When I think of Santa Fe, one thing which comes to mind is hanging chili peppers.  They’re iconic.  The Hatch chili is an integral staple of New Mexican cuisine.  In fact, the official New Mexico vegetable is the chili pepper.  The official state question is, “Red or green?”; I happen to prefer “Christmas” since I can never decide and that way I get both.  People seem to have a varying sense of which is hotter.  Personally I find them both mild, but then I like things really hot and spicy.  They are not only grown in Hatch, New Mexico but all along the Rio Grande — from the Taos Pueblo in the north to the Isleta Pueblo in the south.  On one trip with my mother after Daddy had passed an Indian man selling chilis introduced me to “chasing” pistachios with fresh ground chili pepper by scooping some up in part of the shell.  I was hooked!  Another thing I wish I could have shared with Daddy was Chimayo.  Specifically the Sanctuario De Chimayo.  About 30 minutes north of Santa Fe, the historical community is known as the “Lourdes of North America” and is one of the most sacred pilgrimages on the continent.  People journey from all over the world for the holy soil which has been reported to work miracles on all sorts of ailments minor and major.  It is built on what legend has said is a sacred Native American site.  Many come praying for a miracle.  I will never forget seeing a Navajo man in a wheelchair with one blue leg (presumably about to be lost from diabetes) praying there.  I remember feeling so humbled and turning my selfish prayers instead to him.  There is also a great restaurant there called Rancho de Chimayo.  It is magical to dine out on their sprawling, terraced patio under the stars.  Nestled in the magestic Sangre de Cristo mountains in piñon covered hills, there is simply no place quite like it.  There used to be a huge, fat cat there that roamed the terrace searching out food but s/he was so picky s/he eschewed anything but sopapillas with fresh honey.  The English writer W. L. George once said:

“Cats know how to obtain food without labor, shelter without confinement, and love without penalties.”

It seemed to me that’s what this clever kitty had mastered  … and in the purrfect place.

Feeling the seasons change was different.  Perhaps it would not have held the twinge of sadness without my father.  But I discovered new things like the Santa Fe flea market and a haunt where the locals went.  “Tecolote” (owl) was this great place where blue corn posole met old fashioned white biscuits and gravy.  It PAINS me to say it is no longer open, as I absolutely adored their breakfast!  The whole place was filled with 1970’s era owls  — from macramé planters to ceramics.  Since I collect wolves I could appreciate all the varying types of tecolotes which must have taken years to collect.  It was not just colorful and fun; their food was old-school fantastic.  My husband says the “flea market” used to be great: a somewhat gritty, true, authentic flea market.  Over the years he says it became very sanitized and more like an outdoor outlet from some of the major shops in town.  But it was still fun to peruse and it had a great view of the opera house when it was still open air.  American fashion designer Anna Sui said this:

“I love going to flea markets especially when I am traveling, because I love seeing the stuff of other cultures, handicrafts and things with historical content.”

Santa Fe offers the perfect mix of cultures, handicrafts, and history; a one of a kind city in the United States; truly the “City Different.”

I had been to Santa Fe, New Mexico two glorious times while my father was still living.  Daddy would always sit on the park bench while Mama and I went around the plaza and shopped.  Everyone assumed he was local and the Indian community there was always eager to visit with him.  He looked so handsome in his Indian bolo ties and they truly were the best trips we ever got to take as a family.  So I was well acquainted with Santa Fe when we went to see Burk’s mother and stepfather, who live there.  My family had only gone in August and this was in October.  It started cold and gloomy but it was nice to still enjoy a piñon fire in the rain.  Then the sun broke through and I snapped this picture.  The foliage looked different in the first blush of autumn than it did in summer’s last rays.  There was a hollowness being there without my parents but I thought about the cycles of time and tried to enjoy this new one.  I do not want to gloss over some of Santa Fe’s greatest treasures, as I realize many who are reading this live abroad and have not been.  First, it is a true walking town, centered around a plaza built by the Spanish in 1610, making it the oldest state capital city in the United States.  Note I did not say the city of Holy Faith was “founded” then; as native inhabitants had already dwelt there for centuries.  French Roman Catholic Archbishop Jean-Baptiste Lamy built the St. Francis Cathedral dedicated to the city’s patron saint, St. Francis of Assisi.  It resides prominently just off the square and is the mother church of the archdiocese of Santa Fe.  My favorite church is San Miguel, just a few minutes’ walk from the plaza.  It has the honor of being the oldest U.S. church in continual use — since 1610.  It’s thick adobe walls and bell tower beckon one to come in and pray.  Another church integral to Santa Fe history is the Loretto Chapel built in 1878.  It stands at the end of the Santa Fe Trail just outside the plaza.  Fashioned after my beloved Sainte Chapelle in Paris — my favorite chapel in the world, it is due to its exquisite stained glass.  The ornate stained glass for the Loretto Chapel made the journey from Paris to New Orleans via ship and then by paddle boat to Saint Louis.  It was then taken by covered wagon over the old Santa Fe Trail to the Chapel:  quite a feat in 1610.  It also contains a Miraculous Staircase which I shall write about at some point.  Scottish travel writer Robert Lewis Stevenson once said:

