Pomp, Circumstance, and the Woodchuck

I completed my requirements for my master’s degree by taking a seminar in metaphor, which would have been somewhat leaden if not for of its bubbly instructor.  My efforts in class included discussions of the Great Chain of Being and the metaphorical implications of proverbs, the latter including a nod to the original Mickey Mouse Club’s Jimmy Dodd, who regularly performed a brief musical salute to the subject.  Serious stuff, mind you.

I wish I could say I owe any talent I now have as a writer to Mrs. Seery, my second-grade teacher who hugged me before the entire class after I delivered my written re-cap of the class’s visit to the Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey, bakery.  Or to Mr. Chaffee, my English “master” at the boarding school.  A Yale graduate; navigator for a World War II bombing squadron in Europe; Vietnam War opponent; erudite; eloquent; witty; a natty dresser―I was in awe of the man, although he rarely gave me anything better than a “C”.  On the other hand, “No boy could have written this,” he said of a short story―a tale of love and death that aspired to Hemingway―I submitted to the school’s literary magazine, of which he was an advisor.  But I did write it, and I later proved to his satisfaction that he was mistaken.  I held no grudge, for with those few words he had in a way conferred upon me not only literary license, but manhood.         

But I cannot honestly extend the line all the way back to Thomas Chaffee and beyond: too much alcohol, marijuana, and intellectual laziness existed between him and my matriculation at UNM.  No, it was the university that was responsible for whatever succeeded in my master’s thesis.  I’m grateful to every one of my professors at UNM.  That said, my readings of Proust, Lessing, Camus, Garcia Márquez, Lawrence, Woolf, Hunter S. Thompson, Sandra Cisneros, Simone Weil, Barbara Tuchman; my limp analyses of Dickens, Graham Greene, and George Lakoff; my discussion of the iconic San Francisco de Asis church in Ranchos de Taos, New Mexico, which, as a non-Catholic, I should never have attempted―all take a back seat to my master’s thesis, the only achievement of which I’m truly proud as a graduate student.

Throughout my time at UNM, forever the solitary reader and writer, I had given virtually no thought to attending the university’s graduation ceremony.  Linda, however, had given it plenty.  She practically insisted that I don gown and mortarboard cum insouciant tassel.  No surprise.  She was, after all, proud of me.  And she did support us throughout my education.  So I agreed.

And then it occurred to me to invite my father to attend the ceremony, to finally proudly witness his son graduating from an institution of higher learning.  My father rarely got angry, so I never forgot the time, over the Christmas holiday at my sister’s house in darkest New Hampshire, when my father―and mother―trained their guns on me and fired.  It began with my sulking refusal to join my family in a game of Scrabble.  The next thing I knew, Mom and Dad trotted out a litany of bitter disappointments with me that they had accumulated over the years, including the fact that, although I graduated from Hobart, I never participated in the college’s graduation ceremony. 

So, although my mother was no longer around―she had been gone a decade―I thought my father would leap at the chance to journey from New Hampshire to witness me receiving a diploma at the UNM football stadium on a June morning.  To my surprise, however, he chose instead to do what he’d been doing for years in June following his retirement: go fishing for a week in the backwoods of Maine with several of his former business associates.  Was my father getting back at me?  Absolutely not.  My father was never small.  Yet I never questioned him about his decision, and he never offered to explain. 

It was a typically sparkling early-summer morning in New Mexico when I graduated.  At 44, I was undoubtedly one of the oldest students to be honored.  A decade earlier I would not have imagined such a moment.  Still, it was strange being decked out in a gown and cap.  I don’t doubt I looked dignified, even “scholarly,” but at times throughout the ceremony I felt like a woodchuck draped in a lace mantilla.


Processing Words

I composed my master’s thesis on the word processor of an IBM personal computer, which I had now owned for some five years.  Since owning several PC’s and a couple of laptops, I’ve never written a letter, article, or formal piece of creative writing with a typewriter, manual or electric.  When I write with a pencil and pen, it is only to enter raw, free-writing notations in my four-by-five-inch wire-bound journals, which I cherish as much as my finished manuscripts. 

Count me among those who love electronic word processing.  Like most writers, my literary mind is always working: I rarely get through a day when I don’t observe something, no matter how mundane, and then, in my head, attempt to render that something in the most fitting words.  Yet I cannot truly weigh the effect of a word, phrase, or sentence until it exits my brain and appears either in graphite or ink on a piece of paper, or in pixels on the screen of a computer.  And then I often tinker with what I’ve written, right down to the word.  Surely the software pioneers of word processing, while not necessarily creative writers themselves, had an intuitive understanding of this tendency. This yearning. This neurosis.  Sure, one can draw a line through an unsatisfying word, phrase, or sentence, a la Hemingway and millions of other scribblers who sweated over paper prior to the nineteen eighties, but the shortcoming remains in view, an annoying distraction.  Word processing banishes the imperfection, or at least sidelines it for reconsideration at a later date.  (I have an ongoing text file I call the “bone pile.”)  As surely as a human being is constantly weighing the most mundane decisions on a minute-by-minute basis, the writer is constantly weighing words.  Electronic word processing thus lends itself well to the obviously dynamic process of literary composition.   

