Easter edition Alamodoso Connections

Inside This Edition ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

The Water Boss Pg 11 Rainbows End Pg 34 Eighteen Cents Page 40 World Art Day Page 50 Smokey Bear Page 66 The Yucca & The Moth Page 81 Local Advertising And More

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Photo by Alamodoso Magazine

The Waterboss

A Historical Fiction Novel

By Julie lloyd CHAPTER 13 DAY OF THE FLOOD DOWNSTREAM WITH LEBNO The sun beat down unmercifully from the dry, blue sky while Eusebio weeded his patch of vegetables, hoeing out weeds growing in the dusty brown soil. He listened to the locusts singing nearby and to the dull sound of his hoe on the earth. Now and then he stopped to examine a plant to see the growth of a chili pepper, or a tomato clinging to the vines just beginning to sprawl in midJune, to see if the growth perhaps had begun. It was quiet and he felt like he was absorbing the silence.

Earlier in the afternoon he noticed a small ridge of clouds bubbling up over the mountains. He watched as they climbed, boiling higher and higher. Now he raised his dark, leathery face to the sky and removed his old straw hat. Sweat glistened on his brow and moistened the wrinkles on his neck.

A thin smile played upon his sun-parched lips when he saw the clouds had darkened. Then he bent once more to his work.

A slight breeze sprang up, refreshing the old man as it caressed his body, cooling him as the air

hit against his sweat-dampened flesh and clothing. He stopped his work again, looked up to

Page 12 see lightning begin to play in the sky and heard the first faint rumble of thunder. The clouds had thickened, moving downward, obscuring the mountains, melting into them with the same purpled color. He walked to the end of the row and over to the small wagon he called home when he spent days and nights at his vegetable patch. It was too nice to work now. It was time to enjoy the breeze.

He put away his hoe and sat down on the earth beneath the sparse shade of a dying cottonwood. He knew from years of experience that the mountains were getting rain even while the sun glared down on all in the valley. He knew there would be a big flood today and it would come soon.

Only a little more than a mile upstream, he knew the waterboss would be shutting the gates to the community water way and all the flood water would be forced past his little camp, down the chasm that had been cut by numerous such floods over many years. He rose at last and strolled toward the bank of the canyon. The tiny stream below sparkled in the sun. In the silence, the murmur of the water carried to his ears. Then he noticed the child. A young girl was playing in the stream. She was bent over, intent upon catching something. Lebno felt his heart leap to his throat and a chill pass through him. He was sure she was Laura, Frank Welton’s young daughter. “¡Niñita!” he cried out. She looked up and he waved for her to come over. She stood a moment, and then waved back before resuming her play. “¡Niña!” he cried out again. “¡Ven aqui!”

She ignored him. He started toward the road that led to the canyon bed. As he neared it, the child spied him and turned to run upstream. Perhaps she did not recognize him as the old man who drove past her home each week in his cart.

“No! No!” he yelled. Desperation sounded in his voice. He began to run awkwardly on his old legs. The child looked back, and then ran ahead even faster. He realized she was frightened. He slowed to a walk and beckoned her when she turned again. “¡Inundacion! ¡Inundacion! Madre de Dios,” he half-cursed, half-prayed.

The canyon walls spread out as they went upstream, lowering toward the bed. A shelf of gravel rose sharply, perhaps four feet, and then leveled into a small grassy area. Near the bank a gnarled old cottonwood limb dropped down from above. Lebno could hear a distant rumble, growing steadily louder. It was coming. The flood!

The girl was walking backward now, watching him.

“Niña,” he called. “Venida.” How did you say it in English? How he wished he spoke her language. “¡Inundacion! ¡Agua! ¡Mucho agua!” He hoped in vain for the girl to understand.

She turned again to go on. Then he saw her stop suddenly, whirl, and run toward him. He heard her cry out. She had sensed the danger. He could hear the water now. It wasn’t too far away. They could never reach the road. He scanned the gravel bank and saw a break. He could lift the child up, and with luck, scramble up after her.

The girl was near him, running hard, sobbing as she ran. She was almost to him when she stumbled and fell. He rushed to her as she scrambled up. Taking her in his arms, he lifted her trembling body up. She was too heavy to lift to the top of the bank, but she understood now. She scrambled on up the graveled bank as he hoisted her up by her feet.

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Page 14 The rumble was turning into a roar. He could smell the muddy waters rushing down. Frantically he clutched and dug at the gravel bank, rocks loosening and falling, but he managed to keep clawing his way up. He felt the girl’s tiny hands pulling at his shirt with all her strength. Even this bit of aid was helpful. At last he struggled to the top. Panting now, he came to his feet, grabbed the child’s hand and ran doggedly toward the old cottonwood limb.

The threatening roar of the water came closer. It was not more than a few curves away, moving at an alarming rate of speed. Lebno shoved the girl onto the hanging limb.

“Go” he cried out in English, but he need not have spoken, for she was already scrambling up the limb like a ground squirrel. He turned, braced his hands on the limb and lifted himself up, then climbed up the limb to the top of the canyon wall where the girl already stood.

“Look!” The girl screamed as he reached the ground. She was shaking his arm, pointing at where they had been just moments before. He looked just in time to see the head of the flood slam into the bank. It sent a muddy spray of water flying almost to the top of the canyon wall. Then it rushed past with a screaming roar, filling the canyon bed with its raging waters.

