160: NEW MEXICO – ‘LAND OF ENCHANTMENT’ OR STATE OF MISERY?

My photographer and his wife enjoyed an extra hour of sleep on Wednesday October 13, 2021 – Tom’s alarm didn’t go off until 7:00am. The weather outside was clear and brisk; the temperature in Santa Fe, New Mexico that morning was only 30 degrees. A little over an hour later, Tom and Vic had their gear packed up and we were on the road to the New Mexico State Capitol Building, which was just over five miles from the Baymont Inn & Suites.

When we arrived at the State Capitol and Tom removed me from the camera case, I instantly fell into a state of shock. I didn’t see a dome. I didn’t see impressive steps surrounded by large columns. What I saw in front of me was a low, circular-shaped office building with lots of trees around it. At first, I thought my cameraman had directed us to the wrong place, but it turned out New Mexico’s Capitol Building was designed to be round. As a matter of fact, it’s the only round state capitol in the entire country. Since its dedication in 1966, it’s been informally called ‘The Roundhouse”; which I thought was very clever. The building holds another distinction, as well – at 35 feet tall, it’s the shortest State Capitol Building in our nation. The State House in Delaware was next shortest at 70 feet tall, which was twice the height of the building in front of me.

The three of us walked around the exterior of the entire building where I posed for photos at a couple of different locations. The high-sky and early morning sun angle made photography a challenge for Tom, but not as much as the lackluster architecture of the exterior. In my mind, and I knew my photographer felt the same way, it was the least impressive State Capitol we had ever visited.

Our visit to the New Mexico State Capitol didn’t last very long. Even though we walked around the entire exterior and visited all four floors of the interior, we were finished in roughly 35 minutes. The highlight for me was when Tom placed me on the turquois and brass Great Seal mosaic on the Rotunda floor. But the rest of the building, inside and out, seemed lackluster to me; perhaps because I don’t possess a great appreciation for certain types of art.

By 9:15am, we were headed out of downtown Santa Fe with a destination of Clovis, New Mexico. I had wondered if Tom wanted to re-visit the Norman Petty Recording Studio in Clovis, but he hadn’t said anything up to that point. When my photographer drafted the original agenda, he planned on driving through Clovis without stopping at the studio, which surprised me a bit. I know Tom had once said the Petty recording studio was one of the greatest sites he’s ever visited on any trip.

From an opening in the camera case, I stared out of the window and saw mile-after-mile of nothing. Oh, there was an occasional distant mountain we had passed; and I saw a few cacti along the roadside as well; but for the most part, it was pure desolation. There were times I wondered why the state was nicknamed “Land of Enchantment” – nothing I had seen in New Mexico seemed remotely enchanting, at least in my eyes. I nearly laughed out loud when my photographer said to his wife: “I wonder why the aliens picked New Mexico to visit in 1947? No wonder they never came back; they didn’t want to live in this state either.” As soon as Tom mentioned the 1947 Roswell U.F.O. crash, he continued by subtlety asking Vicki if she wanted to try to find the crash site. She couldn’t get the words “are you out of your mind” to roll off her tongue fast enough.

Instead of seeing an alien crash site, Tom switched gears and said we were headed to an outlaw’s grave site – which just happened to be along our route near the small town of Fort Sumner, New Mexico. And Vicki didn’t object whatsoever. After all, my photographer’s wife had once heard of the infamous gunfighter Billy the Kid; while at the same time, she had never believed in the existence of UFOs or aliens. Vic also said the stop would give the two of them a chance to get out of the Jeep and stretch their legs.

Once we arrived at the small village of Fort Sumner, we were still roughly seven miles from the burial site of Billy the Kid. The grave of the famed outlaw, whose birth name was Henry McCarty before he changed it to William H. Bonney as a teenager, was located in Old Fort Sumner Cemetery just southeast of town. Shortly after midnight on July 14, 1881, Sheriff Pat Garrett waited in the home of Pete Maxwell, a friend of Bonney. When the fugitive outlaw arrived, Garrett pulled the trigger twice – one bullet missed, while the sheriff’s second shot hit “The Kid” in the chest just above his heart. The following day, the body of the gunslinger was carried to the Fort Sumner military cemetery and buried next to two of Billy the Kid’s former gang members.

