“Adventure is not outside man; it is within” George Elliot
I know, I know, my Shelby the kitten stories are getting better responses than my regular ones, if you could even call them that. We’ll get to that incredibly blurry photograph in due time. Looking at it took me back to 1987 and an insane relocation for me.
My May 29th birthday in 1987 was on a Friday. Who cares? Well I do, because it is part of this damn story and that’s why. First, let me go back to some time in February of that year. I took off for a week and flew to Santa Fe, NM. I had been working in the broadcast advertising business in NYC since the late 60’s. I was reasonably well known in the advertising world and at the three networks, when there was a fraction of the choices we have today.
Now, if I were you, I would want to know why the hell I made that trip? I am so glad you asked. Around a year before that February trip, I had flown to Albuquerque and then to Santa Fe and the reason is for another time, not this story.
I really didn’t care for Albuquerque, but it was never intended to be a sight seeing trip in the first place. The further north you go in NM, the more mountainous the terrain, called the Sangre de Christo Mountains. What really gets your attention are the mesas, like table tops supported by the land underneath. Then, you have the palette of high desert, earth-tone colors. At an elevation of at least a mile high, the air is clear and the sky feels closer.
I know I have written about my feeling, when I caught sight of Kaua’i for the first time from the plane. I knew it was going to be my home and I have never looked back. My initial reaction to Santa Fe was the same, but it took that whole experience there to give me the vocabulary to inhale the view from the plane. I was like a virgin and didn’t have a place to put that initial experience with Santa Fe.
I spent just a few days there and when I came back home, it followed me in a way I didn’t understand. I was a born and bred product of The City and the thought of leaving never crossed my mind. I was also the father of two boys, a divorced, week-end dad. However, I was growing increasingly uncomfortable in my skin. It was starting to feel like I was pretending to be the person I appeared to be. Through the luxury of hindsight, it was like having labor pains, getting ready to finally give birth to Larry.
I have a distinct memory of the moment I stepped out of the car on a Friday night, up on Canyon Road. Santa Fe was and still is known for its artist community. Georgia O’Keeffe helped to make it the mecca it became. Without knowing, I joined a Friday night ritual, people sauntering from one gallery to the next, indulging in wine and hors d’oeuvres. I will never forget the first step I took from the sidewalk to the street. I have referred to it as my Fred Astaire moment, grace I had never experienced before.
Those incredibly uncomfortable feelings I had been living with, evaporated in that first step. I felt like Larry, a feeling that has since withstood the passage of decades. I swear I have the world’s shittiest memory, a life long affliction, but I will never forget that moment. It changed my life and I had no idea where it was going to take me, certainly not Kaua’i.
I came back to NYC after the visit and I couldn’t get the place off my mind. It was like a dream. Now, we can get back to the February return. The very moment of my return from that very first visit, I knew I would whither away spiritually if I didn’t plant my roots there. I called a realtor and the first place she took me to was this little, weird looking adobe home that was south of town and off a dirt road, which was off a dirt road, leading to a dead end. It sat on 5 acres and there was nothing, but acres and acres of BLM land right in my face.
We got back in her car and she started talking about the next place she wanted me to see. So, I asked her what I needed to do in order to buy the home we just saw? Needless to say, she likely thought I was nuts and wanted to continue the tour. I just looked over and said, “I want to buy that place and how much do I need to put down?” So , I bought it. The previous owner had built it and moved to a piece of land right next to it, because their new home was finished. I met the family and they were wonderful. In my absence, they assured me they’d keep an eye on the place, a perfect set up.
Here is where the memory gets a little fuzzy, but who cares. I am telling a story and accuracy is not crucial. Before I flew back to NYC, I had gotten a mattress and what I would need if I just happened to show up. I softened the emotional blow by thinking I’d pretend I was rich ( I wasn’t) and visit when I could, an incredibly stupid idea.
Like the sirens in Greek mythology, my little adobe house started calling louder and louder. In the absence of this true temptation, I don’t know what would have happened to me. I had ten years of therapy and was starting to feel drawn to the Zen thing. There was a seed planted deep within and my little adobe womb began to feel like a blossoming flower I couldn’t resist.
In a way, it felt like a decision was made and I had nothing to do with it and no control over it. I quit my job and that Friday was both my birthday and last day of work. I loved the symbology of giving birth to myself on my birthday, beginning a new life. I spent the weekend getting my act together and on Monday, June 1st, set out on my cross country odyssey.
I am skipping saying goodbye to my kids and the nature and challenge of the choice, because it is that photograph writing this story. It is about how I got there, sitting on the wall of my adobe home with my hybrid wolf, not the emotional cost of getting there. For the same reason, I am leaving out the incredible cross country drive that got me to my new home in less than a week, arriving on Saturday.
You know, until you shut the door on your past, what’s to come is mere speculation. So, when I pulled on to the dirt path to my home, it was a one way ride this time. Looking back, there is a part of me that can’t believe I actually did it.
This little house was built with its interior consisting of tires filled with sand behind the adobe walls. It made for kind of undulating walls. The back was burmed into the land, making it barely visible from behind. The front was all glass, so the bedroom and main room looked out on hundreds of acres of open land. The floor consisted of bricks. The only heating was a small, wood burning stove. When winter came and it sure did, I would go through around a cord and a half of wood. There was a small outdoor office with baseboard heating. Water was held in an above ground tank. I would have to climb a ladder to check on the level, before turning on the pump.
I wanted to describe the place and then remind you I came from NYC and this kind of life style was unimaginable to me, before becoming a part of it. I took to it in a way that would be repeated years later when I came here. It is not like I didn’t have a past, but I was completely at home there. Of course, to be completely honest, there were nights, when I sat on that brick floor and just cried my eyes out, overwhelmed by what I had done.
This story is already too long, so I really can’t talk about how a life out there seemed to be created for me. I just had to be open and I truly was. I am now a much older version of who I became in Santa Fe. Out there, I bought a pick up truck, became a volunteer fireman and got a hybrid wolf I named Shikis, a Navajo word for friend-brother. Can you believe that?
LISTEN TO IT HERE
https://www.buzzsprout.com/admin/1292459/episodes/16499056-not-a-dog-story