70 years old, recently relocated from the Texas Hill Country to the greater KC Metro area with Mr. Hydrox, a jellicle cat.
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Category Archives: 1990’s
Hi readers. Thanks for coming by.
Fairly weird. I was websearching for Mike Czosnek, a guy I used to do some Lost Adams Diggings searching with, and came across something that rocked me back on my heels.
New Mexico Floodplain Managers Association http://www.nmfma.org/content.aspx?page_id=0&club_id=920799
An egg I laid, nurtured, hatched, and promptly forgot as soon as my career ended in 1999.
When I assumed the job of State Floodplain Manager for the State of New Mexico in 1992 the state had a law on the books to allow localities to adopt ordinances regulating building in designated floodplain areas, and for the residents of those to buy federally sponsored flood insurance to cover their damages when the creek did what it would inevitably do.
Someone had screwed up when the law was passed and left in language that could be construed [by me] requiring that the locally designated floodplain managers be trained and registered or licensed by the State Floodplain Manager or Administrator. All that happened 15 years before my arrival, and had lain dormant and unnoticed. Nobody in New Mexico had a clue what they’d agreed to, what they were supposed to be doing.
The reason I was hired for the job was that FEMA was losing patience. I was mandated by my grant to audit the local programs, report to FEMA what they weren’t doing according to their federal agreement, and hassle them to death until they did it.
Lousy, lousy, lousy job I had for a while travelling around the state being ignored and tolerated barely. Then I happened to study the statute and came up with the idea. Started hassling the hell out of local governments about not having registered or licensed [by me] floodplain managers whom I could lay some heavy crap on if they didn’t do their jobs.
“How do they become licensed?”
“They have to go through training. Take a test. I do the training at the [non-existent Floodplain Managers Association meetings. Your people will have to join.”
The cage took a lot of rattling, but 1993, 1994, I put together an organizational meeting in Las Vegas, New Mexico. Almost every participating community in New Mexico was represented. Did some rudimentary training, had them adopt a constitution and by-laws, create officers [of which I refused to be one].
NM Floodplain Managers Association made my life a lot easier, reduced the amount of heckling and hassling I had to take from FEMA. And became my primary training tool for the local communities. Gradually got them training one another.
And my old buddy Mike Czosnek is still out there, treasurer of the damned thing. Might have to stop in and see him when I get out that way.
Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read this morning.
Tom, the retired USAF colonel who occupied the office next to me in the bomb shelter of the old National Guard HQ in Santa Fe, NM, should have known a lot about radioactivity. He spent the entire Cuban Missile Crisis camped under the wing of his B-47 bomber. Had all kinds of tales about the flight maneuvers a pilot had to perform to drop a hydrogen bomb and come away in one piece.
The New Mexico Emergency Planning and Management Bureau [EMPAC] was all housed in that bomb shelter. Most of the section chiefs were retired colonels, except my humble self, and Louis, head of Radiation Control. When nothing was going on there’d always be a few of us gathered in one office or another telling and listening to interesting experiences in our varied pasts.
So when Tom found his travel schedule was going to coincide with the one-day-per-year the Trinity Site where the first atomic bomb was detonated allowed visitors, we all envied him. He was gone a week travelling all over the State, and a few days after he returned several of us gathered in his office to hear all about it.
Naturally there’d been a nice dog and pony show at an old ranch house from the time a mile or so away, now converted to oversight center. Then, off to ground zero.
Tom described how it was all bare sand and soil, how they’d scraped away all the green glass that used to cover the spot. How visitors were warned not to pick up any of that green glass if they should find a piece.
So when his glance downward showed him a piece of that green glass peeking out of the sand near his foot, of course he had to tie his shoe. Slipped it into his pocket. Gave us all a sly smile when he pulled it out and held it in his palm.
Wow! A piece of green glass from the first nuclear detonation on earth! We all wanted to hold it. Passed it around, all except Louis. Our Rad Control section head. He stepped back a pace when his turn came to hold it.
“I’d like to put an instrument on that.” Louis had access to plenty of instruments, had more than a thousand of them spotted all over New Mexico. Part of the mission of his section was going around changing the batteries on those Geiger Counters regularly.
He was out the door and back while the rest of us waited in mild curiosity. The glass was back on Tom’s desk and Louis clicked the power switch. Didn’t actually have to get too near with the probe to peg the needle. Didn’t have to put on the headset to hear the buzz. We all heard it.
Louis had a straight shot at the doorway and he was first out. Followed closely by everyone but Tom. He just sat staring at that piece of green glass. Probably wondering what the hell to do with it.
I’ve always wanted to visit the Trinity Site, but I never got around to it. Even when I was living several years just up the road from it.
Hi readers. I’m reblogging this because the original writing of it was a direct consequence of the events described in the previous post. J
Originally posted on So Far From Heaven:
I wrote this when I lived in Socorro, New Mexico, but I’d guess it’s as timely and germane today as it was then.
It’s sad, but they have to migrate: there’s no good water in the Rio Grande anymore. It’s all sewage passed downstream from Albuquerque and other towns.