Over the gravel bed it spread and quickly covered the grassy area, licking hungrily at the bottom of the branch they had climbed. The water roared and foamed, seeming to express immense anger at having missed its victims.

Lebno looked down at the child who stood, still clutching his shirt sleeve, pale and trembling, staring spellbound at the raging muddy water below.

Silently, in in his mind, Lebno began, "Dios de salve, Maria, llena eres de gracia, el Señor contigo….

CHAPTER 14 "THE GARDEN” Laura listened for the sound of Lebno, the name she gave the old man who saved her from the flood. It was easier for her to say than his real name, Eusebio Luevano. No matter how long or how hard she listened, her old mongrel dog, Poochie, always heard him first and began barking. It seemed to her that he found satisfaction in letting the family know someone was near. He was just a small stray dog that her dad found wandering along the road and brought home one day. That had been several years ago, but she remembered asking her mother, “What can we name him, Mom?” “Oh, I don’t know. He’s just a pooch. Just another dog.” She didn’t even stop doing her housework to look at him.

“Okay, then,” Laura decided, gathering him into her arms. She announced emphatically, “I’m going to call him Poochie!”

Now, this late Sunday afternoon, listening to him bark, she reached down to pat his head. “I listen

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Page 16 and listen, but you always know Lebno is coming before I even see him. How do you do it, Poochie?” She kneeled down, patted his head again, and repeated, “How do you do it?” He wouldn’t answer, she knew. He couldn’t. She always thought it would be nice if he could. They could have such nice long talks together. She smiled and patted his head once more as they waited.

Several minutes passed before Laura first glimpsed him making his way up the rutted, dirt road, his team of oxen slowly pulling the small wooden wheeled cart that his Mama and Papa brought from Mexico many years ago. They first moved to Mesilla, a tiny village along the Rio Grande River. When he was seven, the river overflowed, flooding the village. It was then that his parents decided to leave Mesilla and move to the new settlement of Rosetta. Both parents were gone now, their remains buried in the tiny Rosetta Cemetery, but Eusebio still cherished this tiny cart that had carried his family so many miles to this home in Rosetta.

The pair of oxen, unique in that they were the only oxen in the village, plodded along as if time did not exist and they had not a care in the world, which for them and their driver was true.

He heard Laura’s voice calling to him as the team lumbered on, pulling the creaking wagon over the trail winding into the foothills toward his one acre encampment less than a mile into the hills where he farmed the fertile plot of ground that Frank let him use to raise vegetables for his family.

“Lebno!” Laura called, waving excitedly, jumping up and down, repeating several times the Spanish words she learned from him. “¡Hola! ¡Buenos dias!”

Taking the big wide-brimmed hat from his head, he waved it at her in a wide sweeping flourish. “¡Hola! ¡Hola!” he called to her, “Hello. Good day!”

The oxen trudged on, past the cattle guard that turned to Frank Welton’s driveway, and up the first rise in the hills, leaving their tracks and traces of the old wooden wheels as they rolled along through the dust in the dirt trail.

Laura and Poochie turned back toward the house, Laura smiling while Poochie trotted along beside her. She began skipping.

“Zanahoria” she said with one step and “carrot” with the next step. It was her way of memorizing, etching the Spanish word into her mind that Lebno had taught her. She would go visit him tomorrow and have him teach her another word from his garden.

I’ll know all the names of plants he has in his garden by the time school starts again, she thought to herself. One day I’ll talk like he does… in Spanish. Yeah. I’ll just do that.

“Tomorrow I’ll walk over the road thru the hills to his garden,” she said to Poochie in her usual one-way conversation. “I’m not going back in that canyon for a long, long time. I’ll find some pollywogs in the irrigation ditch to play with once in awhile… but I won’t look for them in the canyon.” After a moment, she added, “Not until flood season is over.”

She skipped. “Zanahoria.” She skipped. “Carrot.” She skipped, repeating the words over and over again, all the way back to the house. Her blonde pigtails bounced with each step. “Zanahoria, carrot, zanahoria, carrot, zanahoria, carrot.”

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CHAPTER 15 THE MIGRANT FAMILY Summer slipped quickly by. Cotton picking time arrived. Through the kitchen window, Eileen saw a sickly looking man talking to Ollie, the sharecropper of the land. He talked awhile. Then Ollie talked. The man lifted his hand to his mouth and passed his fingers across it. As the index finger passed, a thin line of spit issued from between his lips. Eileen watched, fascinated, as he passed the rest of his fingers over his mouth, wiping off the brown tobacco stain.

He wasn’t from around the area. She could tell from his dress. He wore grey work pants that looked several sizes too large, held up by a pair of worn suspenders. His shirt had once been blue chambray. Now the color was bleached from it and the material was so thin that Eileen marveled that it did not split.

He turned toward the cotton field and Ollie turned with him. They talked on. Then Ollie nodded and they turned toward the house again. The frail man mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, and then spit again. He and Ollie walked toward the house.

“Mister Winkler, this is Miz Welton” Ollie said when Eileen answered the door. Then addressing Eileen, he continued, “Mister Winkler and his family was passin’ through and their car threw a rod.