When we finally made the pilgrimage from the village center out to the cemetery, the three of us were surprised to find the Fort Sumner Chamber of Commerce and Museum building had been built just a few feet from the cemetery’s entrance. Tom carried me into Old Fort Sumner Cemetery, which was surrounded by a four-foot-high concrete wall. We saw a handful of trees scattered among the dozen or so tombstones, while patches of dry or dead grass helped cover some of the stone-covered ground. A concrete pathway guided visitors from the entrance to a steel cage located in the center of the cemetery – inside the large cage was where Billy the Kid was laid to rest. When Tom placed me on the ground near the two-and-a-half-foot tall tombstone that marked the grave of William H. Bonney, or Henry McCarty, or Billy the Kid, I learned the cage had been erected years ago to keep souvenir hunters from stealing the 100-pound stone. It turned out that Bonney’s grave marker had been stolen several times over the years; only to be found and returned to the cemetery.

I had mixed emotions when I stood at the tombstone of legendary outlaw and gunslinger Billy the Kid. Since William Bonney’s death on July 14, 1881, his persona has grown in popular culture; thanks to dozens of motion pictures and another dozen songs. Over the past 140 years since “The Kid” was shot and killed by Sheriff Pat Garrett in Fort Sumner, New Mexico, it’s likely most visitors to that gravesite had chosen to ignore the fact that Billy the Kid was responsible for the deaths of at least nine people. But not me. I didn’t stand on that grave to honor or pay tribute to a nineteenth century killer – even though some of Bonney’s victims gave the outlaw no choice but to shoot them. However, Billy the Kid was part of American history; he was part of the “Wild West”. And according to Billy Joel, “his daring life of crime made him a legend in his time”.

The three of us spent a few minutes inside the Chamber of Commerce building, which was when Tom was notified by the clerk that the nearby Maxwell home site was closed to visitors on Wednesdays. Even though the ruins of the house where Billy the Kid died had washed away in the 1937 Pecos River flood, my companions and I still wanted to see the granite marker that had been placed on the historic spot. A large chain, outfitted with a stern warning sign, blocked the entrance to the only roadway out to the site. As soon as I saw the chain, I knew we were out of luck. I also knew that had Mongo been in the Jeep instead of Vicki, I would be standing proud on the site where Sheriff Pat Garrett’s six-shooter had ended the career of Billy the Kid.

Clovis, New Mexico and the Norman Petty Recording Studio was 60 miles east of Fort Sumner. Even though the studio where Buddy Holly and the Crickets had recorded many of their songs wasn’t on our agenda, my photographer knew we had extra time to visit since a few days of sightseeing had been lopped-off our schedule due to the snowstorm. Tom also knew we couldn’t just show up; he needed to set up a tour with studio caretaker and tour guide Ken Broad. As we sat in the parking lot of the cemetery and Chamber of Commerce, Tom made a phone call to Mr. Broad, who had remembered us from our visit in 2016. My cameraman was referred to as “The Salt Guy” because he had left a half dozen Kosher salt cans with the Broad’s during our first visit to the studio. Tom engaged in a phone conversation with Ken, as well as his wife Shirley, for nearly 20 minutes before “The Salt Guy” was informed we couldn’t tour the studio that day. Due to the fact Ken and Shirley weren’t in Clovis at the time, plus they had a handful of other tasks to complete, the Broad’s needed more than a one-hour advanced notice to accommodate the three of us. Even though the news disappointed my two companions and me (well, maybe not Vicki as much), Tom understood; he had rolled the dice and they came up ‘snake eyes’.

There was another site that featured a Buddy Holly connection, and it was 120 miles away in Littlefield, Texas – the hometown of musician Waylon Jennings. My photographer had learned about the Waylon Jennings Museum in Littlefield from his friend and Cargill safety colleague Aubrey Robinson, who had visited the Texas site a few years earlier. Since Jennings had played bass in Holly’s band during the 1959 Winter Dance Party tour, Tom didn’t hesitate to pencil-in the museum on our agenda. Even though we had a two-hour drive ahead of us, I could tell my photographer was excited to meet James Jennings – Waylon’s younger brother and owner of the Waylon Jennings Museum and Liquor Store. Tom figured we’d arrive at the museum before four o’clock, which should increase our chances of meeting James.

