Dear Mom:
All quiet on the Taos front. Well, there is the sewage thing.
We had the septic tank underneath the dead landlord’s apartment pumped out not too long ago, and our toilet works fine, but the next-door neighbors are on the same system—yes, three places on one single-chamber tank—and haven’t been able to flush right since last August. They’ve tried all sorts of things, but there’s a problem with the pipe that goes from their house into the septic tank, so they have to replace it. The way that works in Taos is, you hire someone to dig it up, and then you all just sort of do it. As it turns out, the guy who’s coming is a friend of mine who sells us firewood from the top of a mountain that he owns. (He also has a gold mine up in the hills and carries a .44 to chase bears out of the mine shafts.) Before the terrorists won, he could get all the dynamite he wanted. When he was driving way back in the mountains, he’d stop at a likely spot beside the road and blow craters in the cliffs to see what he could find. I think that’s really cool, even if the plumbing isn’t. I doubt he’ll use dynamite tomorrow on the septic tank, but maybe if I asked real nice.
Oh yes, the dogs. I guess I should mention them.
Just around the corner from us on our historical dirt road—it must be so because they always leave it like it is—is a house with a bunch of dogs. I don’t know what kind they are, because so many dogs in Taos look just the same: average size, curled up tails, with stupid looks on their faces. People here must measure wealth in dogs the way they used to do with horses. At least I think that’s what it is unless you’re raising dogs for bait, but these aren’t good for anything except lying in the road. Last Sunday I took my mountain bike out for a spin and ran the gauntlet. There must have been at least six of them, barking insanely and snapping at the backs of my legs. I could have easily outdistanced them, except that I was having trouble with my shifter and got stuck in high gear. I yelled and frightened most of them away, but the stupidest one kept yapping and running right in front of me. By then his owners had heard the ruckus and ran out of their adobe just in time to see me fall off my bike. I was spitting mad and yelled that I was going to “call the cops,” just like I must have done in grade school. (They didn’t come then, either.) Taos County is almost half the size of the state of Connecticut, and we have a great animal control department. His name is Hector, and he doesn’t work on weekends.
We’ve had nice weather for a while, except the wind is pretty strong. This afternoon I went out front to feed the birds. We have a platform feeder that I built, weighted down with rocks. (It stays put, but the birdseed blows away.) At the top of the hill, I saw that the big plastic dumpster had blown over and rolled into the driveway, so I walked up, pushed it right-side up, and dragged it back beside the road. If I hadn’t come outside and spotted it, Kathy wouldn’t have been able to park and unload the groceries. Ha-ha! That’s OK though, she likes surprises.
How are things in Tucson? I hear you moved back into the doublewide. When I visited two years ago, you threw me out of the singlewide, remember? Yes, that was after I tried to put you in a nursing home, silly me. (Who knew that no one gets declared incompetent in Arizona because everyone is crazy?) I hope my brother’s fine and isn’t hitting the cheap stuff. Did you buy him a new golf cart? I know his old one never was the same after he ran it into the arroyo to avoid the cops. But I’m glad you moved, of course. With a bigger place, I can get a running start. Ha!
Anyway, that’s all there is for now, and don’t worry. We’ll be fine as long as we can flush.
Love,
Johnny
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