They ain’t got no money to get it fixed, so I gave ‘em a job, an’ I’m puttin’ ‘em up in that there little house we made for the Meskin braceros last year. They don’t even have money for supper. I wonder if you might have some spare grub to give ‘em?”

Eileen looked past Ollie to the little man. He stood back and she thought she sensed a feeling of shame from him.

“Sure, Ollie,” she said. “If you’ll wait just awhile, I’ll find something.”

“Uh, Eileen,” Ollie began, “guess I ought to tell you there’s Mister and Miz Winkler and five young ‘uns. Baby’s only ten months old an’ they shure could use some milk for it.”

Eileen nodded. Before she spoke. “Wait just a minute. I’ll have some stuff put together in no time.”

As she started gathering the food, she felt a wave of anger at having to take from her meager supplies to help another. Thoughts raced through her mind as she dumped her leftover biscuits into a paper sack.

Why must I always be the one to help? Lucille Ander has as much as me. Why can’t Ollie take the man to his place? Her thoughts raced on while she raged as she worked and soon had a half dozen Irish potatoes, two dozen eggs, a crock of sausage, and a gallon of milk placed into the small cardboard box she had brought from the grocery store on her last shopping trip. She put some flour into a jar so the woman could make gravy.

Suddenly she felt a surge of pity for the people. “Five Kids!” She found herself muttering aloud.

“My God! You’d think people would learn better. It figures though…as the old saying goes, the rich

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Page 20 get richer and the poor get kids. Poor kids having to go hungry just ‘cause they have a stupid Ma and Pa.” Eileen remembered the line of jars in the pantry, filled with golden peaches. She hurried to get a couple of them. I’ll bet those poor kids ain’t had any fruit for months. Anyway, they’ll start work tomorrow with a full belly. She smiled the ghost of a smile as she added two jars of her canned peaches to the box of food.

She carried the heavy box to the door where the two men waited and handed it over.

“Here you go, Ollie,” she said, but her eyes were on the little man chewing tobacco. She spoke to him, “That outta help out for a little while, Mister Winkler.”

“Much obliged, Eileen,” Ollie replied as he hefted the box onto his shoulder.

They turned to go when the migrant man bowed to her slightly. “Yes, ma’am. Sure do appreciate you’re generosity,” he said. “I know the wife and kids will be mighty happy to have such good grub.

CHAPTER 16 THE MIGRANT FAMILY FIRST DAY OF COTTON PICKING Betty Jo walked to the cotton field the first day of picking with her sack rolled up beneath her arm. Despite the fact that it would be a hot day in early September, the log sleeve pale yellow shirt and loose fitting jeans were protection from scratches from the sharp points of the cotton bolls once they were relieved of the white cotton puffing from them. It was still early enough in the cool of the morning that the long sleeves felt warm to her.

She scuffed along in her worn penny loafers, straight to the empty wagon at the head of the field to have her name entered into the book where the pounds of cotton she picked would be entered each time she filled her sack and drug it to be placed on the cast iron beam scale to be weighed. The scale already hung on the propped up wagon tongue.

The long arm of the worn black scale lifted into the air, waiting for some picker’s sack to be hung on the hook so the pea weight could slide along the teeth until it balanced out. Betty Jo eyed it thinking how many bolls of the dry, light-weight cotton fiber she had to pick to balance out a hundred pounds.

A hundred pounds, she thought. That will be the day when I can pick a hundred pounds! If I can pick seventy-five pounds a day, I’ll be doing good. Her Grandpa could pick almost 200 pounds a day when he was young.

One day she asked him, “Grandpa, how do you pick so many pounds in a day?” He told her, “All I do is just pick, pick, pick. While I’m picking, I keep thinking that I gotta pick this one and then I gotta pick that one.

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Page 24 Reckon I’m ‘bout as ready as I’ll ever be, Mister Ander,” she answered, repeating the words her mother always said when she knew work had to be done that she wasn’t eager to do.

“We got some new pickers this morning,” he commented as he shoved the small book of names into a pocket of his overalls. “Four of ‘em anyway.”

“Yeah, Mom mentioned some folks was staying at your bracero house till they got their car fixed. Are those the pickers you mean?”

“Yep.” Ollie turned toward the wagon, stopped and looked toward the field. With a nod of his head he motioned toward several pickers already working. “The Dad and three boys. The woman stayed home to take care of two babies that’s too little to be any good in the cotton field.”

Betty Jo started toward the rows of unpicked cotton. She called back to him, “I better get to work or I’m not gonna be much good in the field either.”

“Well, Betty Jo, every hunnert pounds helps.” He chuckled, disappearing behind the wagon.

She unrolled her sack in the middle of the row next to the first row loaded with unpicked white fiber. After pulling the strap of the bag over her head onto her shoulder, she bent to start to work.

A grasshopper jumped in front of her when she reached for the cotton boll near the bottom of the stalk. Cotton strung from the boll catching the end of it in the dried cotton leaf near the ground.

She shook the cotton and the brittle leaf rattled.

A tiny piece of cotton stuck in the boll so she reached to pull the tag of white stuff into her hand.

Even with the first boll she picked, her fingers began to feel rough and dirty. It would only get worse as the day moved on.

