The 50th Wedding Anniversary Trip – 2004 V

At Fort Sumner, I drove north with a splendid sunset forming off to my left — a thin layer of cirrus clouds creating a colorful combination of golds and oranges. I could see the twinkling lights of Santa Rosa in the distance. It was one of those serendipitous stretches of road where I felt like I had eastern New Mexico all to myself— so calm and cool, and no traffic whatsoever. I pulled into the truck plaza just off I-40 and found a niche in the gigantic parking lot to spend the night. This was the first night I had had all to myself, so I took the opportunity to bring the trip up-to-date with some notes in my journal.

I ascended I-40 to Clines Corners at a nose-bleeding elevation of 7,000 feet, then coasted down 2,000 feet to Albuquerque where I made my customary stop at the Marshall and Joan Farris residence. I had planned it just right, arriving about 2 o’clock, giving me an hour to visit before jetting off to John and JoMarg’s house. I explained that I wanted to beat the cursed rush-hour traffic on I-25, and that I wanted to spend the night at a new venue, like on the western slopes of the Sandia Mountains overlooking the Bernalillo Valley and seeing Mt. Taylor 50 miles in the distance. They understood completely.

I looped through the “Big I”, Albuquerque’s pride and joy— a new four-level interchange at the intersection of I-25 and I-40. Unfortunately, it did nothing to alleviate the horrific congestion north on I-25 towards all the new residential development. Thanks to JoMarg’s e-mailed directions, I found their house without any trouble. I thought I was arriving early, but there were already about a half dozen cars parked along the extended, winding driveway. I found a spot way in back next to the garage, and made my entrance into the rambling adobe abode.

I was greeted by John who immediately slapped a sticky name tag on me. I was thankful he had the prescience to do so, because there were several unrecognizable faces in the crowd, namely JoMarg’s mother, Josephine Gore, the grand dame of Artesia, New Mexico. However, most of the faces were familiar, including the Farris’s four offspring — JoEllen with her beau Pat from Denver, Vivian from Bailey, Colorado (husband Jerry was coming the next day), Beverly with hubby Dick from Boston, and Marshall with wife Albina from El Paso. There were also seven grandchildren in the Farris potpourri in attendance.

Marshall and Joan finally arrived after an excruciating drive through heavy traffic with their daughters, Lynn, Jane, and Ann. I noticed the catering service had arrived to set up the buffet, so I thought it would be an appropriate time to bring in my presents for the family. Joan, bless her heart, assisted me in carting in the six framed gouaches. I started by giving the celebratory hosts the Chrysler Building, South of Santa Fe, an adobe mission, and Along the Washita. I knew the Farrises would appreciate the classic, scallop-topped structure since they had spent almost forty years in the New York City area. Besides, they had designated one room as a nostalgic “New York Room”.

Marshall and Joan received New Mexico Mesas, a panorama of the Land of Enchantment with a tumultuous sky overhead. Then it was Vivian’s turn with an aquarelled vista titled Sangre de Christo with huge thunderheads over the snow-capped mountain range. Vivian exclaimed, “This is unreal. This is the same scene I saw driving down here yesterday on Highway 285.” Finally, I gave JoEllen Snow in the High Peaks, a rendering of the Animas River flowing below the majestic San Juan Mountains in southwest Colorado. Geez, it was a great feeling seeing all those appreciative faces.

I buffeted it to the main dining room table where I found a seat next to Frank, Pat’s father (JoEllen’s future father-in-law). He was a very distinguished- looking gentleman in his 70s. Since Pat was in the construction business, I asked him, “Are you a contractor?” He replied, “No, I’m a pastor.” Well, we had one in-depth conversation, running the gamut from what were the world’s biggest problems (hunger and genocide) to what was the true meaning of life or whatever (non-conclusive). Nonetheless, I had a great time talking with Frank. As a change of pace in our conversation, he asked me, “How long a drive is it from Dallas?” I had to quip, “Frank, I must have set a record for driving 645 miles to Albuquerque. It took me seven days to get here. I was visiting friends along the way.”

Later on, I approached JoMargaret and asked, “Remember me e-mailing you and asking what the attire should be for The Big Saturday Night'? You answeredElegant Southwest Casual’. What the heck does that mean?” She just shrugged her shoulders, saying, “I have no idea.” She was kinda cool on the idea of my staying overnight since they were accommodating about twenty guests in the house and their RV (they got a variance from the Home Owner’s Association to park the leviathan in the street in front of the house). I assured her that I would be totally self-sufficient in the van and not bother anyone. On the way over, I had stopped at a grocery to stock up on milk, orange juice, and bananas. She said to check with John, and after doing so, he supported my request. I was set for the night and the next morning, thank goodness.