Of course, the potential hazard of this is that the article, short story, or book is never written; the pile of raw clay―that is, the first of many necessary drafts―never makes it to the potter’s wheel or the pedestal, because the writer―and here I refer to the prose writer, not the poet―enthralled by his or her ability to tinker, erase, and replace on the PC or Mac, obsesses for hours over a word, phase, sentence, or paragraph and fails to projectile vomit the commonly recommended daily yield of a thousand or so words, fails to acknowledge that successful writers never get it perfect the first time and that a published book is the product of entire manuscripts drafted multiple times.  (And I’m indebted to John Nichols for this truth.[1]  

The final draft of my master’s thesis, printed on my dot matrix device―at the time, another fabulous innovation―numbered some 29,000 words.  I successfully discussed―as opposed to “defended,” which smacks of an adversarial relationship that did not exist―my manuscript with my thesis advisors: two professors of English and one of American studies.  Today, my thesis, along with thousands of others with identical bindings, rests in the basement of UNM’s Zimmerman Library, accessible to all, likely read by none. 

As I have written, my thesis yielded a piece in a literary journal.  In addition, my profile of Bobby won honorable mention at The Frank Waters Southwest Writing Award for Literary Achievement.  The highlight of that award was attending the awards ceremony on a beautiful fall afternoon at Frank and his gracious wife Barbara’s home in Arroyo Seco, New Mexico, just north of Taos and at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.  It was a thrill to meet the great, aged Frank Waters, still lucid but now wheelchair-bound and wrapped against the chill in a colorful serape, and stand amid the chattering aspens and upon the soil that so anchored, mystified, and inspired him.  The following summer, Frank died at the age of ninety-two.

[1] Meanwhile, John, who told our class that he wrote by hand all of his first drafts and typed all subsequent drafts of his novels, and who, with typical humor, once dismissed the word processor as the technical equivalent of “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” is now, if videos of him on the Internet are any indication, writing electronically.  The lure is obviously irresistible.


An Example of a “Process” Rhetorical Approach I Never Shared with My Students

How I looked forward to the day of the final exam!―although not simply because it meant the end of reading and commenting upon at numbing length those dreadful papers.  In a clever stroke, the UNM English department (and, I suspected, many other higher-education English departments across America) designed the exam and its method of evaluation in a way that I was certain would relax those teaching assistants who, due to lack of experience, likely needed some soothing justification for their unappetizing plans to flunk one or more of their students. 

The department fashioned three different topics for the exam―for example: “What did Ralph Waldo Emerson mean by ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds . . .’”―one of which the student was free to choose.  Each exam was identified only by the student’s university identification number, and each was graded on a pass/fail basis by three teaching assistants, with the majority grade―or, in the case of complete success or failure, the across-the-board grade―determining the student’s fate.  A failing grade theoretically meant the student was required to repeat the course.  Ideally, such a blind “pass” or “fail” evaluation confirmed the assessment of the student’s regular instructor.  The failing student could challenge his or her evaluation with the English department, with the student’s instructor perhaps acting in the student’s defense.  

On a December afternoon, as the fall semester neared its end, in a spare room of the humanities building, I and about a half-dozen of my fellow assistants, brandishing pens, sat on the carpeted floor or at desks amid stacks of exam “blue books.”  The atmosphere was buoyant, often giddy, as we read exams and gaily entered our “P”’s and “F”’s and mercifully nothing more on the insides of the books’ back covers.  No holds were barred, no imagined feelings spared.  Occasionally a direct quote from an exam was tossed out by a grader for the group to . . . consider.  Some quotes amazed us with their insight, even their poetry.  More, however, were received with incredulity and merciless, chortling ridicule.  (To wit: “I question evolution.  How does a cell walking out of the ocean for the first time know its going to some day be a guys ear?”)  Because that was the point: It was finally our turn to blowhole. 

Several days later, I received the results of the evaluations of my students . . . and was rather amazed―and heartened―at how my standards, such as they had evolved, aligned with those of my fellow instructors. 

A final, traditional letter grade for each student who passed the final exam was assigned by the student’s personal instructor based upon the student’s performance throughout the semester.  Several of my students who had performed poorly during the fall, yet had managed to pass the final, put me in that twitchy “D” realm―twitchy because a “D” student was required to repeat the course as well.  However, after several beers, I issued each of those theoretical “D” students a “C” and hoped each was going to major in engineering.  In each of my two fall classes I awarded several “A”’s and about as many failures, with no students contesting my grades. 

Nonetheless, throughout the semester, I had an increasingly nagging feeling that I, my fellow assistants, and even the English Department were lowering the bars for each of the passing grades.  That is, grade-inflating.  However, a few beers with said assistants at a popular bar on Central Avenue directly opposite the campus would make this feeling go away, providing I didn’t spot a student I was preparing to flunk imbibing there―perhaps, like me, to drown a concern―as well.