She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand as if it would rid her nostrils of the smell of dry cotton, green leaves, and the ever present dust.

The ball of cotton built up in her hands. She mechanically reached back of her to stuff it into the mouth of the cotton sack. Her other hand groped forward in a smooth continuous motion, reaching for more cotton.

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CHAPTER 17 THE MIGRANT FAMILY BETTY JO MEETS A BROTHER He stood with his back toward Betty Jo, watching the scales balance on his sack of pickings when she brought her sack up to be weighed. She left her sack beside the wagon and carefully walked up behind him, reached toward his slim frame and poked him in the ribs. He whirled, his mouth open to say something, but when he saw her he just stood there, mouth open.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I thought you were Ronald and I was getting back at him for pushing my head in the water yesterday. From the back, you look…” “… just like him,” he finished her sentence. A broad smile spread across his face as he shook his head and extended his hand. “Ron is always pulling some kind of smart-alecky prank like that. I’m his older brother, Robert. And, you are…”

“Betty Jo.” She shook his hand, noticing it was rough from the field work. “You two do look a lot alike,” she agreed, obviously embarrassed at her mistake. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know…” she flustered.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Lots of people take us for the other one. Some say we look like twins, but we’re not. I’m ten months older than him.”

“And, you have green eyes while he has grey,” she observed.

The scales balanced at seventy-five pounds. Ollie entered the number in his little book before unhooking the sack from the scales. Betty Jo dragged her sack up for weighing as Robert took his and threw it in the wagon for emptying.

“Seventy-five pounds in one sack and that’s more than I’ll probably get picked all day,” she commented as he jumped onto the wagon to begin shaking out his morning’s work into the heap of cotton already emptied there.

“I’ve had lots of practice,” he called out, as clumps of the fluffy white fiber spilled from the sack’s mouth.

By the time her thirty-five pounds had been weighed he had reached his hand into the bottom of his sack and was fishing out the last of its contents. Satisfied that the sack was completely empty, he pitched it to the ground.

“Here, let me have that,” he offered, reaching down for her sack, pulling it up with one hand.

“I’ll empty it for you.”

“Gee, thanks, but I can get it.”

“Won’t take but a minute. It’s not packed tight like mine was.” Almost before he’d finished talking he had her sack emptied and thrown back to her. Both headed back into the field.

“You starting another row?” Betty Jo asked.

“No, I got two rows ‘bout half way picked. Gotta finish them first.”

“Guess I’ll start on the next row that ain’t taken. Thanks for emptying my sack.” Betty Jo walked along the top of the field while he started down a row to finish up where he’dleft off. “Nice meeting you, Robert.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Mebbe see you ‘round the scales again when we get our sacks filled up,” He called back, laughing. “I’ll tell Ron I met’cha when I pass his row. And for him to stop stickin’ your head in the water.”

Later, during the hot afternoon, Betty Jo and Ronald rested a few minutes beside the small stream again. “The old timers say if you drink enough of this ditch water, you’ll never leave here,” Betty Jo said in conversation.

Ronald snorted. “Well, they’re nuts! I’d never stay here! No matter how much of that stuff I drink.”

“You don’t like it here?” she asked.

“Nope. Sure don’t.” He rolled over on his back to look up at her, and then up at the tree above them. The look in his grey eyes softened. “We have a place in Oklahoma. It’s a real pretty place.”

After a short pause, he went on, “It’s a big two story house… white… and the grass is green all around it.” He looked at her quickly. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

STORY CONTINUES NEXT EDITION

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RAINBOW'S END When I was young and years were still I knew my path was all uphill.

But I climbed ahead each rocky mile. Always inside my heart I'd smile.

At rainbow's end, so I was told, I might find a pot of gold.

But I searched for Love, both high and low, I planted seeds that did not grow .

I searched for Love to no avail, and up ahead my winding trail.

Around each bend in my rocky road, I would find a new abode.

Far away I then did roam and found my self a lovely home.

I journeyed far to Rainbow's End and found not gold but you my friend.

An original poem by Gloria Marie Globug Gifts 926 New York Avenue| Alamogordo

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MAGIC CARPET RACE

An original poem

by Gloria Marie Globug Gifts 926 New York Avenue Alamogordo

Once upon a time and place there was a magic carpet race in a long forgotten land.

Ah, this race was very grand. It fixed a smile on every face.

The race had all the women and men happily looking forward when they let all their sons and daughters fly across the lands and waters and then come home again.

It all began at the break of day in the springtime month of May when all the children gave a tug on their very own little rug and began to soar across the bay.

First the sisters and the brothers gave a nod to each and others to show that they were all quite brave, then lifted a hand to give a wave to all the dads and mothers.

Now that they were flying high in the arm and sunny sky, they could see the way to go past the valley far below and over the hills just coming nigh.

The children watched their path unfold. The sunbeams coated it with gold. They looked down at the way ahead seeing flowers blue and red and and looked back where the hills had rolled.

On their carpets they did ride. How very fun it was to glide over the Snowy Mountain Range, see the land below can change as they crossed the countryside.

Someone heard a ringing bells. That was how they all could tell that someone was the first to get across the Land Of Thirst where no raindrops ever fell.

