Billy the Kid's Still Got It

Can you recognize Billy the Kid?

Yes, Billy the Kid still has the power to capture the public imagination.  Folk hero, bandit, ladies' man, cold-blooded murderer, unruly teenager, defender of a lost way of life, Billy continues to be, well, intriguing.

And I happen to have a soft spot in my heart for Billy.  Sappy, unrealistic, uninformed you may call me, but having raised a son of my own, I would have given Billy shelter for the night and cooked him a good hot meal.  Besides, reports are that Billy was a fluent Spanish speaker.  As a fan of languages, I admire that.

Last Sunday my husband and I took a leisurely drive to San Elizario, Texas to participate in the monthly Mission Trail Art Market.  We timed the visit to see a re-enactment by the Pistoleros of San Elizario of an historic event involving Billy the Kid. 

Pistoleros of San Elizario

San Elizario boasts an historic jail, which in 1876 was the county jail.  Billy broke into (note into not out of) the jail to rescue a friend and gambling companion, Melquiades Segura.  Melquiades had been arrested for killing Margarito Mendoza ,who had accused him of cheating at the gambling table. Billy rode on horseback six hours from Mesilla, New Mexico to San Elizario, arriving at about 3:00 am. ( Today the same trip would take approximately two hours by car.)  

Billy knocked on the door and identified himself in Spanish as a Texas Ranger delivering prisoners to the jail. When a jailer opened the door, Billy used his .44 revolver to convince the jailer to give up his own gun.  Billy found the jail key, freed Melquiades, locked the two jailers in the cell, and escaped across the nearby Mexico border. The Pistoleros gave an admirable performance, re-enacting an historical version and then a Hollywood version, with guns blazing to entertain the public.  .

Pistolero Re-enactors

I can picture in my mind what the town of San Elizario must have looked and felt like on a  cool November morning in 1876. San Eli, as the locals call it,  is still a quiet refuge from city life,  with one main street, a plaza with a gazebo and an historic church. 

What I particularly like about this story is that there was no bloodshed during the escape.  One can admire the ingenuity of Billy and his loyalty to a friend without addressing the more violent aspects of his personality. 

One last thought.  I read that in the 20th century, when the jail was no longer in use as the county jail, that unruly school boys were sometimes housed in the jail for a few hours until they changed their ways! Goodness!

"El Brinco" - The Jump

Daily life in late summer has started to drag a bit around our household.  We seem to be searching for something unique to distinguish one week from the next.  I'm remembering a summer several years ago when we did have a unique experience.  We  witnessed "El Brinco" which translates to "The Jump."

“El Brinco” would happen very soon, the Mexican announcer assured the crowd gathered around the temporary stage set up on the Mexican side of the river.  My husband Wayne and I had awakened early on a Saturday morning to drive to West El Paso near the old Asarco plant to witness a daring motorcycle jump across the Rio Grande.  The river is not very wide at that point, only about 65 feet across, but it marks the boundary between two sovereign nations, the United States of America and the United States of Mexico. 

Publicity for the event had been by word of mouth, one friend passing along information to another.  The motorcycle rider was celebrating his 50^th birthday with an Evil Knievel-type demonstration, jumping from one country into another.  A friend of Wayne’s had constructed the jumping ramp, so we had a special invitation and felt part of the in crowd.

Large numbers of cars and trucks were hurrying down the dirt road to the jump site.  It was hot, dusty and overgrown with weeds.  Climbing an embankment to get a better view, we were astonished to see a large crowd, numbering in the thousands, on the Mexican side of the river.  The crowd was being entertained with live and recorded rap music.  Ciudad Juárez, El Paso’s sister city across the border, has had a series of problems in recent years with increased violence caused by warring drug cartels.  This event was being celebrated on the Mexican side to rally citizens to bring peace back to the city.  Soldiers armed with AK47 attack rifles were in evidence as well as mounted policemen who patrolled the crowd.  We could also spot armed men stationed at strategic lookout points on the large mountain behind the river.  

