Anton Chico, New Mexico

“[It was a theory of his that] the world is divided between those who want to live in palaces and those who would prefer cabins.”

                -Jim Harrison, from Sundog

I prefer the latter . . .

I’m already tired of this swampy summer heat, so I changed our Fourth of July vacation plans from Oxford, Mississippi (home of William Faulkner) to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where I reserved a small cabin in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. 

It is not a swank cabin with elk antler chandeliers but rather a bring-your-own-bedding kind of place, which suits me just fine.  This time of year, when the overwhelming pleasantness of an Oklahoma spring surrenders to the oppressive heat of the summer, I find myself dreaming of the cool Santa Fe evenings and New Mexico turquoise skies.  I yearn to see the illuminated golden light of every sunrise and sunset, during every thunderstorm, and the intoxicating scent of new summer rain mixing with the dust of the desert. 

I hope to find another silver and turquoise “lucky” ring.  Some motorcyclists tie a little copper bell to their motorcycle for good luck.  But I think I’ll “double up” on my lucky ring, because it hasn’t failed me yet, even after being at sea, up close and personal to several airplane crashes, and all the stupid shit I did in my youth.