I went on to teach another semester.  Again, despite the frustration, I enjoyed teaching, including the camaraderie with my fellow assistants, many of whom were pursuing their doctorates.  Yes, they were busy cranking out those “scholarly” papers I so derided.  Yet I respected their hard work, their love of literature, the pleasures they took in reading and writing, and their eloquence and wit on any number of topics literary or mundane.  I was as proud of being a teacher as I was of being a computer programmer.


Until Drops of Blood Form on Your Forehead

Teaching was indeed often “fun,” yet not without its frustrations.  I suspected my students dreaded reading Only Yesterday only slightly more than I.  I had never heard of Frederick Lewis Allen.  Unless it addressed, however tangentially, Hemingway’s experience as a meteoric literary figure in Paris, twenties American history, formal or “informal,” rarely interested me.  In high school and boarding school, I struggled through everybody’s twenties classic, The Great Gatsby.  Still, Allen’s writing, if often dry, was accessible; his subject matter pulled the student, if only for a little while, out of the drivel of Friends and Seinfeld and the mindless tumescence of “Me So Horny” 2 Live Crew; and the book’s various rhetorical techniques offered topics for discussion and writing.  Nonetheless, my “lectures” on the book were often met with bewilderment and silence. 

The second half of the course was somewhat enlivened with the next text: a collection of essays.  Its authors spanned the ages, from Swift and his famous “A Modest Proposal” (which, to my private embarrassment, I had no recollection of ever reading) to Stephen King and his explanation for our fascination with horror.  The essays, which could be read in a sitting even by the most easily-distracted youth, illustrated basic non-fiction rhetorical techniques: description, narration, compare and contrast, evaluation, process, argumentation, etc.  Many of the essays were interesting; one, Jessica Mitford’s discussion of embalming, was morbidly fascinating.  Yet generating classroom discussion of even contemporary matters was difficult.  Was I that unprepared, frightened, lacking in confidence as a college freshman?  Probably.  In any event, I enjoyed the discussions, lopsided though they often were.

What I quickly came to dread, however, was reading, commenting on, correcting, and grading the students’ papers―six per student, seven hundred to one thousand words per paper.  In the words of the great Thomas Wolfe, briefly a college instructor himself, the “huge damnation of that pile of unmarked themes . . .”  The grammatical ruin and ideational impoverishment of eighty percent of the papers throughout the semester staggered me.  Every ten days or so I’d face another mountain of tenses in disagreement; sentences incomplete; capital letters disregarded; periods missing; ideas tangled and incomprehensible; correction fluid applied with all the delicacy of a bricklayer; margins, lines, and paragraphs ill-formatted, even with papers obviously “word-processed.”  Slack-jawed, staring into space, I wondered, among other things:  Have any of these kids ever read a book cover to cover?  And: How many hours of MTV have contributed to this rhetorical wreckage?  And: Which concerns “Destini”―a student of mine rarely modest in matters of midriff―more: her ability to write or the visibility of that lightning bolt tattooed on the base of her spine?[1]  

[1] Speaking of which, the older I get, the more I am of the opinion that the masters distinguish themselves with education; the rest, with tattoos.  


And You Feed Them for a Lifetime

It wasn’t until my third year at UNM that I realized a graduate student could get some potentially worthwhile experience and earn money in the process by becoming a university teaching assistant instructing freshman composition.  The assistant received a modest stipend, was provided a shared office in the Humanities building, and was required to take several classes in composition theory while teaching. 

On the one hand, the bookish introvert I fancied myself to be recoiled at this possibility.  I simply couldn’t imagine myself in a blazer, dress shirt, bolo tie, khakis, and penny loafers standing―or, perhaps, sitting with an I’m-on-your-side casualness on the edge of an imposing desk―before thirty pimply eighteen-year-olds variously bright-eyed, asleep, anxious, and bored, pontificating on rhetorical approaches, syntax, theses, logic, and diction.  Then again, the eagle hadn’t flown for me in three years and I was beginning to feel guilty about it.  Furthermore, after graduation, a part- or full-time job teaching English at one or more of the various community colleges within a commute from my home in Albuquerque did strike me as a respectable way to make extra income while reaping royalties from my “underground bestsellers” and generally establishing my œuvre.  Of course, I invited Linda to weigh in on the idea of husband-as-professor.  I never doubted that she minded being, in Rilke’s words, a “guardian of my solitude.”  Still, a natural extrovert, she felt that teaching, in addition to bringing in some money, would expose me to new people and new experiences and thus do my craft and sullen art some good.  So I applied for the assistantship, and was accepted. 