The Land Of Thirst was always dry with never a cloud up in the sky. All the land of this plain never felt a drop of rain so they let their carpets fly.

They all needed a little rest so they thought it would be best after passing a stormy cloud and hearing a clap of thunder loud to land just over the mountain crest.

The mountain crest was their mark. It was the place for them to park. Their rest was brief, to all's relief they be home by dark.

When they reached the ocean's shore they looked down just as before. With a breeze of salty air blowing through their tangled hair they saw the path ahead once more.

It was time to start to sing. It was time for bells to ring. It was now that all the Earth shared the children's gift of mirth for they could do most anything.

All this happened every year. They could hear their voices clear. Oh the singing was so grand. The races end was now at hand. They could see their children dear.

No one ever won the race. It was such a happy place. It was such a perfect way, in the springtime month of May to put a smile on every face.

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EIGHTEEN CENTS An original short story

By Junior Thurman Artesia, New Mexico Everybody knows at least one "eccentric" old person.

I have a cousin I visit on vacation every summer, a bachelor, older than me, (ain't a lotta those left), a nice guy, enjoys company, a chance to spread his knowledge, someone to talk to.

Poor guy, he's almost as stubborn as my wife. Ha. He can't hear very well, although he has hearing aids, but, conveniently, for him, he ain't plannin on listening to you anyway.

He's lived in this small Texas town almost all his life, in the same neighbourhood, same house, a house he inherited from his parents. Needless to say, like any old eccentric person, he does the same thing, at the same time, the same way, everyday.

My wife and I try to adjust to his eccentricities, helping around the house while we're there. We have to be careful, yep, he's different, for instance, never, ever throw away a spent toilet tissue roll, those are used for rolled up papers, maps and documents. Must have a lotta documents, he's got a whole closet full of toilet tissue.

This old guy, the son of my mothers sister, is retired military, and buys all his groceries, in bulk, at the military commissary in Dallas.

He has metal shelving he uses to stack his groceries in rows, diet seven up, 24 bottles, canned beef stew, 12 number 2 cans, row 2, 24 cans of Libby's peaches, 12 jars of instant coffee, with sweeteners and creamers stacked neatly in rows, along with many more supplies.

He always sends several boxes of Kleenex with us when we leave, he has a hall closet stocked full of commissary kleenex. ??? If we need any take out food cartons, he's been saving those for years. We bought bulk hamburgers from Dairy Queen one night and the old take out boxes came in handy at the table.

Coffee at Dairy Queen with a few old cronies is on his daily schedule. I drove him there one day, wow, that was an experience, "Turn left, here, watch that dog, make a right up by the blue building, slow down son, there's a stop sign up ahead, watch that ditch, my gosh boy, I've seen people run off into that ditch, and had to call a wrecker to get out. Holy bleep, stay in your lane! Get into the other lane, gotta turn up here.

Where'd you learn to drive?"

Arriving at Dairy Queen, I wasn't allowed to park in the main parking lot, had to park near the drive-up window, no painted lanes to guide me, "Holy crap, pull in straight, don't get too close to the drive-up window, you'll get ran over. Alright, follow me." We walked into the drive-up window lane. I learned later, we were looking for loose change dropped by hurried customers.

"Ha, eighteen cents," he said picking up a dime, a nickel and three pennies, I've found twenty three dollars worth of change here in the last three months. Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee, but no extras."

The old "fart" is methodical, has health problems, lines up his meds nightly, takes his blood pressure three times a day, at the same time daily. Sitting at the table while he's taking his blood pressure, drinking my coffee, I'm not allowed to move, or shake the table, finally results are entered in a three ring binder, a book I'm forced to look at, noting the variations of blood pressures thru the last six months, feigning interest, appearing to be alarmed at some readings, a gasp, met by an appreciative smile and nod.

"Shoot me if I ever get that bad." I tell my wife.

Do not, I repeat do not get in the car with him if he's driving, he also can't see, but doesn't let that handicap affect his habit of driving like Mario Andretti.

"No, Jim, let's take my car, I'll drive, I need to gas up anyway."

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ARIES (March 20 – April 19)

TAURUS (April 19 – May 20)

This is an excellent month of April 2019 for increasing your psychic ability, relying on your intuition and going within to connect with your angels, spirit guides and the presence of God.

The 2019 April horoscope predicts that in April 8th 2019 the Solar Eclipse in Aries places an emphasis on your health, work, pets and activities you do behind the scenes.

Your body chemistry is likely to be more sensitive to food, environmental issues, drugs or alcohol, even supplements and vitamins.

Venus square to Saturn you are needing more love.

You have cut down on your spending and you may need more rest and sunshine.

On April 8th the Solar Eclipse asks you to move to your center and get ready for a whole new 18 year cycle.

This one of the best times to begin something new.

To be happy now you need to be very focused on a professional or personal project. Mars favoring Jupiter indicates a lucky time for seeking employment and new avenues of income.

The universe will support you in this through October giving you the time to build and make it a success.

With the Lunar Eclipse in your 8th House and your ruler favoring Pluto, a positive change is coming that will affect you financially.

The Lunar Eclipse on April 24th 2019 suggests you use the time of April to October to think out of the box, do new things, network, stay in touch with old friends who prove to be a blessing during this time. And, if love comes knocking on your door and you’re available, let it in.