Ol’ Blue was slightly rockin’ and swayin’ the next morning to an uncharacteristic strong wind in the vicinity of 35 to 40 mph. In all the time I had spent in the Duke City, and it had been a bunch over the last eight years, I had never experienced even a whisper of a wind. I gave John and JoMarg and all their guests time to get it all together before going inside. As I entered, I was immediately recruited to help wrapping party gifts and constructing table decorations. We all encircled the dining room table, establishing a kind of assembly line production. Beverly, from Boston, kept things rolling with her radiant personality, joking and jesting all the while. Albina, originally from the Ukraine, was so enjoyable with her innocent enthusiasm. Even the grandchildren pitched in with the same ardor. It turned out to be an unexpected gem of an afternoon.

Then came the turning point of the day. It seemed that there was a dire need of a van to transport a bunch of balloons to the celebration site, the National Hispanic Historical Center. I was ready for the occasion. I had to say to JoMarg, “See, everything turned out alright.” Before leaving, I said to Vivian, “Now please don’t loose me. I have no idea where we’re going.” We convoyed to the Party Shop to cram most of the balloons in Ol’ Blue, plus a few in the three mini-sedans. Eventually, we arrived at the Hispanic Center just south of downtown. After negotiating no less than a dozen traffic lights, we miraculously never once got separated. What a relief that was!

The stage was being set in one of the banquet rooms, with balloons buoying above each table and a Mariachi Band serenading the diners, As I mingled through the crowd, I was jokingly introducing myself as John’s “first cousin removed, and removed, and removed again”, just for a little levity. The dinner was set up buffet-style and I was fortunate to find a chair next to Marshall and Joan. Jerry Rosso, Vivian’s husband, finally arrived, having survived an arduous journey all the way from Bailey, Colorado on his Harley motorcycle while battling a head-on 40 mph wind. His tale of the trip was incredulous. It was one festive gathering! Then the evening really got into full swing. John and JoMarg’s children and grandchildren gave a number of innovative musical performances, accompanied by the violin, cello, piano, and some falsetto singing. I was focused on the Farrises across the room, and could tell they were mighty proud of their offspring, and rightly so. Then came the finale. John donned a huge ludicrous-looking cowboy hat (not a sombrero), and attired in an elegant “gauyabara” (or Mexican wedding shirt) and a bolo tie, strapped on a guitar, while JoMarg in her svelte. ankle-length red dress positioned her violin. Then the incomparable twosome charged into a resounding rendition of Johnny Cash’s memorable piece, The Orange Blossom Special. Oh, it was something to behold. As the party was breaking up, I ran into John and said, “This was not just a celebration of your wedding anniversary, but a celebration of your legacy”. He understood with a nodding smile. Then JoMarg introduced me to an elderly gentleman in order to showcase the appropriate attire, saying emphatically, “Now this is elegant Southwest casual“. He was dressed in a modest western-style, well-tailored coat, trousers, and shirt, complimented, of course, by the bolo tie, cowboy boots, and western hat. I thanked them both for finally apprising me of how I should have been dressed. It was really no big deal, but the Farrises did have an aptitude for doing things just the right way. At one time or another, Vivian and JoEllen approached me, saying, “We can’t thank you enough for the help in getting the balloons over here.” Well, that made me feel kinda special. I ended the night in Marshall and Joan’s driveway on Marmac, thanking The Lord for one memorable day.

I had a pleasant visit with the Farrises the next morning, seated around the ol’ breakfast table as usual, enjoying Marshall’s favorite A.M. comestible, microwaved bacon. I bid farewell to my other “first cousin removed” and headed north to Santa Fe. I stopped to call an old friend, Jim Heath, whom I had known since childhood, but there was no answer. I continued north on U.S. 285 to Espanola, Tres Piedras, and into the Mile High State where an antiquated wooden sign proclaimed “Welcome to Colorful Colorado”. I stopped at a little gas station in Antonito whereupon the attendant was at my window in a New York second, asking, “Fill `er up? Full serve’s the same price as self serve. Don’t get much action here, so I like pumpin’ when I can.” I said, “Yeah, I can dig that.” As always, the increase in gas prices and elevation were in direct proportion to each other, from a $1.65 and 500 feet in Texas to $1.90 and 7,000 feet in Colorado.