Standing outside Mitchell Hall on a late-summer morning, professorially decked out, I clutched my Samsonite attaché case.  It was stuffed with thirty copies of my course syllabus and the text, assigned by the rhetoric department, for the first half of the course: Only Yesterday: An Informal History of the 1920s by Frederick Lewis Allen.  I felt reasonably confident as I prepared to teach my first class.  I strode into the building, made a left turn down the first-floor hallway to my classroom, realized what I was about to do . . . and commenced to come apart.  My hands shook and my face flushed.  Surprised, astonished, terrified by the multiplying cracks and splinters in my composure, I paused in the hallway, furiously attempting to understand what was happening and pull myself together.  A minute later, I entered the classroom, breathing shallowly, feeling as if I were staggering, aware of but avoiding the thirty pairs of limpid eyes on me. 

After placing the Samsonite on the massive metal desk at the head of the classroom, I picked up a stick of chalk and prayed my trembling hand would legibly write “Mr. Davis” on the blackboard.  After I managed my name, I recalled the mantra―offered by Mike, my thesis advisor who also happened to be in charge of the freshman composition program―that was supposed to soothe the nerves of the novice teaching assistant: “You know more than they do.”  When I first heard it, the obviousness of it seemed to render it useless.  But, by heaven, it worked, and I relaxed somewhat as I scribbled my office location and hours. 

Throughout the fifty class minutes, as I went over every line of my syllabus with the students, I variously stood, paced easily a few feet to the left and right, and, yes, even sat on the edge of my desk like a lovable, venerated coach delivering a pep talk.  Finally, I issued my first writing assignment: “Four hundred to five hundred words telling me about the last book you read.”  I wanted to “get a sense of your skill levels,” I explained to my students. With this, a young man in the back raised his hand and tentatively asked, “Can I write about a biology book?”  Obviously a budding science or engineering major, I thought. In any event, almost certain he was referring to a textbook assigned by his high school, I was tempted to somewhat jokingly and with smug erudition reply, “Yes, if it’s On the Origin of the Species.”  Then, realizing this might be met with thirty baffled expressions, I instead offered to the young man: “How about a book from your high school English class?”  He thought for a moment, then smiled and nodded, which I regarded as promising.  By the end of class, I was thoroughly relaxed, thinking: They respect me, perhaps even fear me.  Wow.  This might be fun.  And I then proceeded a door or two down the hall to meet my one additional class. 


More of My Craft and Sullen Art

One of the first classes I took at UNM was “Creative Writing/Prose Fiction,” taught by Rudolfo Anaya.  Today the New Mexico native and long-time Albuquerque resident, who died in 2020, is known as the “dean of Chicano Literature.”  Yet, even a quarter-century earlier, nearly any resident of New Mexico with a fondness for fiction was familiar with his work, particularly his celebrated debut novel Bless me, Ultima.  When I arrived in New Mexico, there wasn’t a bookstore, and likely not even a gift shop in a museum or hotel, that didn’t have copies of Ultima for sale.  Thus aware, I, too, read the book, and enjoyed it.  What engrossed me about the novel was its evocation of place―the high plains of eastern New Mexico, which recalled for me my Pawnee Grasslands due north in Colorado―and the door it opened to the family life, society, and customs of rural Latinos.  Except for the setting, it was a world unlike any I had ever known.

“Rudy” wasn’t the first published novelist with whom I was acquainted.  At Hobart, I got to know Robert Ward.  “Bob” arrived at the college a couple of years after I entered.  Shedding Skin, his first published novel, a comic one, appeared in bookstores about the time of his arrival.  Bob was a late-twenties, extremely easy-going fellow.  He was often visible on campus, wearing sneakers and dressed from head to toe in faded denim, his shoulder-length hair bound in a headband.  He walked with animated arms and hands, a bounce and occasional mashed potato in his step.  Originally from Baltimore, he had a mild southern drawl.  He admired such satirists as Burroughs, Roth, Pynchon, and Celine.  He was the first person to acquaint me with One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Márquez’s masterpiece.  He mixed freely with students of all ages.  He was often wired, riffing on one humorous aspect of life or another, floating ides for novels by us.  He was a good basketball player who played forward on our intramural team, scuttling around the court, clamoring for the ball, accompanying his gyrations with the “whoa-whoa-whoa-WHOA-whoa” riff of Don Gardner and Dee Dee Ford’s raucous R&B classic “I Need Your Loving.”  I took a creative writing class with him, spending the entire semester laboring over an insipid short story.  I received an undeserved “A” for the class.    

Rudy, on the other hand, was soft-spoken.  His words came out slowly and measured.  He had a trim mustache and a head of thick, wavy hair.  He was serious but not in an intimidating or overbearing way, and there was a great calm at his core.  He dressed smartly: slacks and button-down shirts, although the shirts were always unbuttoned at the collar and sometimes adorned with a bolo tie.

There were some dozen students in Rudy’s fall semester class, and we all sat in a rough circle around a couple long tables pushed together.  During class we would exchange and discuss photocopies of our stories-in-progress.  I wrote two long short stories for the class.  One of the stories I based upon a personal experience as a sixties New Jersey teenager.  It included an expression, a common putdown among us boys back then: “Smell me.”  I’ve never forgotten how Rudy, no stranger to juvenile cuts in his fiction, erupted into a rare cackle when I read that aloud to the class.   