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APRIL WORD SEARCH

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W

orld Art Day is an international celebration of the fine arts, which was declared by the International Association of Art to promote awareness of creative activity worldwide. The first World Art Day was held on April 15th, 2012, a date chosen in honor of Leonardo da Vinci’s birthday. As a symbol of world peace, freedom of expression, tolerance and brotherhood, da Vinci is also a testament to the influence of the Fine Arts on other fields. In the United States, World Art Day was officially held for the first time in the City of Los Angeles on April 15th, 2015, and yearly thereafter. In 2017, IAA USA, the official U.S.-based chapter of the IAA was formed. The Association facilitates World Art Day celebrations locally and nationwide Carrizozo, New Mexico joined in the international celebrations of WORLD ART DAY in 2018.

Limina Gallery, Malkerson Gallery 408 and the Tularosa Basin Gallery of Photography hosted exhibitions and events including sponsoring the creation and installation of a multinational inspired sculpture which was installed on 12th Street in Carrizozo.

2019 celebrations include gallery exhibitions, music performances, parties, individual artist’s projects and community support. Carrizozo ARTISTS and residents invite you to come and celebrate WORLD ART DAY with us in CARRIZOZO, NEW MEXICO, USA ….

MUSIC AS MUSE Sat, Apr 13, 2019 10:00 AM Mon, Apr 15, 2019 5:00 PM EVENT SPONSOR: LIMINA GALLERY In celebration of World Art Day 2019, Limina Gallery is exhibiting new artworks inspired by music. MUSIC AS MUSE honors the influence that Visual Artists and Photographers have had on culture and industry via album covers.

ECHOES OF GOYA Saturday, April 13, 2019 4:00 PM 6:00 PM EVENT SPONSOR: CARRIZOZO MUSIC INC. Performed by award-winning classical guitarist, William Feasley, Echoes of Goya is a multimedia presentation on the life of the famous painter and his impact on several generations of composers.

EVENING CELEBRATION OF THE ARTS Saturday, April 13, 2019 6:00 PM 9:00 PM EVENT SPONSOR: LIMINA GALLERY

MEET THE ARTISTS: GRACE CLARK & FAITH PURVEY Sunday, April 14, 2019 10:00 AM 11:00 AM EVENT SPONSOR: Carrizozo AIR Come and meet Carrizozo AIR residents GRACE CLARK and FAITH PURVEY.

LYRIC COMPLEX TOUR Sunday, April 14, 201911:00 AM 12:00 PM E VENT SPONSOR: MOMAZOZO Tour the LYRIC COMPLEXU on Twelth St. which includes the historic Lyric Theater, MoMAZoZo & studio spaces of Mike Lagg & Paula Wilson.

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MEET THE ARTIST: JOHN COURTNEY Sunday, April 14, 2019 1:00 PM 2:00 PM EVENT SPONSOR: LIMINA GALLERY Come meet photographer, John Courtney, and view an exhibition of his work at Limina Gallery.

MEET THE ARTIST: JOAN MALKERSON Sunday, April 14, 2019 2:30 PM 3:30 PM EVENT SPONSOR: MALKERSON GALLERY 408 Come meet artist, Joan Malkerson, and view an installation of her work at Gallery 408.

MEET THE ARTIST: NANCY GREGORY Sunday, April 14, 2019 3:30 PM 4:30 PM EVENT SPONSOR: TULAROSA BASIN GALLERY OF PHOTOGRAPHY Come meet photographer, Nancy Gregory, and view

Carrizozo’s own Tularosa Basin Gallery of Photography (better known as Photozozo) is proud to announce that for the 4th year in a row, it will be the EXCLUSIVE exhibitor of the New Mexico Magazine Photo Contest winners.

This is really a feather in Carrizozo’s and Lincoln County’s hat and has really contributed in making Carrizozo a go-to destination for art and photography lovers from not only around the state, but from around the nation and world as well!

This years’s contest ( New Mexico Magazines 18th annual photo contest) had over 2,200 entries from 370 different photographers.

The six chosen judges awarded prizes to just 26 selected images. All of those pictures can be seen in New Mexico Magazine, or better yet, viewd in person here at Photozozo Gallery here in Carrizozo The Tularosa Basin Gallery of Photography.

Located at 401 12th Street in Carrizozo is open 6 days a week; Sundays Noon until 5pm and from 10am until 5pm the rest of the week. The Gallery is closed on Tuesdays.

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Imagine that you have found your dream home. Your offer is accepted, you close the deal, you move in. Then, just as you've started to make the house your own, the mail carrier delivers news that turns your world upside down: There was a lien against a previous owner, and now it's been passed on to you.

“We remembered paying for title insurance, but our Realtor® explained that policy only covered the lending institution for any title problems, not us as the homeowners.”

That’s exactly what happened to Lori Moore and her husband.

“If we would have bought [owner's] title insurance to protect us, we wouldn’t have had to come up with that money as newlyweds and new homeowners,” Moore says.

“We had barely gotten everything settled in the house when two weeks later we received a letter from an attorney about a pre-existing lien on the house against the prior owner that now carried over to us as the new owners,” says the Louisville, KY, resident. The lien had been missed during the title search process because, Moore says, the county clerk had filed it in a way that made it hard to find.