Roughly one-third through our journey to Littlefield, Vicki navigated our ‘Truckster’ through the small town of Melrose, New Mexico. We were still on schedule for a 3:45pm arrival time at the museum; until we were stopped for road construction on US-84 about three miles east of Melrose. A flagman had our lane stopped, while the west-bound traffic slowly moved past us in the opposite direction. All of a sudden, I heard the loud screech of tires; it sounded as though an enraged motorist had “pealed out” as they sped past. Split-seconds later, I heard a loud BANG, and I felt a severe jolt that whipped the spring in my neck. Someone had failed to stop behind us and they smashed into the back of our Grand Cherokee.

My companions immediately got out of our vehicle; Vicki began to scream, cry, and cuss like I had never seen or heard before. It was as though my photographer’s wife had become demonically possessed; the only thing missing was green pea soup that spewed from her mouth. Her tirade made Linda Blair’s character from the ‘Exorcist’ look like Little Orphan Annie; and I didn’t blame her one bit. I could quote some of what she said to the motorist who hit us, but I won’t because this is a family blog. My photographer was visibly upset too, but I had to give him credit, he remained calm under the circumstances. I heard exactly what he said to the 20-year-old from Texas, who said he was on his way home from the University of New Mexico. Ironically, “Cody from Texas” was driving his dad’s velvet red Jeep Cherokee – it was the same color and make as our ‘Truckster’. After Tom asked him if he was texting, which he denied, my camera guy yelled in a stern voice: “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to pull this vehicle onto the shoulder of the road. We are going to pull our Jeep in front of yours and we’re going to wait for the police to get here; I don’t give a dang how long it takes. We’ll stay here the rest of the day if we have to. Do you understand me?” The kid replied with two words: “Yes sir”.

It seemed as though we were in the middle of nowhere; the only thing we saw in any direction were the vehicles that passed by on the highway – and not one motorist stopped to see if anyone was injured. Tom dialed 911 from Vicki’s cell phone and it shocked me that her phone had a signal. As a matter of fact, I thought to myself: “Thank goodness there’s a satellite somewhere over eastern New Mexico”. The dispatcher on the line said due to the location of our accident, it would be a while before the police could get to the scene. And she was right. About 45 minutes after the distracted “Cody from Texas” rammed into the back of our Jeep, a patrol vehicle from the Curry County Sheriff’s Office arrived on the scene. Deputy Erica Romero took statements from my photographer, Vicki, and from Cody; but she never asked how I felt. I guess the deputy didn’t see me in the camera case with my head kinked slightly to the right. Thirty minutes later, after Deputy Romero had ended her interrogation and had captured her last images of our damaged vehicle, “Cody from Texas” walked to where Vicki sat in the passenger seat of our Jeep. At first, I thought the kid might sprinkle Holy Water on her; but the only thing in his hands were a couple broken pieces from his vehicle’s grill. As tears welted-up in his eyes, Cody apologized. I had to give my photographer’s wife credit – she stood up and gave the visibly upset kid a hug; then she apologized for her rant. In my mind, it was a beautiful Hallmark moment; even though no one ever checked the condition of my neck.

One hour and fifteen minutes after impact, we left the scene. I could tell Vicki was mentally exhausted from the chaos of that collision; it was understandable, too, because that was her first accident in 48 years of driving. At one point I heard her say to my photographer: “Maybe we should just head home. It’s been one disaster after another – the chips in the windshield, the flat tire, and then we get rear-ended. I hate to even think about what’s next.” By the time we made it to Clovis, however, Vicki had calmed down and her thoughts of going home had vanished.

