white woven cowboy hats with an expansive brim to provide a sliver of shade, a foreign concept in this landscape. There are few distinguishing characteristics between the cowboys...kind of like the cows... as if the genetic roundup has found the perfect combination for life on the range: no extra fat, a hardy complexion, rope burn hands and gleaming white teeth.

Chico Basin ambles and lopes along the front range of the Eastern Colorado prairie, 85,000 acres that spans two counties before slamming into the Rocky Mountains. Criss-crossed throughout the property, like a tenderized flank steak, are arroyos that plunge, steep as the front side of a cows face, down into the earth. In the fall, the dried tumble weeds are blown into these crevices, filling them to the brim. One day a woman from the East coast was riding full throttle on her horse and hit that false bottom of weeds and plummeted, crashing. They had to air lift her to the nearest hospital. The horse was put down. That's real.

How many millions of us spend an entire day never touching the earth? It's a morning shuffle on carpet and tile that is exchanged for asphalt and concrete. And this little square dance of dirt-free living is our norm. Tomas, he gets whiney when too many cracker crumbs litter his sheets but out at Chico, the cowboys can go for weeks riding, sleeping and eating on the range. They snuggle up to grit and dirt, heat, wind and dust all punctuated by the pungent plume of cow manure happy as steers at a rodeo. I ask if anyone secretly tucks a cordless battery pack into their saddle bag for that electric toothbrushing experience or if they are ever tempted to sachete down the sleeping bag with lavender to counteract the cattle perfume. They laugh, like this is a funny idea or something.

Most of the conversation is dry.... talk of drought and the extreme fire danger. With so little grass I'd think a fire would be hard pressed to find fuel for its cause but apparently with the wind pushing it along, a fire can plough across a county in a matter of hours...even with little to no grass. Because the vegetation is extremely sparse this year they're bringing in the bulls early in order to get the mating, birthing and rearing over by July....called thinning the herd. In a normal year they thin by August or September. A victim of the Disney approach to animal husbandry, I do a small internal moan, thinking of mama being torn from her baby before ever seeing her go to the prom. That's hard but so is this existence. Yet another glimpse of how inept and desperately dependent I am upon all the comforts of my modern make believe world...I'd rather impale myself on my blow dryer than scour my scorched backyard searching for my last meal. That's pathetic.

Stella Martinez living large as the landlandy

My friend wants to start a web service for landlords and call it deadbeatrenters.com.... or better yet, losers.com. This would be a national database listing all the of names of people who rent. And they are rated on a two star scale... 'real' and 'avoid'. Simple, no slander just a very valuable service for those who depend on losers for their income. No one gets an excellent because given the right set of circumstances, within every person resides some degree of loser and when this loserlife decides to show its face, it's generally the landlord who gets the first peek.

I have my own personal rating scale I use with prospective renters... they call, asking to look at an apartment. I simply say, "Are you real"? Now 'real' renters scoff, act a touch indignant and incredulous, snicker a few times and ba-babble.... "Well yea".. laugh laugh. The 'avoid' population that you want to escape at all costs...will mutter....sputter....like..uhhh... wha'd ya mean...huh..whaaat?" Trust me, this little test can key you into a Vegas vault so you know exactly where this person is coming from. It's the the 'huh?' that lets me know that my interest are not their number one priority. Don't ask... it's a second sense I have developed during this ordeal. And this is the person the website would let you know about....it's a briallant idea because loser renters are e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e and any full time landlord would gleefully pay a montly service fee to get information... yea/nea... on some prospect.

I used to be the landlady from heaven because I'd give everyone the break.... page three, fourth paragraph, number two .... no pets. If you decide to have a pet you must pay a $300 deposit.
And there she is, this slight build, full time student working three extra jobs.... all alone... father used to smack her around... yea... a cat... only friend... deposit?... ooooohhh...really? ... oh no..neutered...declawed...incisors extracted... perfect... well....oh thank you so so so so so so much.

.....Or how about .... the first months rent and deposit required at time of signing the lease. In the beginning I was so excited they could sign their name that I got caught up in the moment and ... yea... sure... pay me on the fifteenth... I would spend my time more wisely configuring my ascent route up Everest than the time I've given to separating a loser from their money.

The people I have met... in your wildest imagination you could not concieve the stories, the plights that are visited upon people. Inevitably I look around, wondering if I have morphed onto some movie set filming Desperate Renters and we're reading from a script. Abuse is big... all kinds of mind fucking going on out there... family, corporate, government, self inflicted... that's mainly what it always is.... and helpless... always helpless and oh so needy. Listening to their stories... even though I try not to.. but how can you not listen.... It's like Truman with Perry and trying to decipher what the gods were smoking that day to lead him out the front of the house and Perry out the back... what factors determine a life ... and besides...I'm going to see these people every month ... god willing... so I listen... Hearing them makes me ache.. I get hunched over, fight for air and give them any goddamn thing they want if it will just make some of that pain go away... pleeeeze... live there for free.

