How it Is Here

As I start toward town Wednesday for my first show on the new “Que Tál” community radio station, a healthy young coyote trots across Soledad Canyon Road just in front of me. Good sign! We don't see 'em so often lately.

I'm well-rested. Several shots of mescal at bed-time helped.

KTAL's first live show is technically ragged but awesome. I'm awed by what fellow board-members have accomplished to get us here. We struggled embarrassingly long to get the station going. On “Speak Up, Las Cruces!” I've arranged an appealing schedule with mostly shows where knowledgeable local people will disagree strongly but civilly with each other.

It's incredibly complicated to create a radio station! We all feel pretty elated by midday Wednesday.

Thursday an inch of rain falls in an hour just north of us. I have to go visit an (allegedly) demented person. Several muddy rivers crossing Soledad Canyon remind me I should have taken the truck.

At the strongest river, two vehicles have stopped to reconnoiter. I quickly stop too. Then CRUNCH! I feel myself thrown forward. 

I step out into the downpour. I mute my anger. I approach the other vehicle, a big pickup with plenty of previous damage in the front. Young man sits at the wheel. Slightly dazed, or shocked. He apologizes immediately. He shows me his insurance information and drivers' license. It's raining too hard for me to copy his information easily. I have to lean in and use the top of his dashboard as a table. “I'll tell the truth,” he says. “It was all my fault.” I say that's good. He says he was afraid I'd be really angry. “Could have happened to any of us,” I say reassuringly. 

I'm soaked and a little edgy. My back hurts a little. I turn around.

At home we realize the car is damaged more than I'd realized. Much time on telephone with insurer and Vescovo. Then a long trip into town. Body shop, Enterprise, doctor. I feel a bit dazed, but don't hurt too bad. Driving home, I enjoy hearing a music show on 101.5 FM.

I awaken at 2 a.m. Beautiful night. Outside, I sit watching the dark mountains, marred by few lights, and the grey sky full of stars. The crickets are muted tonight. I'm glad to be here. (A pain-killer helps.) 

Inside again, I turn on the computer. The Senate has defeated “skinny” repeal, Republican leadership's desperate effort to show power by passing a bill no one likes and leaving tens of millions of citizens' healthcare to a lottery called the House-Senate conference. They're like kids trying to prove a point, even by acting stupidly. 

John McCain is a decent man, still strong at 80. I wonder whether his own recent surgery made him think how it might have been for some regular citizen. A Huffington Post headline calling saying he'll “die with dishonor” for voting to debate the bill is an ironic reminder of how vacuous most invective is, on both sides. And of the uselessness of yesterday's news. Meanwhile McConnell prattles that we owe it to citizens to take away their healthcare.

I also learn that the NBA's Warriors have re-signed Javale McGee, their wonderfully athletic backup center. Another triumph for the culture of joy. I think of Kevin Durant, delighted he could wear music headphones during practices, something his former team had forbidden. A team I suffered with through mediocre seasons, then watched become great, has actually improved further!

I play briefly with the morning's images of hummingbirds. 

We live in the high desert, in constant wonder and constant gratitude.

                                                                   -30-

[The above column appeared this morning, Sunday, 30 July 2017, in the Las Cruces Sun-News, as well as on the newspaper's website and on KRWG's website.  KRWG will also air a spoken version of it several times during the week.]

[I doubt I've managed to communicate at all how magical it all felt at 2 or 3 in the morning, the wonderful place and probably some relief, and things coming up as I'd hoped, ]

The Saga of Chris Barela, Jailer

Sometimes everyone's wrong.

Take the saga of Chris Barela, jailer.

He's a likable guy, but has a very mixed record at the Doña Ana County Detention Center. 

Years ago people alleged serious misconduct by him, some criminal. Internal county reports concluded he'd misappropriated county resources. (Astonishingly, higher-ups took no action on those reports.) Barela also seemed to exhibit extensive favoritism in running the jail. I wrote about some of this in 2013. I also investigated some charges I concluded were nonsense, and some I couldn't get to the truth on. 

