Prewrites

Kendra Ackerman Prewrite #1 Epiphanies and Sky Friends I remember one Halloween, returning from the Praters after trick-or-treating. I cannot remember what costume I wore or what candy I received, but the epiphany, I remember. Driving home, staring up at the trillion stars, I realized that the world in New Mexico goes on for miles. The darkness is tangible; not like a cozy flannel blanket or comforting hot chocolate. For my six-year-old self, the darkness is a haunted house, a pack of coyotes, a cave full of treachery. Imagining kidnappers or ghosts waiting to swallow me whole, I squeeze my eyes closed, hoping that when I open them, the ghosts will disappear. Opened once again, the ghosts still circulate, so I look up, and “Splash!” I notice the trillion stars that cover the black night like sprinkles on the perfect birthday cake. Night was no longer a death eater, waiting to take my soul, but a promise of forever. Promise in that desert has a lot to do with stars and stars have lot to do with dreams. I am from the windy, tiny, roaring-down-the-highway hometown. Few places boast the view of sky that Dora, New Mexico offers. For most, they’d say that stars are all Dora can boast. Not even listed as a town on any tourism site, the village proved my playground, rite-of-passage, and learning center. It’s a Saturday, and my family dreads a long morning of cleaning the church building. UGG. Before we leave, though, Uncle Gerald calls to invite us to the dairy; he has two abandoned calves in need. As soon as I hear Daddy say, “Milking?” I see my hours of cleaning toilets and straightening song books evaporate. HOORAY! Momma smiles with her lips but her eyes glare at Daddy’s enthusiasm. She’ll do much of our work, and then she’ll sacrifice her Saturday evening trip to town because Daddy will have to complete his cleaning tonight. My aunt and uncle live five miles off the Lovington Highway and three miles off Rte. 20; Grover, our blue Ford pick up, raises dirt devils as we barrel down that dirt road. RRRummm…my head bangs into my window as we rumble over the cattle guard. The Gaines farm—corrugated metal shop, white clapboard house, flaking abode dairy barn; velvety newborn calf. Rusty, one of the brown-spotted babies, noses his way through the bars and rubs his slimy nose on my sister’s sleeve. Giggling, she reaches out to scratch Rusty’s ear, a calf’s favorite spot. Though she’s only three, her affinity for all animals shines. Uncle Gerald and Daddy have gone into the barn to prepare the bottles, while Kara and I wait in chilly morning. Wind in New Mexico is as faithful as a dog and more annoying. Red dirt lodges itself in our eyes and grinds between our teeth. No matter; we laugh and joke, showing our grimy smiles. The adults hand us our bottles, and Kara teeters because it’s almost as big as she is. The warm bottle heats our hands, and the calves stick out their long, fat tongues. Before I can get my bottle to Rascal, my calf, his rough sandpaper tongue licks my hand. Later, we return to our cleaning jobs. My arms ache from holding up that heavy bottle, and my cheeks smart from the wind burn. Yet, I don’t mind. I dust pews and straighten classrooms to the music of Acapella and ABBA. “Mama Mia, here I go again; my my oh how much I miss you!” New Mexico, oh my much I miss you sometimes. Your wide open spaces, blinking friends in the sky, coyotes peeking out from side-of-the road sagebrush. You taught me hard work and joy in the small things. Thank you.