Both stories were long, and I finished each one mentally exhausted.  Like Bob, Rudy gave them respectable grades, even suggested I attempt to publish one after “re-working” it.  However, I didn’t care to return to either of them.  I told myself I had described the setting of each more than adequately.  I felt each one had a satisfactory narrative arc.  But neither of them glowed like, say, a tale by Cheever or Malamud, and I wondered if I was designed for fiction writing.  If I had the imagination.  If I had the radar required to constantly scan for life’s conflicts and possible resolutions of those conflicts.  If I even had the meagerest philosophy of life or moral grounding that I could summon to explain or justify such resolutions.  I thanked Rudy on the final day of class.  

But I was certainly capable of reading fiction, and I consumed plenty of it for my various classes: Dickens, Faulkner, Garcia Márquez, Proust, Greene, Hemingway, Forster, Woolf, Kafka, Lessing, Camus.  I took “Chicano Literature,” in which I read Anaya, Ernesto Galarza, Tomás Rivera, Sandra Cisneros, northern New Mexico-born Sabine Ulibarri.  Yet, although I rarely took more than three classes a semester, I felt that I never had enough time to carefully read many of the assigned books.  Nonetheless, I read them all, and without amphetamines.  I took a seminar on metaphor.  I even cranked out several of those dreaded “scholarly papers,” including one on Dickens’s Hard Times and another on Greene’s A Burnt-Out Case, the title of the latter novel aptly describing my condition upon finishing both papers.  Neither paper was suggested by a professor for publication in an academic journal.  Mr. Davis, meet Perish.


Welcome to Graduate School

In order to be accepted into the University of New Mexico graduate school program, I not only had to provide a transcript from Hobart College, I had to take a standard aptitude test similar to the SAT I’d taken decades earlier.  I also provided letters of recommendation and copies of the various columns I wrote for the Nature Center newsletter.  Unlike Hobart, where I was accepted after being initially rejected, I was promptly accepted at UNM, a pleasant change. 

I entered Hobart immediately after graduation from a public high school and one year of remediation at a private school.  Although my mother never attended college, my father did, and he understood that a college education vastly improved one’s chances for happiness and success.  And, fortunately, college affordability was not an issue with my family.  The Selective Service “student deferment,” which until November of 1969 permitted an eighteen-year-old like myself to avoid service in America’s armed forces―and a likely tour of duty in Vietnam―was also an enticement to enter college.  (I felt no sense of duty to join our armed forces; furthermore, service in any form in the armed forces held no attraction for me.[1])  So, vague expectations and pressing desires, including to grow my hair long, wear bellbottoms, join the “sexual revolution,” and continue my misunderstood-young-man routine, pushed and pulled me into Hobart with seemingly no more control on my part than that of a fallen leaf in the wind.  Still, I was not totally without focus.  I liked to read and write, and from the start decided I would major in English, although I had given absolutely no thought to what I would do with a degree in that subject.  I did assume that upon graduation some job other than mowing a lawn or working in the mill room of a tire factory awaited me, hopefully a job that had to do with writing and literature. 

Entering the University of New Mexico, I had a somewhat clearer vision of my life after graduation: I would be a professional writer, penning novels, stories, or non-fiction, although I had no idea if and how I could make a living doing any of this.  What I was determined to do at UNM was get an education: to attend all of my classes, read all of my assigned books, and enrich my life with ideas, with no distractions from drugs, rock music, political protests, and clumsy attempts to lose my virginity.  I entered the University of New Mexico in September of my thirty-ninth year.

Prior to entering UNM, I was no stranger to its main Albuquerque campus.  Again, I married there; I heard ecologist Paul Ehrlich and New Mexico novelist Tony Hillerman speak there; I heard Itzhak Perlman perform Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major, one of my favorite classical works, in the college’s concert hall.  I loved the look of the campus.  The pueblo revival style that I first noticed in the university’s buildings that front Central Avenue abounded throughout the campus.  It was on particularly impressive display at Zimmerman, the campus’s multi-storied main library, to which I was naturally attracted.  It was so much softer and warmer than the right-angled brick and stone of Hobart’s architecture.  Rather than an institutional chill, the adobe structures lent the campus the warmth and ease of a village in 19th-century “New Spain.”  The campus was attractively landscaped, with paths winding beneath majestic trees offering welcome shade against the still-formidable heat of central New Mexico’s September.

The graduate program had a “foreign language” requirement, so during my first year I took elementary Spanish, which was taught by a vivacious female, a South American doctoral candidate.  Of course, the irony of Spanish as a “foreign language” in New Mexico was not lost on me.  For two years prior to entering UNM, I had heard it spoken―as with any language, not always with perfection―on the sidewalks of downtown Albuquerque and in the lumber yards of Española and Cuba.  I had even made an effort to properly pronounce the few words of Spanish I did understand, although to this day I can’t roll an “r” down Mt. Everest.  Two additional semesters were spent taking a course in translating Spanish.  