At first, Moore says, they weren't too concerned.

The Moores were left holding the bag for $2,000 to pay off the lien and attorney costs.

As Moore and her husband learned the hard way, there are two types of title insurance policies. Title insurance, in general, offers protection against any problems with the title, or legal ownership status, of the home. Any lien against a home or competing claim of ownership could jeopardize your financial stake in it, as well as your mortgage lender's.

So the lender's policy covers the lender's stake, while the owner's policy covers your own.

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WAITING FOR THE HARVEST : Photo by Alamodoso Magazine Readour magazineonlineat: issuu.com/alamodosomagazine

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The Yucca And the Moth

The miracle of reproduction and perpetuation begins in many ways. This is especially true of New Mexico’s state flower, the yucca that is often referred to as “The Lamp of the Lord.�

Because of the peculiar way that pollen is stored on the yucca, the wind cannot blow pollen from one plant to another. Nor can the yucca pollinate itself. It depends, instead, on the tiny, white-winged Pronuba (miller moth) to carry on the fertilization process.

This little moth is attracted to the yucca by the fragrance the blossom emits. During the day, the moth rests in the partially opened yucca blossom, but when night approaches and the blossom opens full and becomes fragrant, the Pronuba becomes active. It flits from flower to flower, scraping pollen from the anther and rolling it into a small ball.

its abdomen. Then it drills a small, deep hole into the heart of the pistil where it deposits a single, thread-like clear egg. This done, the moth shaves off particles from the small ball of pollen and forces them into the opening of the hole. This complete process is repeated many times.

When the moth larva reaches maturity, it bores its way out of the flower and into the ground to spend the winter. It remains in the ground as larva until the yucca blooms again the following year. At that time it leaves its cocoon, becomes a tiny, white moth, and begins the reproductive cycle of the Pronuba and the yucca once again.

When the ball of pollen is formed, the moth goes to the pistil. It explores the pistil carefully.

When it is satisfied with the locality, it turns and slowly backs down between two stamens, feeling the surface of the ovary carefully with

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THE OLD HOMESTEAD; Photo by Alamodoso Magazine Readour magazineonlineat: issuu.com/alamodosomagazine

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YOU CAN GO BACK IN TIME VISIT LINCOLN NEW MEXICO

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incoln is a town made famous by one of the most violent periods in New Mexico history. Today's visitors can see the Old Lincoln County Courthouse with museum exhibits that recount the details of the Lincoln County War and the historic use of the "House" as store, residence, Masonic Lodge, courthouse, and jail. Walk in the footsteps of Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett, and other famous and infamous characters of the Wild West. Trace the events of 1878 through the Courthouse and the Tunstall Store, with their preserved 19thcentury atmosphere.

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alk through history by visiting El TorreĂłn (a defensive tower built by native New Mexican settlers in the 1850s), the San Juan Mission Church, the Convento, Dr. Woods' House, the MontaĂąo store and other historic structures throughout the town. The Anderson-Freeman Visitor's Center & Museum features historical exhibits in a timeline starting with American Indian prehistory and ending with the Lincoln County War. A 22 minute video about the Lincoln County War and the community is shown every half hour.

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he importance of this community and the significance of the Bonito Valley in the prehistory and history of the Territory of New Mexico are interpreted within some of the 17 structures that comprise Lincoln Historic Site. These historic adobe and stone buildings are preserved as they were in the late 1800s and represent the factions involved in the Lincoln County War, 1878-1881.

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You never know who you will meet at The Dolan House in Lincoln, New Mexico

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More than a century ago, brothers Charles Bishop Eddy and John Arthur Eddy— organizers of the El Paso and Northeastern Railroad— arrived in the brand new town of Alamogordo, hoping to continue the rail line. Because they needed railroad ties and timber, the brothers sent a survey crew into the nearby Sacramento Mountains to assess the possibility of laying a line that reached the summit. In the fall of 1898, the crew reported that not only could a line be built, the area's majestic beauty would draw visitors from far and wide. The crew suggested the name Cloudcroft,“a pasture for the clouds.”

By the end of 1898, the railroad line reached Toboggan Canyon. The following summer, John Arthur Eddy officially opened the Pavilion at the summit that provided accommodations for visitors including a kitchen, dining room, parlor, entertainment hall and 40 tents set on wooden platforms. Guests attended the festivities by taking the train to Toboggan Canyon and then a stagecoach up to Cloudcroft. The new resort received rave reviews in El Paseo and other area newspapers, and crowds began to visit the area. Fire twice destroyed the Pavilion but it was rebuilt each time in its original style.

The railroad line reached Cloudcroft in early 1900 and after the depot was built, “meeting the train” became a daily festivity in the village. Three trains pulled in to Cloudcroft daily to carry passengers and mail and haul logs down the mountain. Eventually, cars and trucks began to replace the trains, resulting in the railroad's loss of money and eventual showdown.

The last passenger train pulled in to the station in 1938 and the final freight train descended the hill in 1947.

Cloudcroft has changed little across the decades, retaining its famous friendly, smalltown atmosphere. Visitors travel here from around the country as well as the world to enjoy the laid-back atmosphere, pristine wilderness and all the amenities of modern life.

