Itturned out we made our trek to the top of New Mexico just in time on Wednesday.
Overthe last two days the weather has taken an unusual twist and turn, with cloudsand generous rain down here at 7000 feet, after a long summer’s draught. Andwhen we woke on Friday morning, once the cloud cover cleared, we could see thefirst snow of the season up on the summit where Slave had “grazed” just 36 orso hours earlier. Not sure that Mistress’s tender tush would have felt inclined for worship if parked in a snowbank. Or that these humble hikers would have taken on that challenge in theevent of snow and ice.
“Sorry,left the pitons back in River City, Mistress”, would have been my lament.
Sowe woke with still sore thighs in Friday, reminding us of that long slog up andback, and making us all the more grateful for a little extra time in bed, doingwhat is our highest and best use, particularly for our readers here at theUCTMW media empire.
Wewere also glad finally to hear from our Senior Correspondent, Donna, back fromher investigative reporting adventure to La Domaine. We are counting on acomprehensive accounting, Donna. And feel free to do it like Aisha, teasing itout over several episodes rather than getting to the good parts post haste.After all, we want to get ourmoney’s worth from all that extravagant tab you ran up on the company Amexcard.
Butwhat does this have to do with snakes, you might be asking?
Wellone thing that has kept Mistress and her loyal Slave up past our normal bedtimethese last two nights is the “Big Barn Dance” music fest, just down the road onthe grounds of our local roadhouse. It’s an annual event that the hassle oftending to high school girls has never allowed us to attend, until this year.
Outhere there is an amazingly vibrant music scene. Lots of genres. But the onethat gets us going is what could be described as “Western Americana”. The BarnDance drags folks in primarily from Texas, Colorado and New Mexico, with a fewfolks who hale from Nashville too, but are more rootsy C&W, not the kindyou hear on the radio.
Theperformers are the grizzled, cranky, drink and live a little too hard types you might recall from the movie “CrazyHeart”, filmed in these parts, butwith all the scars and festering wounds of the heart that you can’t make up ina Hollywood screen play.
Theaudience shares some of the same characteristics, skewing older, littleglamour, lots of grit. And plenty of cowboy hats and boots.
Thursdaynight we saw Mentor Williams, a local, way past his prime as a performer, whois still cashing royalty checks from his big hit “Drift Away”. He did a song hewrote for Alabama called “When We Make Love”, which had the corn-pony sentimentalfeel of Barry White with a cowboy hat, chewing tobacco.
Oneartist in particular hit our fancy last night, an old Texas refugee of the NewRiders of the Purple Sage, named Ray Wylie Hubbard. He made no excuses for theupbringing that produced his quirky, hard scrabble story songs.
“Afew years back I figured it out. I came from what we now call a "dysfunctionalfamily". But in those days people just said the Hubbards always were fussing anddrinking a lot.”
Oneline from his song “Drunken Poet's Dream”, nailed someone close to home:
“Igotta' woman who’s wild as Rome. She likes being naked and gazed upon.”
“He’sgot you down, Mistress.”
She did not disagree.
Thenthere was that Snake Farm song. About a girl he "dated" who worked on a snakefarm. It turns out the folks sitting beside us knew old Wylie Ray from down inTexas. Nice folks, though by River City standards their teeth could use a little work.
“Yeah….Pretty funny…. His wife really did work on a snake farm for a spell. Now SHEhad some funny stories.”
Youhave to listen. “Snake Farm. Sounds kind of nasty. Snake Farm. It pretty muchis.” And it rang a peculiar noteof déjà vu for me.
Nowcall me crazy, but I had just told Mistress about a strange dream I had thenight before. All this New Mexico rain had caused the flora to go a littlecrazy. Vines were popping up all over that were about an inch thick and hadeyes and mouths like snakes. You hacked them back, but they just kept growingback, multiplying, thicker and nastier. By the time I woke up, our house was surrounded bythe damn things, and we were thinking about making a break for the car. Untilwe saw that these “vines” had somehow wrapped themselves around our Volvotires.
Nowwhere does this stuff come from. I’m thinking Nilla' and all her stories abouttentacle sex. There was one just this week. Never been much of a turn on for me (sorry ‘Nilla), but youcan’t cover everybody’s kink everyday, can you?
Maybe you can write a Snake Farm story for us?