Another first-year requirement was a course entitled “Introduction to Professional Study,” taught by an amiable long-time professor who had long, thinly-whiskered sideburns and particularly admired some ancient novel entitled Tristram Shandy.  Among other things, the course dealt with the rules for producing “scholarly” papers, including their proper documentation.  As monsters who had managed to thrive for a dozen years, Nazis had fascinated me since adolescence, so my term paper for the course dealt with the early-eighties hoax known as the “Hitler diaries.” 

[1] My luck in avoiding service in the armed forces continued with the results of an amendment to the Military Selective Service Act of 1967, known as the “draft lottery.”  My lottery number, drawn in December of 1969 and corresponding to my birth date, was 359.  The highest lottery number called for induction was 125.  So, no boot camp, rice paddies, and Saigon go-go bars for me.


An Environmental Conscience – Conclusion

After two years, it got to a point where I was daily trying to rationalize my employment at the company.  In my mind, worthy arguments seemed to come from both sides.  I told myself that even tree-huggers lived in houses framed with two-by-fours.  Or did they?  Maybe they all lived in wickiups.  Or wigwams.  Or geodesic domes of steel and plastic.  Or dwellings of adobe, sod, or straw bales.  I thought of my first company picnic.  Sure, it included the executives decked out in finery likely from L.L. Bean or Eddie Bauer.  But it also included the denim and T-shirts of sawyers, shipping clerks, fork-lift drivers, receptionists, lumber graders, stackers, kiln operators―the salt of the Southwest earth.  And their spouses.  And, especially, their children.  Children who were eager to be blindfolded and told to whack at a papier-mâché cabron engorged with a rainbow of Jolly Rancher candies.  Children who now played with doll houses, Big Wheels, and toy dump trucks operated by remote control.  Children who were covered by medical and dental insurance.  Who would deny these children?  Ah, but was the company clear-cutting, and could I stomach the sight of this?  And these were Western forests.  Their vastness notwithstanding, they were arid and thus slow-growing.  Perhaps America should get all of its “forest products” from the dark and dripping woods of Maine, where trees grow like weeds.  Perhaps the timber companies should be required to harvest timber only from private land.  Perhaps the Forest Service should stop taking an outrageous loss on each and every one of its timber sales.  Yet, what about that handsome 40-foot-long footbridge across the Rio Grande north of Taos, its $5000 tab paid for by the lumber company, used by grateful fly-fishermen and hikers like myself?  Yes, but have I lately heard the bark-like call of the threatened spotted owl in the chill of a November night?  Or seen the imperiled goshawk coast silently through the dim understory? 

Meanwhile, I hoped.  I hoped the company and Forest Guardians would reach some kind of amicable compromise.  Not a chance.  Forest Guardians continued to challenge every timber sale.

After two-and-a-half years, I left the company.  My moral crisis had something to do with it, the trees having won out, but I also left because I couldn’t see myself writing code for the rest of my working life, regularly attending seminars and training sessions in an effort to keep apace with a constantly evolving field.  Although opportunities for performing challenging software maintenance and development were rare at the company, when they did occur, I would come home from work mentally drained and headachy.  Furthermore, while I liked the distinction of my position at the company and the attention it garnered, and I liked the salary, there were many days at work in which I was bored.  One afternoon in July, members of the data processing and accounting departments and several salespersons treated me to a going-away lunch at Sadie’s restaurant.

I didn’t look for another job.  Shortly after leaving the company, Linda and I, after living together for a year in a rented townhouse in northeast Albuquerque, married at the chapel on the University of New Mexico campus.  Meanwhile, I had been accepted in the university’s graduate program in English.  I planned to attend the university full time.  I wanted to get the education I felt I had squandered at Hobart.  I wanted to read books.  I wanted to write books.


“Mexican” Food: Albuquerque

I had little sense of Linda’s regard for Mexican food while we were still living in Denver. When we reunited in New Mexico, however, we both went for it full bore.  In 1988, there were scores of Mexican restaurants in Albuquerque.  During our first couple of years in the city, we sampled 10 to 20 of them, but eventually patronized two on an almost weekly basis. 