Criminal investigations started and stalled. I doubt the initial investigators did all they should have. Some of the most promising charges never got acted upon until it was too late. Then Mr. Barela ran afoul of Sheriff Kiki Vigil (who'd gotten significant campaign contributions from two private-prison executives from Louisiana). DASO investigated vigorously – then, in December 2015, (a) made a big public show of Barela's arrest; (b) took him all the way to Lea County to book him; and (c) took over the jail the day they arrested him. 

A judge ordered Vigil to give back control of the jail. Criminal charges were eventually dropped. DASO's handling of the arrest and booking helped Barela get a $201,000 settlement check without even filing suit. Some said Barela got the easy settlement because of connections. Others said DASO's conduct under Vigil was so far off the mark that Barela could have won far more by suing.

More recently, a jail officer complained that Commissioner John Vasquez had told him in Santa Fe that Vasquez was going to get rid of Barela and then-County Manager Julia Brown. Vasquez allegedly suggested that the jail officer might get Barela's job. If the story is accurate, Vasquez was conducting himself inappropriately.

Barela served a tort claims notice against the County over Vasquez's alleged comments.

But acting like a horse's hind end isn't always a crime or even actionable. Barela's tort claim notice speaks of defamation, a legal subject I actually know a little about. From what I've read and heard, Barela has a steep uphill battle. First of all, for a “public figure” like Barela to prevail, he must prove Vasquez made false statements of fact that Vasquez knew or really should have known were false. The statements must be of facts. Opinions won't cut it. Nor will threats to fire someone, or statements that someone should be fired. That is, calling the jail “horrible” and saying “You should get rid of Barela” are nonstarters.

Further, if Vasquez said that Barela committed crimes, that's either true or such a reasonable mistake that Barela's lawsuit should fail. There are written reports that strongly suggest Barela committed crimes. That he wasn't prosecuted in time is irrelevant. Vasquez would have to have said something extra special – claiming it was fact – for Barela to prevail. I'm not even sure the County would be on the hook for Vasquez's conduct in Santa Fe.

 

Then a week ago Barela was hit with four misdemeanor charges of possession of marijuana.

In context, these charges initially look like harassment. But one knowledgeable source says the officer who probably okayed the operation has integrity and isn't the Sheriff's pawn. Although using undercover “reverse transactions” to bust someone for personal-use marijuana looks odd, my source says there may be more to come. Who knows?

But it could end Barela's charmed career as jailer. Smoking a few joints is a yawner; but dealing with drug dealers, who may sell other substances and could end up detained, will raise concerns about further favoritism.

                                                             -30-

[The column above appeared in the Las Cruces Sun-News this morning, Sunday, 23 July, as well as on the newspaper's website and on KRWG's website.   KRWG will also air a spoken version periodically during the week.]

[I initially ended the column stressing the relative pettiness of busting a guy for buying small amounts of marijuana.   As a matter of criminal law, it is petty.  But if I were in the county administration, thinking about terminating Mr. Barela, I'd have to take the incident more seriously.  First of all, it's a[nother] violation of law.  Secondly, as I note in the column, if proven it establishes that he conspires with drug dealers to break laws, and some of those drug dealers could end up in the Detention Center, possibly charged with selling to kids or with selling some less benign substance than weed.  (And in the employment context, his employers shouldn't be limited to the appropriately high standard of proof for criminal convictions, "beyond a reasonable doubt," but to a lower standard in which they can act if reasonable evidence convinces them that he did it.)   Third, in my view Mr. Barela has demonstrated a tendency toward favoritism in running the detention center.]

[At the same time, authorities should be alert to whether or not there was inappropriately selective law enforcement here.  As noted, someone I trust strongly believes there wasn't.  But people can be wrong in their trust of colleagues.  Too, I've heard one credible, first-hand account of what appeared to me a tendency by Sheriff Vigil toward selective law enforcement, unrelated to Barela.  (Of course, one could reasonably argue that a crime is more serious when committed by someone in charge of folks accused of crimes, often drug-related crimes, so that a somewhat heightened interest in marijuana purchases by Barela would not necessarily be improper.)]

[It'll be interesting to see how it all shakes out.  Barela has excellent and experienced defense counsel.]