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Heart of the Desert Wine Club Heart of the Desert offers exceptional wines, grown from New Mexico grapes. Our wines include Cabernet Sauvignon, Corazรณn Gitano, Merlot, Syrah, Viva la Roja, Chardonnay, Gewurtzraminer, White Zinfandel, Royal Zinfandel, Malvasia Bianca, Riesling, and our signature wine, Pistachio Rose.

STANDARD WINE CLUB MEMBERSHIP Receive two bottles of wine every other month selected by Heart of the Desert.

CUSTOM WINE CLUB MEMBERSHIP YOU select your two favorite wines to be received every other month.

All memberships include 20% off all wine purchases. Wine is available for pick-up in-store or delivery.

Please call 800.432.0999 for more information and ordering.

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LEAVING BEFORE THE STORM; Photo by Alamodoso Magazine

Photo by Alamodoso Magazine AQuiet MorninginTularosa

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Page 132 Patricio after the Catholic church was built there around 1875. The priest at that time was Irish, and the church and town came to be called San Patricio after the priest's patron saint, Saint Patrick. To this day San Patricio is still strongly native Hispanic and Catholic.

Of all of the communities in the Hondo Valley, it perhaps has changed the least.

Throughout its history, San Patricio's economy was based on farming and ranching. Water was a key factor in the success of the early settlement. Dates from the State Engineer’s Office indicate that one of the earliest acequias, or irrigation ditches, in the valley was established in San Patricio by 1867.

San Patricio The Original Ruidoso San Patricio is situated amidst cottonwood and elm trees along the Rio Ruidoso just before it joins with the Rio Bonito. The Place Names of New Mexico states that San Patricio was initially named Ruidoso, not to be confused with the modern-day town of Ruidoso, which at that time was known as Dowlins Mill.

The original settlers were Hispanics who named it after the noisy creek that tumbles down the canyon. The town changed its name from Ruidoso to San

Crop production would have been impossible without a reliable water supply so one of the first activities of the earliest settlers was building an acequia. This early system would have been small and capable of watering only small parcels of land.

Each of the farmers on the ditch had a "right" to irrigate for a specified amount of time during the irrigation season, as well as a responsibility to help maintain the ditch.

San Patricio became a well-known artists’ community in the 1930s. One of the famous personalities that settled in San Patricio was western artist Peter Hurd. He was born in Roswell and studied painting on the east coast, but returned to the Southwest and settled in the Hondo Valley in 1933. He developed his own artistic landscape style, and his paintings of the area capture the spirit of the land, depicting scenes of frontier life and the people that lived on the land.

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A Bit of Glencoe History The area around Glencoe changed ownership several times, but was eventually settled by and named after the Coe family of Missouri. Early settlers of the area include Heiskell Jones and his wife, Jack Gilliam, the Horrell brothers, and Dick Brewer.

Lou Coe was the first of the Coe family to arrive in the Hondo Valley.

He settled at La Junta, which was later renamed Hondo, in 1866. By 1874, there were five Coes in New Mexico: Lou, his brothers Frank, Al, and Jasper, and their cousin George.

Frank and George Coe are perhaps the most well-known, due to their involvement in the Lincoln County War and their association with Billy the Kid.

M. Sanchez (1897), Florencio Gonzales (1898), and Felipe Silva (1898).

Many of these settlers actually lived on theland many years before they obtained an official patent to their property. These early settlers engaged in a variety of agricultural and ranching pursuits in order to provide for their families.

Located just east of Devil’s Canyon road, St. Anne’s Chapel, built between Roswell and Alamogordo, is the area’s first Protestant church. Construction began in 1933 and the chapel was completed in 1934. It was named in honor of Helena Anne Watson Tully, mother-in-law of Frank Coe, one of the participants in the famous Lincoln County War. It was built on a hill but when the highway was built in 1965 they raised the highway 16-feet, putting St. Anne’s down in a hole

Frank and George both left Lincoln County after the war for several years, but returned in the early 1880s. In 1882, Frank Coe purchased a portion of Dick Brewer’s old ranch on the Rio Hondo, and George built a homestead on his cousin Jasper’s place, the Golden Glow Ranch, about one mile west of Frank.

The cousins built a school and a post office, and the town was officially named Glencoe.

Glencoe’s patent records date from the early 1890s and include George W. Coe (1891), James V. Tully (1892), Jasper N. Coe (1892), Frank B. Coe (1892), Prospero Gonzales (1897), Telesfora

The Sanchez family was among some of the earliest settlers in the Glencoe area. From the 1880s up to 1917, the Sanchez family homesteaded a parcel of land now owned

by Paul and Nellie Ruth Jones. Paul Jones’s grandparents bought the land and the house from the Sanchez’s in 1917, and it has been in the Jones family ever since.

The Sanchez family built the adobe portion of the house before 1892, according to a Sanchez family member who was born in the house. Additions have been made to the house over the years, but the house and the surrounding property with its functioning acequia still retain some of the character of historic homesteads in Glencoe.

A portion of the Coe Ranch was eventually sold to Bert and Nelson Bonnell, two brothers who worked for the Coes and who married into the family. The Bonnell Ranch house, located at the junction of Eagle Creek and Rio Hondo, became a popular community gathering place and was the scene of many harvest feasts and dances.

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