On the American side of the river, the smaller crowd was more subdued.  Although there were the usual Border Patrol vehicles along the river on the route to the site, the only noticeable official presence at the jump was an ambulance which kept getting stuck in the sand and two young firemen in uniform.    It appeared that friends of the motorcyclist were going to be in charge of clearing a path for his run to the ramp.

Rumors were flying as the crowd waited. 

 “The media are asking him to make several false starts, so he won’t jump the first couple of times.”  

“He’s going to have to go back to the International Bridge to go through customs to return to the U.S.”  

“He was going to do the jump without government permission and try to return to the U.S. before getting  caught, but we talked him out of that plan.” 

 “The red tape to make this jump happen was incredible.” 

 “He’s keeping it at full throttle in third gear all the way, and he’ll hit the ramp at about 45 mph.”  

 We stretched our necks in anticipation.

Finally we heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.  A yellow-suited motorcyclist climbed the ramp and stopped at water's edge.  The crowds on both sides of the river cheered.  Tension rose as the rider repeated this two more times.  On the fourth run to the ramp, it happened.  He flew through the air and easily landed in the soft sand on the other side of the river.  The Mexican fans swarmed to give him a hero’s welcome.  Each time he tried to exit the area, he was deluged by fans wanted pictures and autographs.  Finally, the stage announcer had to call for crowd control by the mounted policemen.

After the motorcyclist had finally made his escape (to where, I wondered?), the two crowds, Mexican and American, stood observing each other curiously across the river.  A mere 65 feet is close enough to see many details.   Two Tarahumara Indian women in traditional costumes were carrying babies in slings across their backs.  A little Mexican child wanted a stick to play with in the water.  His father found a weed growing nearby and stripped off the leaves to make a wand.  Two young men in baggy pants were smiling and gesturing at the American crowd.  “Look, they’re inviting us over.”  “No, those are gang signs,” someone else observed.  

And then we all stood transfixed as a dog of unknown nationality swam unconcernedly down the middle of the river, looking neither left to the American side nor right to the Mexican side.  In contrast, how complicated we humans make our lives.

A Passion for Purple

Let me state right upfront that anything that grows in my Southwest garden is appreciated.  I have even been know to let weeds flourish in the springtime just to see a little green emerging into a gray world.

Have you noticed that many native Southwestern plants offer yellow and red blossoms to the world? Red is striking, yellow is cheerful, but my current passion is plants with purplish blooms.  I want to share with you some of the purple plants that are currently decorating the garden (cross my fingers - one never knows in the Southwest desert what a plant will decide to do from one day to the next).

Because we have had rain and higher humidity than usual in our area, the purple sages have been putting on a riotous show all over El Paso. The rest of the year, the sages just hang around, gray-green, and forgettable until just the right barometric moment.  Then they burst into blooms of many shades, from dark purple to lilac.

Purple Sage

Purple sage also goes by the name of Texas sage. This sage grows forgotten in a cactus garden in our backyard, and we basically ignore it most of the year.  I can't even baby it with frequent waterings, which would actually lead to its demise.  One online plant expert from Arizona recommended giving the plants a little extra water to encourage blooming, but with my tendency to overwater everything, I am afraid to indulge in any risky behaviors. 

I can't imagine a more spectacular plant when it finally does bloom.  I always promise myself to buy and plant more sages (there are many different varieties), but once the excitement of the blooming period ends, I forget how beautiful sages can be and become seduced by the colorful, cheaper annuals displayed by nurseries.  Local native plant experts bemoan the fact that local gardeners can't resist the urge to prune sages into unnatural shapes, like large balls or lollipops, because they do not bloom as well (and look fake).

Ruellia in pot

Ruellia blossoms up close

My son discovered ruellias (commonly known as Mexican petunias) when he was living in Austin, Texas. They grew so well in the Austin climate that he called his plant "the little tree." My ruellias aren't nearly as lush, but they produce fascinating blossoms that last only a short time, much like a bougainvillea blossom. And ruellias are perennials, although they freeze to the soil line in our zone and emerge after the last frost date.  I must admit  this is ruellia number two.  The first one I inherited from my son didn't make the transition from Austin to El Paso.