Rainbow, Roadrunners, Death, and Meditation

Yesterday's wonder was a bright rainbow at the top of the Organ Mountains. (God's comment to the Interior Department on keeping our monument as is?) Cameraless, I tried to capture the image with my cell phone, but hadn't a clue how to zoom in.

Today's is a roadrunner, crossing Roadrunner Parkway then strolling into Caliche's parking lot, straight toward the bench where I'm pigging out. I would tell him that despite the street's name, motorists won't cut him much slack, but he wouldn't listen. He turns and walks against traffic past the drive-in window, headed for Subway. I pull out the cell phone, but ain't any smarter about the zoom than I was last night.

It's been a funny afternoon. First I record a radio interview with a friend, a Zen Buddhist roshi who'd had little interest in spiritual matters until he lay long into the night in a Vietnamese jungle with an four by two-inch oblong hole in his head. (“I'm one of the few men who's reached in and touched his own brain,” he laughs.) He struggled to stay awake in case of another attack. For hours, he listened to the desperate cries of a fellow soldier he himself had shot, when the fellow, without his signal flashlight, came running toward him during the battle like a charging enemy soldier. 

We talk more than an hour about life and death and meditation.

Then I go to the rehab establishment where one of my closest friends is “imprisoned.” (His word.) He's 86. Yesterday, he berated me for not having sprung him from the place, and for urging him to do physical therapy. Today he smiles and tells me he and the physical therapists have been having fun. “I did a bunch of crazy things with my leg. Can't do any harm. It won't do any good, but it can't do any harm.” He talks about his father, a 6'7” New York City policeman who weighed 330 pounds and held the world record in the shot put more than a hundred years ago. He says cheerfully that he's dying. He asks about “the silly radio station” and says he wishes there were an afterlife, so he could watch the foolish antics of his earthly friends, “but I'm still an atheist to the core.”

It's a good visit, although a nurse tells me “he's still cantankerous.” 

Yesterday, along with complaints about food, the tiny TV, and the pointlessness of P.T., he was furious that the young people working there “haven't a clue who James Cagney and Doris Day were, but expect me to know about all their favorites.” Bud taught cinema for decades. Today he's cheered when one young therapist, an athlete, having googled Bud's father, chats with Bud about athletes from different eras.

Has he passed through angry resistance and come to terms with his reasonable belief that he'll die soon? He's often said, as I'm leaving, that he won't be alive tomorrow. Today he says that, but more quietly, with less bravado.

With a later visitor, he talks more about his childhood, his dogs, and death. When she leaves she kisses him and says, as she often does, “I love you.” Usually he growls, “I can't think why.” Today he says, “If I make it through the night, I'll tell you what that means to me.” When she's almost out the door, he shouts, “I love you!” 

His best friend for nearly a half-century, I'm not sure I've heard him say that out loud. Maybe he's finally stopped imitating Cagney and Bogart. We love you, man!

                                                                  -30-

[The above column appeared in the Las Cruces Sun-News this morning, Sunday, 16 July, as well as on the newspaper's website and KRWG's website.]

Love (of Country) is Complicated

It's July 4^th.

My earliest memory of Independence Day was, of course, fireworks. High above the Croton River, unbelievably loud and magnificent, they exploded beautifully. Each 4^th, my father wore a police uniform. A decorated U.S. Marine pilot during WWII, he was a volunteer auxiliary cop. He directed traffic to and from the fireworks.

I grew to admire the courage and imagination of our “Founding Fathers,” and our country's uniqueness. To build a country in wilderness, in the 17^th Century . . . to distill 18^th Century notions of human rights into a new nation dedicated to liberty, equality, with decisions made by men, not by kings or priests, was wonderful. After leading a rebellious army to independence, George Washington twice walked away from the near-absolute power other such figures have conistently taken or accepted. What a tragic irony that they couldn't solve slavery!

As a kid I was more concerned with baseball. Brooklyn-born, I rooted for the Brooklyn Dodgers. When I was nine, “dem Bums” won their first World Series, over the “classier” New York Yankees, with Jackie Robinson still a key player. My own life already mirrored the integration they symbolized: my Cub Scout den included several Jews and a couple of black boys. Maybe that made it easy for me to volunteer as a civil rights worker at seventeen. And to see clearly the ugliness of U.S. racism.