Los Cuates was located next to a barber shop in an old strip mall in East Albuquerque.  Like Chubby’s, it had a tiny waiting room at its entrance.  The relatively small dining area consisted strictly of booths, no tables.  A number of the red vinyl bench seats were lumpy: shift as you might on them, you invariably found one buttock on a precipice, the other in a sinkhole.  The servers were generally full-figured Latinas―an encouraging sign, I concluded, in a Mexican restaurant.  For starters, I’d order a “Pape-see,” which was served with crushed ice in a large plastic tumbler.  Heaven began with the arrival of the complementary tortilla chips and salsa, both of which I relished.  Los Cuates’s salsa was unlike any I’d ever eaten; it still is.  It had bite, of course.  Beyond that, it was thoroughly red―dark red―and smooth, thick, and slightly sweet; indeed, it was the sweetness that set it apart.  The tortilla chips always arrived warm and glistening with a wisp of oil.  Owing to its unique consistency, the salsa clung to the chip, never bailed to your chest or lap on its way to your watering mouth.  Then, “This plate’s hot,” the server always warned me as she casually set down my usual order, an oven-fresh platter of cheese enchiladas swimming in chile verde sauce, the sauce bubbling menacingly at the platter’s edges.  I could never fathom how the naked fingers of these servers withstood the heat, blistering to most mortals, of the platters during the segue from tray to table.  Like that of Chubby’s, Los Cuates’s chile was thick and jewel-like.  The corn tortillas, drooling the fatty yellow cheese, surrendered tenderly to the bite.  If it was a Sunday lunch, Los Cuates offered a complementary bowl of natillas, a custard of milk, eggs, and cinnamon, for dessert.  This creamy concoction calmed the walls of the mouth and throat, eased one into the blaze of a New Mexico afternoon.

Sadie’s was located not far north of downtown Albuquerque.  It shared its space with a bowling alley, and a Lebanese woman operated it.  (Lebanese?  Greek?  Who cared, as long as it was good.)  Sadie’s, too, began your meal with a complementary serving of salsa and chips, a veritable mountain of them.  Chile verde is what kept me returning to Sadie’s.  The diner was introduced to it immediately, for it was the foundation of the restaurant’s salsa, a dull green-gold concoction flecked with chile seeds that, because they are magnets for capsaicin, exploded like firecrackers in the mouth.  Sadie’s salsa was far thinner than that of Los Cuates, so one had to apply it to the chip carefully and minimize gesticulation when delivering it to the mouth.  As always at Sadie’s, I ordered the enchiladas con queso with chile verde.  Unlike nearly all of the Mexican restaurants Linda and I sampled, Sadie’s offered you the choice of “mild” or “hot” green chile on your entree.  For several consecutive visits to the restaurant, during which time the rumble of a careening bowling ball and the thunder of clobbered pins seemed to anticipate the drama of the imminent meal, I ordered the “hot” sauce on my enchiladas, attempting to develop a liking for it.  But I failed repeatedly.  During each meal, no amount of ice water could douse the flames issuing from my mouth, and for several hours after each meal residual embers crept uncomfortably up into my chest.

Linda and I didn’t limit our consumption of Mexican food to Albuquerque.  In Las Vegas, New Mexico, I took a liking to the red chile at Johnny’s, a restaurant whose beams were hung with frontier Americana and walls were covered with photographs of celebrities―well, regional celebrities―that bore their scribbled testimonials.  Nearby, at a restaurant on the town’s plaza, Linda, often adventurous when dining, once ordered for the first time chicharrones, deep-fired pork rinds smothered in a red chile sauce, reputed to be an authentic Mexican―as in the United Mexican States―food.  She liked the sauce, but abstained from the fundamentally fatty pork after several bites; although she is a sophisticated diner, to this day I’m not certain she knew exactly what she was ordering that evening.  The El Seville in Questa, New Mexico, not only served exceptional Mexican entrees, their sopapillas―light, balloon-like pastries deep-fried to a golden brown and to die for when drizzled with honey―were our favorite in the entire state. 

By far the most oddly-named Mexican restaurant we frequented in Albuquerque was the Sanitary Tortilla Factory.  While we were expanding our waistlines there, we couldn’t help but wonder: “sanitary” as compared to what?  I was surprised and impressed by the four-page 1984 New Yorker magazine profile of the downtown restaurant that was framed on one of its walls.   However, the Tortilla Factory fell out of our favor, although not because of the quality of its food, which was consistently high, or, for that matter, its hygiene.  After a dozen visits, we realized our final charges were being regularly arrived at not electronically, but as a result of the mental arithmetic―the creative mental arithmetic―of the regular cashier, and that we were being routinely overcharged―true, only by nickels and dimes, but enough to add up, and to irk us.

Monroe’s, Tiny’s in Santa Fe, Garduño’s, Barelas Coffeehouse, Anthony’s at the Delta in Española, Padilla’s, La Posada, Cervantes, El Bruno’s in Cuba, Paul’s Place, Casa de Benevidez, Little Anita’s, The Owl Café in San Antonio, Mac’s La Sierra, El Norteño: the number of Mexican restaurants Linda and I visited, individually and together, multiplied rapidly in just a matter of months in New Mexico.  We just couldn’t get enough of that heavenly chile.  It held us hostage, excited some heretofore unknown receptor in our brains.  We took to it like a child takes to ice cream, like the desert takes to silence and stillness.


“Mexican” Food: Denver

Then there was Mexican food.  (Or, more accurately, New Mexican food, because many long-time New Mexicans, Latino and Anglo alike, will remind you that the food served in nearly all of Albuquerque’s so-called “Mexican” restaurants is decidedly different from the victuals served in homes and restaurants in Mexico―and, for that matter, different from the “Mexican” food served in Texas, Arizona, Colorado, and California.  However, for the purposes of this narrative, “Mexican food” refers to any food that obviously has its culinary roots in the United Mexican States.)