That was the old Stella Martinez. I think it was the schizophrenic that pused me over the edge. Knew him as a little boy... his mother was our piano teacher until she decided to check into a Days Inn and to drink herself to death... took three months... But he seeemed like a good kid... working.. college.. and the check his lawyer dad wrote covering all the expenses made me so happy inside. Then. .... within three days he starts dismanteling the electricity.... disconnects the plugs... can't figure out why the lamp won't go on... and then he starts ripping up the floor boards and dropping down into the basement because there were people arguing down there. He told them he was gonna have to call the cops. Did you? No... they split. But three months later, when he sliced open the drywall the size of a door.... I knew he had to go and with him my weepy pleasedeargodwhatcanido attitude was right behind.

This new, forceful, don't tell me your pathetic stories get off your ass and go to work, woman is not interested. Pay up.. oh you can't? ... get out loser boy.... you'll find some other neck to suck dry no doubt so beat it....so convincing don't you think? I've been working on the delivery for about two years and yesterday I got the chance to try it out. Marched right down the street, woke loser boy from his midmorning slumber and gave him the lowdown.... complaints... whad are you doing... selling drugs?.... other people living here?....neighbors don't like the company you keep..... and then I said it..... "You know, I don't really think this is working out too well... and well... I was just thinking that... you know... maybe you should think about getting another place.... that way... you know... the neighbors won't be wierded out... yea... so... uh.... you think you can do that? You have fifteen days... yea yea... I can give you today's paper... no problem...

He is so unreal....I'm praying he's gone by Christmas.

stella's garden

 

Stella Martinez in the garden of dilemna and da limes

It's garden time in Pueblo. The juices are flowing, trees have budded, the perennials have let it be known if they survived the winter or not and it is time to replant, fertilize, turn earth and prepare for the summer blaze. Pueblo is considered a prairie environ... meaning that we get about 8" of rainfall a season and our summer temperatures hover around 105.... but, as we keep reminding ourselves like a broken record... it's a dry heat. As if this someway assuages the challange of digging molten tar deposits from your shoe before getting into the car.

I love my garden and have created an oasis in the midst of miles of urban heat islands. A place of sanctuary where the sun ripped soul can reconsititute itself and live to face another unrelenting daze of beating heat. The challange, though, is that my garden takes water... lots and lots of water. And in the midst of an extended drought this is considered by many as extreme sacrilege, up there with child abuse.

I read somewhere that in fifty years having clean water readily available is going to make the current oil crisis look like an afternoon in an air-conditioned movie theatre. Our local paper, The Pueblo Chieftain, runs daily articles on the plight of diminishing water reserves. Farmers are forced to dry up more acreage to satisfy a contract with Kansas that went awry shortly after it was enacted back in 1912. Diversions upstream redirect the liquid gold to the megacities north of us and our reservoir shrinks yearly, uncovering arroyos and canyons that were submerged thirty years ago.

So, how does a gardener satisfy the joy of lush landscape while taking into consdieration a shrinking resource? Everytime the sprinklers do their wet dream dance this question opens before me like the giant peony. Attempting to be somewhat sensitive to the water issue, over the years I have modified my plant selection, choosing varieties that can survive on minimal moisture while enjoying the comfort of an oven. Yet inevitably these plants die, because like some codependent mother, I tiptoe out in the middle of the night, secretly administering additional drinks of water.

But the real root of the problem is my garden design. Water loving flowers are snuggled next to drought tolerant succulants, tall spiked liatris overshadow the dwarf cosmos. Species that grow on opposite sides of the planet suddenly find themselves in the same bed creating, what I am certain must be, a botanical nightmare.