Santa Rita cactus on left

My husband introduced me to the Santa Rita cactus that has purple pads.  It is a colorful change from the usual green pads on most cacti.  The other poor cactus on the right looks terminal.  I think I tend to water cacti in pots too much and have probably killed it.

Ice plant

Ice plant is classified as a ground cover, but my ice plant lives in the back of a frog pot.  It requires very little care. Recently, I saw a handwritten sign next to the ice plants at a nursery that said "Don't water!"  A good warning to me as well as the nursery staff, I thought.  I love the Spanish name for ice plant, dedo, which means "finger".  This plant is one of the smallest varieties.  I believe that the smaller plant is called dedo del niño (child's finder) and the large variety is called dedo del rey  (king's finger), but this information is anecdotal.  The large ice plant can be very invasive, so I stick to the small fingered plant and contain it in a pot.  I generally am not bothered by a plant labeled as "invasive", because that means it has a good chance of surviving in my garden.

Thai or Asian Basil

I fell for this curly basil when I was shopping for vegetable plants one day, and I'm glad that I did.  It produces long purple spikes that not only have a wonderful aroma but are also much more colorful than my regular green basil.  Thai restaurants are often named "Thai Basil".  It must be an important ingredient in Thai cuisine, which I am not into (yet).

All of these purple beauties are relatively easy to grow (or I wouldn't find them flourishing in my garden).

I bought several new purple plants  last weekend but haven't planted them yet.  If they survive until next week, I'll blog about them.  Do you have a favorite purple plant that survives (dare I say grows abundantly?) in the Southwest?

Could you have danced the Virginia Reel?

After my disastrous attempt at dancing at the Ft. Stanton Ball, described in last week's post, you will not be surprised to learn that I sat out the next dance, the Virginia Reel.  And that was probably for the best, because it is a dance that takes not only rhythm but brain work and concentration as well.  I later learned that the Virginia Reel is a traditional folk dance that was most popular in the United States in the years 1830-1890. 

Kenneth Dusenberry lined up four sets of dancers, with four males on one side of each set and four females on the other side.  Having a partner was imperative for this dance. (How different I thought from dances I have attended recently where women dance with women, parents dance with their children, and some brave souls even get out on the dance floor alone.)

I took the following notes on the steps the dancers were doing.  See if you can picture the Virginia Reel. Each step is done to the count of eight.

Step 1:  Couples move toward each other and bow (repeat).
Step 2:  Couples join right hands and circle each other.
Step 3:  Couples join left hands and circle each other.
Step 4:  Couples join both hands and circle each other.
Step 5:  Couples do- si- do around each other, passing right shoulders.
Step 6:  The first couple does a turn and a half, and dances down the line of dancers, always giving their partner the right hand, and the new person the left hand.  (Are you confused yet?  I was, just watching.)
Step 7:  The couple then does a back to front do-si-do, and the male and female dance outside their respective lines to meet up at the end to form a bridge with their hands.
Step 8:  The other couples follow the leader to the back of the line and go under the bridge, meeting up with their partner.

It looks like this couple has it down - right hand to left hand.

You can see the variety of people who were dancing.the Virginia Reel.

Here is the bridge that the partners form.

You may want to view this short YouTube video of other dancers doing the Virginia Reel to imagine what it it might be like.

There were quite a few dancers at Ft. Stanton who were struggling with the left hand/right hand distinction, but most eventually got the hang of it.  One of the most amusing things to watch was when elementary school age children were the bridge makers, and the taller adults had to squeeze through a very low bridge.

The laughter of the dancers was infectious, and it was obvious that everyone was enjoying themselves and the challenge of the Virginia Reel.  (Once again, I compared the happy looks on the dancers'  faces with other dancers I have seen recently who looked really bored or tried to look super-sexy).

The Grand March, the First Waltz, the Hat Dance and then the Virginia Reel had all been marvelous ice-breakers.  The Ft. Stanton Ball continued with a good time had by all.  I felt like I had participated in a piece of Civil War history.