I'd previously assumed our country was like Gary Cooper in High Noon: not greedy nor avaricious nor aggressive; but when pushed to the edge, as by Japan and the Nazis just before my birth, brave and dogged in fighting for what's right. Fighting for human freedoms, liberty of thought, and equal opportunity.

We strayed far from those ideals often during the 20^th Century. In many countries, mostly inhabited by non-Europeans, we stood against freedom in favor of dictators or oligarchs whose support we found politically convenient. I came to manhood in the midst of one of the worst of those strayings. Without judging others' choices, based on what they knew or felt at the time, I could express my deep love of this country only by shouting out against that war, as I would later show my love for my father by watching his driving carefully and alerting him to dangers. (Again, I do not judge others; nor do I belittle the courage of many who fought in that war, the true comradeship soldiers experienced, or the sufferings of many. I just can't celebrate the cynical politicians who sent them.)

Love is complex. Marital love, familial love, love of country. Anyone for whom patriotism is a simple matter, bereft of consideration or challenges, isn't paying attention – or is abusing the idea of patriotism by screaming “I love my country!” for not-so-patriotic reasons. 

Setting off fireworks may be fun, but doesn't begin to celebrate what's great about our country. Contemplating the courage and intellectual range of our ancestors comes closer. So would emulating them. Just as showing up in church is not a true celebration of Jesus if one spends most of one's time being cruel to others, pledging allegiance or standing for the national anthem is a far less meaningful form of patriotism than trying, as our forefathers did, to assess with an independent mind (not by listening to king, bishop, or Rush) how our nation might best steer its complex course through a difficult world. Speaking up honestly, as they did, without concern for personal consequences. Taking risks for freedom – our own and others'.

The true celebration would be working to extend the theoretical freedoms they articulated to all.

                                                   -30-

[The column above appeared in the Las Cruces Sun-News this morning, 9 July 2017, as well as on the newspaper's website and KRWG's website.  KRWG will also air a spoken version several times during the week.]

[In different moods, if I read the foregoing column I'd disagree with its emphasis in different ways.  Some folks will be angry that a 4th of July column praising our founders could also contain criticism of our beloved country.  Others -- echoing that wonderful line of W.E.B. DuBois's, "What does your Independence Day mean to a slave?" -- will list our national sins and ask how a thoughtful modern citizen can praise the U.S. at all.  Still others will share love of and respect for our political system but be unable to express those right now because of the results of the 2016 Presidential election.  And I'll admit to concern about whether our system will survive the combination of our Supreme Court's decisions helping money control our politics, the well-organized far right making energetic use of those decisions, hacking and other interference in our elections, and the huge power of multi-national corporations.  There's a lot very wrong with our system right now.  (Some of that fueled the anger of some Trump voters, although they were saddled with a self-destructive option for expressing it.)  

Our democracy is gravely ill.  I don't say that merely because we elected a dangerous clown last fall.  We've not always chosen wisely -- or always been offered a meaningful choice by our political parties.  Trump is dangerous, in himself and in the ease with which more smarter and more vicious "advisors" can manipulate him; but he's more a symptom than a cause.  Well before Trump, George Bush was a totally unqualified individual, though quite possibly a much better human being than he might have been, and we got saddled with more wars and less financial solvency than we might have had without him.  In Barack Obama, though he was far from a perfect president, we kind of got lucky.  He was judicious, thoughtful, intelligent, and a good human being, who tried to find the best course for our country, not for one segment of it, and often succeeded.  He dealt fairly effectively with some very difficult challenges.  But we elected him because he spoke so well and seemed so lively and fresh, and because his opponents seemed tired and old-style.  (Similarly we chose Jack Kennedy over Richard Nixon, by a very slim margin, because he was so much more personable and telegenic.  The second Bush seemed more personable, more candid, more at ease in his own skin than Al Gore.)  We kind of got lucky with Obama.  With Trump we didn't.

I hope we will pull through.  But the huge faults in our current decision-making process present a hell of a challenge.]