There is an impressive xeric movement throughout the region but when I peruse through the booklet that lists all the options, my mouth gets parched, I start envisioning my yard as a back drop for Lawrence of Arabia and then I ask myself if those 600 square feet of Kentucky Blue .... that makes me oh-so happy....are going to make or break the alfalfa yield in Kansas? Besides, the Pueblo Water Board reassures me that there is plenty of water, no need for restrictions and I'm simply taking them at their word. It's just that this little cut worm keeps gnawing at inner stalk and I have to wonder how much longer can I keep harvesting the justifications of my rationalization.

stella martinez and the miracle of marriage

Tomas and I have been married for thirtysomething years or...forever... On a recent anniversary we celebrated by attending the wedding reception of a friend's daughter. While dancing with a vague acquaintence I remarked that this day was my wedding anniversary.
"Oh wow, how long have you been married?" he queried.
"Thirty years by general consensus but really it's sixty. We live and work together so that qualifies as double time".
He gives me an incredulous look, like I possess the powers to levitate or walk on water. I rapidly discern that this guy has been married a minimum of two times, probably closer to four. Being in a relationship for more than seven years is not in his repertoir. Looking into my eyes he asks, "So what do you attribute to being married for thrity years?" Returning his stare I respond, "No handguns".

This answer intrigues him and he throws his head back laughing. "No, seriously, tell me your sercret", he smiles. "Seriously", I tell him.

Longetivity in a marriage is often misconstrued that the couple possesses a magic potion which has enabled them to maintain and survive all these decades. I comprehend the secret of marriage as well as I understand the function of my ileocecal valve but one intuitive lesson I have grasped in all these years is.... it is best not to murder your spouse. Besides the obvious prison sentence, such action eliminates any opportunity of reconcilation....

There are women who ignore this philosophy and though I don't agree with their crime, I can empathize. Take Mary Winkler for example. The preacher's wife who, for better or worse, decided it was time for Mr. Winkler to join his god and she took it upon herself to provide the one way express ticket north. The media responds, clamoring why'd she do it? What was she thinking? And I wonder, what is with these reporters? Hey, he breathed... isn't that reason enough? A towel tossed nonchantley on the floor... that's it, your time is over. I have witnessed the stretching of my own emotional chord, drawn so tight it becomes a filament.... and I could snap.... as easily as a pretzel stick...and this frightens me... this uncontrollable impulse. We were married less than a year when I knew that I could not be trusted to always act responsibly and then and there made the conscious decision to ban all weapons from the house.

The other day my girlfriend, Montalda, wants me to go to the shooting range with her. Learn how to defend myself. I explain to her that learning to shoot is not a good idea for me... I could easily morph into a female rendition of Charlie Whitman. Besides, the one I would defend against is the one who loves me the most. It's much healthier for our marriage if I stick with throwing VCRs.... and they're so cheap now with everyone switching over to DVDs.

mariachi macbeth

Oh dear reader, the perils of bringing so great a play like Macbeth to so dusty a town like Pueblo must come with reservation... assuredly, had our acclaimed poet-playwrite been in the audience he would have either been embued with gleeful hilarity or crumbled like stale bread at the spectacle. While here, on our humble stage a nationally acclaimed, traveling Shakespearian troupe dares to perform their interpretation of this perennial masterpiece. Whilst, unbeknownst to them, in the same structure at tandem moments, there is unfolding a Mexican wedding reception of such enormous proportions that the mere building cannot successfully contain their exuberance. Clamoring, drumming, singing at top amplification the merry band only mirrors the pitched ferverance of the happy couple who demand "mas mas mas" until a frenzy reverberates from the rafters and crescendos in muffeled swells onto the thespian stage.

Here, our actors go through their motions. Picture this, kind reader, unfolding before our eyes is a surreal rendition never envisioned, I do most swear, by even the most contemporary and extemporaneous of directors... Mariachi Macbeth! You must cast thou imagination upon this scene like a fisherman trowling for his dinner: Macbeth ... conniving with his Lady to murder Duncan while strains of LaBamba echo through our ears like canyon walls; Lady Macbeth chides her spineless husband as he questions the rationale of killing their king and she tells him to 'Walk like a Man'; having done the dirty deed, Macbeth, his heart nauseaus with guilt, bemoaning his actions to his cold lady is magnified while Tammy Wynett's 'Stand By Your Man' plays backup to his grief. But the true icing that tops the cake of delicious mockery appears when our fallen lord presents that infamous siloquey, where the beautiful irony of our lives spills upon the stage like a gutted sow and we hear Macbeth lament, 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps into this petty pace to the last syllable of recorded time' ... this passage reaches new heights of profoundity when accompanied by the BeeGees begging 'Somebody Help Me, I'm going nowhere'.....

Such merging of disconsonance did only serve to heightened the amusement of my heart. Try tho I did to master the muster and feel the tragedy of the greedy, dreadful Macbeth, the musical accompaniements only catapulted me into new areas of mirth and vision. Finally, our fair city can be known as that place on the map that accomplished that which no other production hall hath attempted...with accident we married the tragic to the ridiculous and presented it upon the stage to an unsuspecting audience and an unaware cast. True, true spontaneous theatre and it happened here.... my chest doth swell with pride.