More dancing the night away at Ft. Stanton

As last week's post ended, Kenneth Dusenberry was lining up partners for the Grand March at the Ft. Stanton Live Saturday night ball.  The Grand March was performed according to military protocol, with dancers in pairs positioned according to rank.  Kenneth encouraged spectators to join in, but most of us felt reluctant to do so. I heard one couple dressed in Western style clothing tell Kenneth they just weren't dressed appropriately.

But the spirited atmosphere must have overcome their reluctance, because I spied them later at the back of the column ready to march.  As Kenneth Dusenberry and his partner led the dancers around the room, I recognized the music as "Scotland the Brave,"  one of my favorite traditional Scottish melodies.

After the march, Kenneth announced that the first waltz of the evening must be danced with the Grand March partner, but that the rest of the evening was for mingling.  He reminded us again that balls were one of the few opportunities for meeting members of the opposite sex that were available at a 19th century military post. Sort of like a modern day Internet dating site, I suppose.

By this time, Wayne and I had sat out two dances. We were beginning to feel like we were missing out on the fun.  When Kenneth announced the Hat Dance, we made a quick decision to join in.  This wasn't the intricate Mexican Hat Dance that we were familiar with, or we would have stayed seated for sure.  

Males lined up on one side and females on the other.  The participants were of all ages, from grandmas and grandpas to elementary school age children.  The young lady standing beside me in line provided a quick summary of the dance, which she assured me was lots of fun.

This is the young lady later in the evening.

Three chairs were positioned at the front of the dance floor.  They were occupied by either one male in the middle with two females on the side, or one female in the middle with two males on the side.  The person in the middle was given a hat. He or she talked to the potential dance partners on either side and chose one of them as a partner. They then danced down the floor to the end of the respective lines. The person not chosen got the hat and moved over to the middle seat, and the procedure was repeated.

This is where I should have known I was in trouble.  I was one of the females on the side.  The male in the middle looked at me and said, "You know how to dance, don't you?"  (I guess he thought that if I had reached my current advanced age and was still mobile, I had had plenty of time to learn how to dance!)  I said, "Yes, but I'm wearing my Birkenstock sandals."  "That's okay,"  he said, and handed the hat to the other female.  We began dancing down the floor.

I was struggling mightily trying to follow a new unfamiliar dance partner and keep my shoes on at the same time.  My first embarrassment came when my partner said, "Hey, you've got to let me lead."  I guess I was pulling him down the floor to get this dance over with post haste. Then my worst fears came true as I stepped out of one of my sandals, right in the middle of the floor.  An elementary school age young man in military uniform rushed over from the sidelines and helped me put my shoe back on.  I thanked my dance partner, who was unfailingly polite and thanked me also (both of us grateful that the agony was over, I'm sure), and I slunk away to my chair instead of rejoining the female line of dancers.

Birkenstock sandals have many virtues.  They are unbelievably comfortable, they don't rub blisters, and they just feel like summertime. But I'm sure none of those 19th century belles would have been foolish enough to try to dance in similar footwear.

The next dance was the Virginia Reel, an intricate dance that I (thankfully) just observed.  I'll wait to describe the Virginia Reel in next week's blog because it is quite complex.  If anyone has ever danced the Virginia Reel, please let me know if my description next week is accurate!  

Dancing the night away at Ft. Stanton

I should have known better than to wear my Birkenstock sandals to a ball.  But I had only intended to be an observer at the Military Ball that culminated Ft. Stanton Live activities last weekend.

Ft. Stanton is located near the town of  Lincoln, in the pine forests of southeastern New Mexico. My husband Wayne is describing the entire Ft. Stanton Live experience in his blog (www.ccchuckwagon.blogspot.com).  I would like to focus on our experiences at the ball.   It was a unique evening that took us back into the history of the Southwest in the last part of the 19th century.  And I truly felt transported.

The Military Ball was listed on the schedule of activities as starting at 7:00 pm in the cafeteria. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been an activity that caught our eye, but we are writing a second mystery novel, this one set at Ft. Stanton, so we wanted to pick up as much local color as possible to make the book more authentic.  The new book title is Forts, Farbs, and Phantoms.