“I never weary of great churches.  It is my favorite kind of mountain scenery.  Mankind was never so happily inspired as when it made a cathedral.”

Having been to Santa Fe quite a few times, this is simply a brief introductory of one of my favorite cities:  the City Different, with mountains and churches; Indians and pueblos; red chilis and blue corn, and a wealth of history and art.

I got to thinking about roots on this Athens trip … both familial and arborilogical.  They were all around us:  in street names and lake bottoms; in “I knew your Grandmother” and in the damp earth of twisting vines along creek beds.  Not everyone is fortunate enough to know their genealogical roots.  And I have come to realize even if they do it may not mean much, as some families are not close.  I have thought a lot over the years about nature versus nurture.  I believe they both have merit and frankly I’m not sure which has more sway in the end.  This next day my husband gave me a tour of the Texas Freshwater Fisheries Center.  Honestly, I thought it was going to be a bunch of men in overalls trying to extract poor fish from a barrel.  To my somewhat chagrined surprise and utter delight, it was also a place of learning promoting the wise use and conservation of Texas’ natural resources.  They had a wetlands trail emphasizing the ecology and interrelationships among aquatic habitats.  It was fascinating.  I never knew the importance of brackish water before this exhibit, with 300,000 gallons of aquaria and other exhibits allowing for the study of native Texas fish in their natural environment.  Here we were in this small town and a jewel was discovered.  They had HUGE catfish practically the size of our wolf cubs and the knowledge junkies in us thought it more of a living/working museum.  So back to nature versus nurture.  American writer Sam Kean said:

“The more that I looked at DNA, the more I realized it was nature and nurture.  It’s how genes and your environment work together to produce the person you are.”

I have always thought my husband was the overlooked gem, much like this center we had just toured.  I am glad to be the one that gets to nurture his nature; just as he nurtures mine.  It’s all in our roots.

My husband has family history in Athens.  He is not Greek; rather Texan.  His paternal side has a place in East Texas and we went for a short visit.  A couple of hours later outside of town majestic looking trees lined both sides of the road and escorted us on our drive.  We came to a place where my husband stopped to call the caretaker to please open the gate.  As we entered our tires ground a gritty hush along the dirt road and I tried to absorb the peacefulness of it all.  There was a sort of slowing I savored as he showed me around.  I liked the older wooden deck where water peaked out from between tall, spindly trees.  Pictured here is the lake just before sunset.  Then nature’s shroud of darkness surrounded us and we looked up to marvel in wonder at the brightness of the stars.  It was autumn and the crisp scent of pines was gentle in the chilly night air.  As I gazed out I realized how blessed we were to have access to such quiet beauty.  I almost did not want to go inside because I could not seem to drink in enough of the stillness that settled like a mantle over the woods.

“But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called—called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come.” ~ Jack London, The Call of the Wild

The call of the wild has always beckoned me.  I believe true fortune rests on those lucky enough to “own” a piece of it:  wealth not in a huge house or haute couture; rather in the unfettered delight of the company of trees with all of their companions.  Money and travel are certainly blessings, but knowing the value of and preserving creation’s God-given glory in my opinion is priceless.