Clearly visible from the banks of the Arkansas River, punctuated by the archeological remnants of the oil and gas industry, we head into downtown Tulsa and an impressive skyline. It is seven p.m., a Friday night, still light out, the sun’s dim glow from the west palpable, and the entire area is devoid of people. The architecture is stunning, notably the Oklahoma Power Company, the Atlas Life neon, the Philcade, but all somewhat eerie when the streets are empty.I have an instinctive feeling that Tulsa is a rich town, in its history, its culture, and the embrace of the arts. But it does seem strange there is no visible gentrification or renaissance of the importance of a rowdier past. Think of bricktown in Oklahoma City, LoDo in Denver, the San Antonio canal, Bourbon Street, or Wrigleyville in Chicago. You deserve better; this is not a minor league city.      Parched and thirsty, Jack and I end up in a runyanesque Irish bar, Arnie’s, on Second Street. Located adjacent to the Blue Dome, a landmark Gulf Oil gas station, Arnie’s may be in an environmentally contaminated zone, but what price ambience ?  Although this saloon had been cited the previous week by the health department for having a dog in the bar, we were welcomed like old friends. Me with a twenty ounce draft of Harp’s lager and a dish of cold water for the little terrier. Or maybe it was the other way around. In spite of local regulation, most dogs are cleaner than the patrons, and in Ireland, man’s best friend is welcome in every pub. Why not, then, side with Irish law ?            In the days here, we met only friendly, gracious people at every turn. We even met two Okies from Muskogee, who, even though the refrain from the popular song says they are proud, weren’t quite sure what they were proud of. Another line from the same tune goes, ” we like holdin’ hands and pitchin’ woo “. If you drive south and southeast of Tulsa and see the population growth, that seems self-evident.

Nearly everyone would ask us something like: This your first trip here ? Then solemnly, “how do you like it ? So far ?” Translation:’ do you think this is dullsville, backward, or as objectionable as everyone seems to think ?’ My answer to that is that I love it here. “You do ? Then welcome to Tulsa !”    

There seems to be a collective sense of self-condemnation. A systemic need to be apologetic for a non-existent inferiority complex. A lot like the Canadians, only with a southern drawl. You’re better than you think. You may park a vehicle in the front yard, but look, you’re not like Missouri where the cars on the lawn have no windshield, or Kentucky where the wheels are missing. You don’t hurry home at dinnertime because you’re afraid you’ll miss a telemarketing call.  

We’ll be back later to examine religious zealotry and its effect on building design, but for now, we gotta run.

My phone’s ringing.

On a brief trip from Albuquerque south to the Mexican border in southern Arizona, in an instance without a trailer in tow, we opted for a mountain shortcut. Eschewing I-25 south to the normal cut-off at Hatch, NM, to Deming, NM, (SR 26), on the spur of the moment opted for a mountain pass from Caballo to Silver City (SR 152).   From the valley floor of the Rio Grande River, the elevation rises 1.5 miles over the Emory Pass in the Mimbres Mountains.

Elderly posers, ‘happy’ and ‘chilly’, enjoying the thin mountain air.

Temperature dropping from 72 F. to 46 F. in the first half hour, we realized that this detour, although equal in distance to our usual path, would add several hours. Isn’t it often true that a trip of a thousand miles on interstate cannot equal a two lane highway into the next zip code ? We were not to be disappointed. Barely thirty miles in, we encountered Kingston, pop.25, home to the Kingston Spit and Whittle Club, a local organization that also serves as the sentry for disposed highway litter. A slave to the unusual sign, dating back to the Burma Shave campaign, how could I resist this photo op ?

Images come to mind of a major league baseball dugout, 25 strong, expectorating in unison, as the players carve trinkets out of broken bats.   Two hours later we reach the eclectic, historic, Silver City, NM, the launch pad for the hot springs of the Gila national forest. The area and the cliff dwellings deserve a separate essay, another day.

We point ourselves southwesterly on SR 90, downhill all the way to Lordsburg, NM, arguably one of the most destitute and depressing towns in the rural west. Bypassed by I-10, the ‘main drag’ is five miles of closed businesses and boarded buildings. A metal cutout of a bellhop welcoming guests to an abandoned motel, faded in the desert sun, flashes a sardonic smile at the antics of our dog, Jack.

Mayor of a ghost town-in-waiting.

New Mexico has a charming and affable governor, Bill Richardson. But if Bill really believes this is the Land of Enchantment, I’ll buy him dinner in Lordsburg.