During the day at the fort, we had talked to a teenage Civil War re-enactor and, just to make conversation really, had asked about the ball.  He described it enthusiastically and answered our nosy questions such as, "Are there plenty of young ladies to dance with?  What dances do they do?  Have you learned those dances?" He said, rather shyly, that yes, there were usually plenty of dancing partners and that he loved the Virginia Reel and the Hat Dance, but that he was still working on the Waltz. He said that "civilians" were welcome at the ball. We caught a glimpse of him later, decked out in his white gloves (de rigueur for male dancers, so we learned, because ladies' gowns couldn't be washed or cleaned). Later, we exchanged a mutual flicker of recognition as he danced by us.

The many buildings at Ft Stanton are being restored at different rates, but the cafeteria was still in rather sad condition.  A new floor was being laid in one part, but the ball was held in the older part, with a small stage set up for the musicians.  Plastic chairs had been placed around the perimeter, and there was a drink dispenser with lemonade and small plastic cups on a table in one corner.

When we arrived at the fort a little before 7:00 in the evening, all was dark and quiet in contrast to the lively daytime activities.  Camps were set up on the grass, and in several we passed, we saw re-enactors sitting outside chatting.  In one camp, there were singers harmonizing on plaintive folk tunes.  Kenneth Dusenberry, of the Artillery Company of New Mexico, decked out in full uniform and heading up the ball. appeared at the door of the cafeteria and invited all outside to enter.

 He began to paint a picture for us of the history of military balls at forts in the Southwest, describing how important they were for socializing in the days before technology, and how much they were enjoyed by all. Gradually, the old cafeteria faded away, and we entered  through a time warp into an era of dashing young soldiers and beautiful dance partners in hoop skirts, gracefully making their way around the dance floor. Some of the present-day participants were dressed in period costume, and even those who weren't took on an old-time aura as they danced the traditional dances.  Kenneth Dusenberry reminded the audience that women could not dance backwards very easily in hoop skirts, so if a lady fell down, it was always the male partner's fault.

The first dance of the evening was the Grand March.  I'm going to describe it in detail as well as the dances that followed in next week's blog.  I hope you will join me and find out what happened when I tried to waltz wearing Birkenstock sandals.

The Right Way to Start a Summer Day

Standing around the kitchen more asleep than awake at 7:00 am on a recent summer morning, waiting for the water for coffee to boil, the last thing my husband Wayne and I expected to hear was mariachi music. “What’s that?” we asked each other, not trusting our own ears.  

Following the sound out of doors, we located its source over our back fence.  A group of eight mariachi musicians was playing and singing “Las Mañanitas” (the little morning songs). “Las Mañanitas “ is a familiar tune in Hispanic culture, played for special occasions.  Someone must have been celebrating a birthday in the house next door. Guitars and brass instruments were making a full sound, sure to awake any late sleepers in the neighborhood.

It was an uncharacteristically humid morning in El Paso.  We felt like we were somewhere else in the world.  Memories of visits to Mexico and Spain came back to us as we sat on a wooden bench outside in our bathrobes, mugs of coffee in hand, listening to several more songs.  That’s “Malagueña Salerosa,” I observed, joining the mariachis in singing the parts that I knew.  After each selection, we applauded vigorously, not knowing if the musicians could hear us or not.

As the group started to leave, Wayne had a sudden inspiration.  He ran into our house, grabbed a $20 bill, and hurried to our back fence to catch the singers before they left in their cars.  One of the mariachis climbed up a muddy bank despite wearing white boots to take the money and our thanks.

We were just pouring ourselves a second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.  Standing there were two of the musicians who introduced themselves, thanked us for the tip, and asked if we wanted another song.  On closer observation, we could see that the singers were quite young.  They were a group from a local high school, and even had a business card.  We declined the extra song, but we shook hands all around and thanked them again.

“Do you realize how early those teenagers must have gotten up this morning?”  we marveled.  

 “Would this great experience have happened in very many other places in the U.S.?”  we observed.

 “Las mañanitas.”  What a super way to start the day!

Click to hear Javier Solis sing Las mañanitas