When the opportunity to eat at a sit-down restaurant presented itself during my initial years in Colorado, I didn’t automatically consider a Mexican restaurant.  During my first summer in Denver, still a Northeasterner at heart, my mouth watered at the prospect of a pasta dish at Fratelli’s or a pizza at Shakey’s.  I also greatly anticipated a steaming dish of bland chow mein soaked in added soy sauce in a Chinese restaurant on East Colfax.  During my second summer there, however, the seed was planted. 

It was quitting time after a hot day of pumping concrete to a lofty story of an apartment complex under construction in Denver’s Capitol Hill.  The crew agreed to meet for beer and food at a restaurant and bar on Santa Fe Drive.  Upon entering this modest establishment, it hit me immediately, a sensation that I remember to this day: the sweet, earthy odor of masa, the maize dough of the corn tortilla.  We all decided to drink and eat at the bar, rather than a table.  I was 19; yet I wasn’t carded, and the bartender set me up a glass of cold 5.0 Coors.  For my entrée, I chose cheese enchiladas smothered in red chile.  (Hearing lily white Pat Boone singing of “enchiladas in the ice box” in his recording “Speedy Gonzales” years earlier undoubtedly had a subliminal hand in this particular selection.) 

When the plate, which included sides of rice and refried beans, was set before me, I found its appearance vaguely, yet pleasingly, familiar: the red chile and milk-white cheese, both bubbling vigorously, recalled the cheeses and tomato sauces that covered the countless slices of pizza I’d devoured since childhood on the East Coast.   

Then, I began to eat.  Like the best pizza crust, the folded corn tortillas, golden and vaguely crystalline, yielded tenderly to my bite.  The flavor of the pureed, scarlet chile was unlike anything I’d ever experienced: a sweet-smoky tang with a citrus-y hint.  On the heels of the flavor was the chile’s capsaicin, the legendary ball of fire, the source of the chile pepper’s “heat.”  It was a vegetable, all right, but from another world, a desert world of fire and blinding light.  I was raised on a bland diet: paprika was about the boldest spice on my mother’s shelf.  Yet, when introduced at Jersey pizza parlors to crushed red pepper seasoning, I realized my weakness for fiery food, and the chile at that Mexican eatery didn’t disappoint.  It opened wide my work-weary eyes and set my nose to watering.  However, with regular swallows of the Coors, I managed the flames.  Meanwhile, I gradually experienced the deep satisfaction that only a meal prepared with lard and a judicious helping of sodium can provide.  The meal was simple and unforgettable.

So, during my subsequent years in Colorado, I became a regular consumer of Mexican food.  I enjoyed beef enchiladas at Denver’s Satire Lounge, which every hip newcomer to Denver, it seemed, was advised to visit to eat Mexican food, perhaps for the first time, and drink beer and margaritas.  The combination bar-and-restaurant was run by a Greek, although there was little doubt a team of muchachos, faithful to the tradition, was preparing its food.  Other Denver Mexican restaurants I favored were The Riviera and Las Delicias.  In Leadville, I particularly liked the chicken-stuffed sopapillas served at The Grill, where my Leadvillian friend Johnny swears Jack Nicholson and Art Garfunkle, en route between Denver and Aspen, would stop for some authentic. 

For atmosphere as well as provender, Denver’s Chubby’s was without equal.  When I was a taxi driver in that city, a fellow cabbie recommended the joint, a take-out in a heavily Latino neighborhood just northwest of downtown.  A cabbie knows that time is money, and Chubby’s was perfect for a quick and satisfying meal―providing one had good intestinal control and no proclivity for heartburn―during the 10-hour hustle.  After parking in the grimy lot behind the white cinder block establishment, I’d join the crush―heavily tattooed vatos with pressed pants, pompadours, and hairnets; beguiling young Latinas under pounds of makeup; grandmothers cradling crying babies; viejos with canes; slumming, nervous gringos―in the tiny waiting room with a few chairs against walls bearing posters for upcoming boxing matches and ranchera concerts.  A short, surly guy, his face recalling that of the young Al Pacino, would take my order.  In a big room behind him, partially visible, an army of kitchen workers, men as well as women, would ladle chile and stir huge pots of refritos (simmering refritos, too, have that arresting odor of fresh earth).  Soon I’d be handed my order, which never varied: two bean-cheese-and-green-chile burritos, each in a small white paper bag and the two of them in a larger white paper bag, and a can of Pepsi to manage the flames and summon the insulin.  Back in my cab, I’d take a big but careful bite―for Chubby’s never scrimped on the filling: one careless bite and it was on your shirt or in your lap―then peer gratefully at the burrito’s cross-section, marveling at its construction and bounty: the tender white frame of the flour tortilla, the generous helping of vaguely emerald-green chile layered on the bed of refritos.  Meanwhile, the great satisfaction, the whole point of life.