Prewrite # 2 Downhome versus Metropolitan New Mexico: wide open spaces, blinking friends in the sky, coyotes peeking out from side-of-the road sagebrush. The history of New Mexico goes like this: inhabited by Navajo and Apache tribes, invaded by Spaniards, and //in//livened by the psuedoAmericans, Only receiving statehood in 1912, he cries, the babe among the other states, but laughs his old man chuckle for having the oldest capital building. New Mexico is a patchwork of people, cultures, and land. From the air, its farms stand out in neat little blocks of lime green, dry brown, and red dirt land. I recall a conversation with my dad after spending a summer in Santa Fe: “Dad,” I complain, “Santa Fe is the hardest city to get around in. For being small, it sure is confusing.” I hear my dad smile through the phone, and it makes my heart ache because I’ve been away from family for six weeks. “KJ, remember all those roads were originally burrito trails. Do you expect donkeys to be civil engineers?” Burritos! Ha. My dad’s attempt at Spanish goes something like this: find a word, add a trilled “R” or a //–ito// to the end and you get Spanish. Um hmm. Tidy, tight stitches connect parts of the patchwork, but most of the stitches are loose, sloppy, and frayed. My dad has always said that New Mexico should actually be two different states, and one cannot make the division down the middle. “Artsy places like Albuquerque and Santa Fe”, he thinks, "can go with Arizona." “Downhome towns like Dora and Clovis, they belong to Texas." But if we hold to this theory, there’d be no New Mexico, and wow, what I’d miss. Yet, I understand his reasoning. Ideologically, Santa Fe and Albuquerque are much more influenced by the Pueblo Indian heritage, and one notices this sway by simply driving under a terra-cotta orange and turquoise blue overpass. These cities value opera, boast a Georgia O’Keefe museum, and believe in the cosmic power of “the Universe.” Concerned with buying local and thinking organic, Santa Fe seems like Boulder’s twin. On the other hand, Dora stands in the middle of a wheat field, wearing Wrangler’s and a ENMU Greyhounds ball cap, and prays it’ll rain tomorrow. Eastern New Mexicans value potlucks, boast about their kids’ t-ball team, and believe in a good, old-fashioned God. If they’re lucky, they’ll see Jared Fraze riding broncs at the rodeo on Saturday and standing by his new wife, hoping he won’t be thrown and laid up like last summer. New Mexico, you once held me in your arms and taught me to walk across your white caleche clay. You brought rain to our dry fields and hearts. I can still hear the wind blowing through that town.

Prewrite #3 New Mexican Uncles In Road Forks by myself, the White Mountains are the heart of it all. Breathtaking! This is a part of New Mexico I haven’t spend much time in, yet it’s one of my favorite places. This part of southern New Mexico would seem desolate and dry to much Coloradoans; many people fear this part of the country because it’s only 30 miles from the Mexico border, so Homeland Security and Border Patrol are the largest employers. However, beautiful, fascinating secrets lie within this sacred land.

New Mexico is a patchwork of people, cultures, and land. From the air, its farms stand out in neat little blocks of lime green, dry brown, and red dirt land. Underneath those farms, in far southern New Mexico, hides geothermal power. According to Dr. JC Witcher from New Mexico State University, “Important economic growth in New Mexico has occurred during the last decade and a half with direct-use of geothermal energy. New Mexico has taken the nation's lead in geothermal greenhouse acreage with more than half of the state's acreage now heated by geothermal. In some recent years, geothermal greenhouse gross receipts have exceeded those of field grown chile and ranked as high as fifth in over all agriculture sector gross receipts. New Mexico is appealing to the greenhouse industry for several reasons, including a good climate, inexpensive land, a good agricultural labor force, and the availability of low-cost geothermal heat.” Technologically, economically, and environmentally speaking, all that information is intriguing, but to me, that geothermal energy, like most everything in Southern New Mexico, resonates with my uncle’s voice. The rose greenhouse in Animas Valley was Uncle Ralph’s favorite place. Rows of “Albas, Bourbons, China, Centifolia, Moss, Damask, Gallica” roses sit happily on state-of-the-art window sills (“Rose-Types”). Bowing their handsome heads and tipping their dainty hats to us as we walk by, I cannot help but think of William Blake’s poem about sunflowers: “ ‘All, William, we’re weary of weather,’ /said the sunflowers, shining with dew./ ‘Our traveling habits have tired us./Can you give us a room with a view?’ They arranged themselves at the window/and counted the steps of the sun,/and they both took root in the carpet/where the topaz tortoises run” (“Two Sunflowers”). One of the roses is my uncle—the fire and ice one. The one that’s the most boisterous, shocking, colorful, outlandish, hybrid rose. Fiery red and neon yellow, intertwined in one gigantic flower. He was weary of this earth, perhaps, and wanted a rose with a view. Now, he has the greatest view of all. I imagine him sitting atop those White Mountains and watching over the country he loved as much as I do—the greenhouse where he wandered for rejuvenation, the pig farm where he taught others to speak English, the church building where he sang off key, firehouse where he inspired others by his devotion and laughter. The Gila National Forest where he gave his life protecting someone else’s hometown.

Blake, William. “Two Sunflowers move in a Yellow Room.” __ThinkQuest.org.__ 11 February 2009. http://library.thinkquest.org/J0112392/personificationclassics.html Witcher, James C. “GEOTHERMAL ENERGY IN NEW MEXICO.” __Southwest Technology__ __ Development Institute at NMSU, Las Cruces, NM __. 11 February 2009.

http://geoheat.oit.edu/bulletin/bull23-4/art2.pdf “Rose Types.” __Love of Roses.__ 11 February 2009. http://www.love-of-roses.com/Rose-Types.html