Legend of Mora

Highway 120 makes that proverbial beeline through the hamlet proper, separating Lynne’s tired adobe-walled home that sits askew and a bit more kitty-corner from Tony’s also tired, yet historic-registered adobe on the eastern side of the heavily patched asphalt road.

Heat waves migrate upwards while outdoor dust and wood smoke ride the horizontal wind surges this hamlet was named for—windy gap.  Jicarilla Apache Chief Ocate holds that honour according to some.  Others, the local Hispanic folks usually claim the name, Ocate, to be from their Mother tongue and offer no translation.  For those who live in Ocate, and feel the elements, daily, the origins are indisputable.

It’s a day like yesterday—Lynne’s caged guinea hen’s cry rises out in haunting pleas, which fall and rise as if somehow, somewhere, there must be an answer to this pleading melody.  None comes, and her voice carries in the wind along with the smoke and dust.

Tony sits inhaling his cig in his chair in front of his TV, which is as ancient as television itself.  “Tony’s Store”, according to the sign on the front, is a welcoming reprieve in the last 40 miles of open highway.  The cigarette smoke fills his aging lungs and every customer either chokes on or eagerly inhales the second-hand smoke when they wander inside to purchase sodas or candies. 

The sun warms the air, and dulls the landscape, bird’s songs and movement of horses and cattle.  Insects become quiet as well.  As if the morning symphony ended but moments before when the sun reached its perfect rise in the clear, blue New Mexico sky.  The heat becomes something to escape from and it seems we all seek shelter to reserve our energy for the cool hours of the later day.  The dryness parches even the breeze and stills the rustling needles in pine boughs as they turn to preserve their moisture that day.

Laziness comes easily to Tony’s youngest and most self-resembling son, Ruben, when his tree shovel weighs too much in the heaviness of the dry heat.  A cloud of dust approaches on Highway120, revealing a truck arriving just moments ahead of the dust at Tony’s store.  Beer bottles clank, and the apparent coolness escapes into Ruben and Joe ‘s mouths—and the day snakes slowly forward in the continual stream of alcohol.

The pink pool cue arrives by UPS and causes the greatest stir on this intersection where Highways 120 and 442 define this hamlet.  Lynne has taken on Tony, who once held the California pool champ title.  No doubt a few lifetimes ago now.  At 85, while spry and still a seasoned pool officionato, he is still no match for Lynne, whose pool skills are crisp and spot on in spite of heat, wind and dust.

Kat
13 October 2014 ©

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