This was almost home to them. Their ancestors arrived with the first cattle drives from Texas in the 1880s. But finally they’ve had enough. Lemming-like they’ve decided as one to return home, Lone Star Ticks to the Lone Star State, same as those invading Confederate Texas humans had to finally stagger and stumble home when things took a turn for the worst..
This far south they’ve just begun to gather; just started to come out from under the grassleaves, the treebark, stragglers still coming out of the brush. The main migration gathering is further north in the Isleta lands…
View original 722 more words
Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read. Those of you who have any morals and are offended by the alternative name for the male chicken will be soothed to see I’ve name this twice to avoid criticism.
Must have been 1996, 1997, I was living in Socorro, NM, and I got wind there was a major cock [c*ck] fight going to happen Saturday night. They happened a few times a month in that area, and though official NM law allowed it as a local option at the time, murmurings in the State House rumored it was going to be prohibited soon. They’d raided a couple of them in counties where the local option had people thinking it was legal.
Anyway, Saturday night I was at loose ends so I headed out to put hero roosters into my body of life experience. The place was a mile beyond a gate and down a dirt road into the Rio Grande bosque. The salt cedars opened up to a large cleared area of several acres with a large metal building toward the back. Room to park 200 vehicles or more.
I got there early to look things over, still some daylight. Maybe 20-30 cars and pickups in the lot, guys hanging around talking and smoking outside. Moseyed into the barn, looked over the seating arrangements, looked a lot like an auction barn for livestock. But with a cage blocked off in the center for the fighters and their handlers.
Nobody was in a hurry to go inside because it was hot in that barn. I decided it would be hotter when the place filled up, so I staked a standing-up claim against the support for a tall sliding metal door at the back.
When the place filled it was noisy, it was hot, and things were happening fast. Bets, chickens, arms waving and yelling, every reason to be enamored of my place at the door.
But toward the shank of the evening a horn honked out in the parking lot and someone yelled, “Raid! Cops!” Sirens blaring, suddenly everyone inside stampeding for the doors. I ran to the corner of the building and saw the parking lot was filled with flashing lightbars, half-dozen, maybe a dozen police cars. Sheeze. This is bullshit! Guys running out toward their cars getting snagged by the cops.
So I ran like hell out into the bosque dodging salt cedars, rattlers, just put as much distance between myself and that barn as I could manage. When I went knee deep in mud I knew I wasn’t going any further. The Rio Grande was right in here somewhere close.
I tucked myself in next to a dead tree in a thicket of salt cedar and watched the lights through the trees, listened to the angry yells of men being arrested, watched the lights threading through the cedars chasing people trying to get away too late. Waited, waited, felt ticks crawling all over me, found myself wondering about the rattlers, waited, more ticks, waited.
Gradually things calmed down, engines started, gradually the sirens stopped. Things got really quiet. But no way I was about to be fooled by that crap. Full dark, I waited, listened. Ticks by the hundreds crawling around on me. Waited, caught myself dozing, jerked myself awake and waited some more.
Finally Old Sol began crawling in, me praying him up. Still quiet except for the sounds of the morning birds and water rustling down the channel. I carefully, carefully began working my way through the salt cedars toward the parking area.
I squatted and watched peeking out there as light filled the parking area. There it was. My old Mitzubishi Montero and a scattering of other vehicles. Sitting there trying to lure me to jail. I scratched and watched.
Finally a guy came creeping out of the bosque maybe 50 yards away, creeping toward a pickup the other side of the Montero. Heeheehee. Bait. Now we’ll see where the law’s hiding. Glad it ain’t me!
He seemed surprised. Got into his truck, started it, no sign of the fuzz. Spun around and vanished in a trail of dust back toward the pavement.
Hmmmm. Hokay. I stood up straight, Tried to act like I was just a normal guy coming out of those salt cedars. Wandered over to the Montero and watched a dozen other guys coming out of the trees. Cranked up the Mitzubishi and tooled home free as a bird.
The paper was full of it, the Socorro Chieftain, the Albuquerque Journal. Printed the names of all those guys who got busted.
Served them right, too, going out there watching c*ckfights.
If people don’t have ethics and morals enough to stay away from places like that they need to be in jail.
When I came across this picture on the web a while back I was fairly certain I recognized it. I believed and still believe it’s the truck belonging to the man and wife wood cutter couple murdered in Catron County, New Mexico while I was working Fox Mountain. An incident I described in loving detail in the Adams Diggings book. They were found several months later, a bear having dug them up where they were folded yinyang style into a 4’x4’x4′ grave in an ancient ruin site.
Damn I love that truck. Nothing sissie at all there. A guy could drive that thing around just about anywhere he might wish to go. It’s been pre-disastered so the odds of anything bad happening in it would be nil.
Before they decompose in the grader ditch.
That gall bladder used to be right THERE.
Tanked in China
Tanked in Martha’s Vineyard
The Last Roundup
El Guapo meets Godzilla
The Presidential War’s over! This helicopter’s destination is Panama, Grenada, El Salvadore, Kuwait, Iraq, last stop in Afghanistan! Show your tickets.