[Note: another local columnist wrote this week that this country's success was due solely "the wisdom of the Founders, the spark of liberty along with free-market principles . . ." and that no country had "done so much good with [its wealth] around the world."  Those are the sorts of half-truths that function like clouds obscuring the moon, preventing us from getting a clear look at what's great about our country and what isn't.  Yes, our Founders were wise, inventive, and courageous.  But free enterprise existed long before our country did.  Freedoms of speech and our other freedoms were a great innovation, and helped our rise as a nation.   On the other hand, our vast natural resources helped.  Too, the period of our great ascendance to the primo position among nations, the 20th Century, coincided with two great wars and a lot of destruction and dislocation throughout Europe, while we sat safely an ocean away.  Yes, our clever means of distributing goods were a major factor in our economic success; but these were nothing our Founders contemplated; nor could they have easily conceived the 20th Century world in which these things occurred.  Being able to sell to both sides during most of World War I and during several years of World War II before our own involvement probably helped, as did residing and producing products a safe distance from anyone's bombers.  Our huge population also helped us become the deciding factor in those two wars.   

Let's respect our founders.  They greatly deserve it.  But let's also try to see clearly.]

A Memorable Guest

Saturday evening, as we returned from a great birthday dinner for the beautiful lady, a tiny quail chick, far too small to be out alone, approached us.

Being who we are – Dael's father was famous in New Hampshire for bringing home wounded animals and teenagers until they healed – we welcomed her. (We decided on “she.” We hadn't a clue.) Left outside, she'd have become some snake's supper. 

Having such a small critter's life in your hands is always frightening. Once we rescued a desert cardinal chick that had fallen out of the nest and been abandoned. It didn't last the night. We were determined that our new guest would. While I sat in the fading light, holding our guest and listening to her high-pitched calls, Dael started researching, by phone and Internet. 

We learned a lot. (And got occasional conflicting instructions, e.g., “If you can't find the chick's parents, any quail family will quickly adopt.” “That's false! Unrelated quail will usually kill the chick.”) There's a whole network of helpful southwesterners who care about birds.

She needed a warm environment, 90-100 degrees. Dael put her in a cardboard box, on an electric heating pad with a towel over it, and added a small stuffed animal. She actually cuddled up to it, until we hung socks to mimic mama's feathers. 

I checked on her frequently that first night. Restarted the hearing pad. Worried because she wasn't moving and her cries were a lot softer. Because it was time for sleep? Or because she was fading? 

We learned that she'd eat mashed dry cat food mixed with egg yolks and water, as well as crushed wild bird-seed. Water in a lid with small stones. Unlike other species, quail chicks can eat/drink on their own right away, but they need a little coaching. It was exciting when she got the idea, and pecked some yellow mess off the toothpick and devoured it. When we stunned flies or moths, her immediate enthusiasm made us laugh, and encouraged us.

Quail are social. Since we were all she had she quickly became friendly. If an open hand appeared in her box, she hopped right into our palm, to be picked up. And she was content to be held, except that she also wanted to explore, climbing up my shirt and slipping back, using her stubby wings for balance. We were afraid she'd fall, or wander into some hidden spot and lack the wit to come out again. So we discouraged explorations.

We bonded with her, too. I knew we couldn't keep her, but wished otherwise. Quail are said to be good pets; but she'd have to stay indoors; and having to feed her frequently and ensure she was warm wouldn't fit our schedules.

Sunday we learned of someone two hours away who had young quail. We thought seriously about making the drive to give our guest a good home and some pals. Then the tireless Susan of Broken Promises told us about an accredited wildlife rehabilitation center near Sunland Park. More competent hands than ours. And other quail to snuggle with.

Since our unexpected guest left, we've felt a little sad. But grateful. Human hearts quite naturally attach to the small, helpless, and vulnerable. Yeah, she was a demanding houseguest at an inconvenient time; but had such marvelous spirit – and comical clumsiness. She enriched our life and reminded us there's more to life than county commission meetings and an orange-haired reality-show star. 

Life in the high desert is so full of wonderful gifts!

                                               -30-

[The foregoing appeared as my Sunday column in the Las Cruces Sun-News this morning,  2 July 2017, and is also available on the newspaper's website  and (presently) on KRWG's website.  KRWG will also air a spoken version periodically during the week.]

Photos by Dael Goodman: 

Standing near her water bowl -- a plastic bottle-cap.