We arrived at the Waylon Jennings Museum in Littlefield, Texas just as the clock struck five o’clock. The accident cost us a lot of time, plus we lost an hour at the Texas border when crossed into the Central Time Zone. Tom had a bounce in his step as the three of us went inside Waymore’s Package Store; my photographer had looked forward to talking with James Jennings ever since Aubrey mentioned the museum two years earlier. Once we were inside the cluttered “lobby”, a young female worker delivered the bad news: “Oh, you just missed James – he left a few minutes ago. He should be back around seven o’clock. But feel free to walk around the museum.”

I saw the disappointment in my photographer’s face. Tom had looked forward to hearing stories about Waylon Jennings from the musician’s brother. He also wanted to talk with James about the Winter Dance Party tour and what Waylon had said about the tour after Buddy Holly’s death. James Jennings personally knew Buddy Holly and Tom wanted to pick his brain about what the recording star was like. Not necessarily the stage persona of “Rock Star Buddy Holly”; instead, my photographer wanted to hear stories about the young Charles Holley who grew up in Lubbock.

Waylon Jennings was originally slated to fly with Buddy Holly and Tommy Allsup on the ill-fated flight after their show in Clear Lake, Iowa on February 2, 1959. Instead, Jennings gave up his seat to J.P. “Big Bopper” Richardson who suffered from the flu. When Holly learned that his bass player had given his seat to the Big Bopper, Buddy said: “Well, I hope your ol’ bus freezes up!” Jennings jokingly responded: “Well, I hope your ol’ plane crashes!” For years after the deaths of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, and pilot Roger Peterson, Waylon Jennings lived with guilt. In his mind, Jennings believed he caused their plane to crash into a frozen cornfield on that fateful night. Waylon Jennings lived with that self-inflicted guilt for 43 years until the day his music died on February 13, 2002.

The Waylon Jennings Museum was unique; while the small side room of the liquor store seemed cluttered, there was no doubt the museum was filled with love and admiration from Waylon’s little brother. There were hundreds of items associated with country music’s Outlaw, but my photographer and I left with a feeling of emptiness. We had missed the stories about Waylon Jennings. We had missed the stories about Buddy Holly. And we had missed meeting James Jennings, brother of the Highwayman, all because “Cody from Texas” couldn’t keep his eyes on the highway.

There was still plenty of daylight left when we left the Littlefield birthplace of country legend Waylon Jennings and headed for the birthplace of a rock legend, Buddy Holly, in Lubbock, Texas. Only 40 miles of barren highway separated the two Texas towns – but it was the same lackluster road that Holly had driven numerous times to record his music in Clovis with the Crickets. I laughed to myself when Tom said out loud: “See that old tree over there? Buddy Holly likely saw that same tree with his own eyes. And that old house there? That house was probably standing when Buddy drove past here as well.” I knew I would hear a lot about Buddy Holly once we got into Lubbock; and that was okay with me. The three of us had visited Holly’s hometown in 2016; but since that time, my photographer had discovered a few sites associated with the rock star that we didn’t see five years earlier. My photographer planned on spending two nights in Lubbock; and during our visit, Tom vowed he would “leave no Buddy stone unturned” on this trip.

At precisely 6:00pm, we rolled into the City of Lubbock Cemetery, which was located east of downtown Lubbock. As soon as Vicki drove into the large burial ground, I knew exactly why Tom had wanted to visit the cemetery on Wednesday evening rather than wait until morning – it was all about sun angle. Once his wife had parked the Jeep near the large wooden sign that pointed to the gravesite, Tom carried me to the final resting place of one of the forefathers of rock and roll – Buddy Holly. It’s been a long-standing tradition that people who visit Holly’s grave leave a guitar pick; but as I posed for photos on the bronze headstone that marked the rock pioneer’s gravesite, I stood near flowers, eye glasses, a bottle of Coke, bracelets, coins, and a half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms. The one item that was missing, and I knew my photographer was disappointed, was the Paul Stanley KISS guitar pick Tom had left on the grave marker five years earlier.

I stood in silent tribute on the grave of Charles Hardin Holley, while my photographer played two songs in honor of the late great musician who died in a plane crash on February 3, 1959. The first song was ‘Rave On’, which was one of Tom’s favorite Buddy Holly songs. But it was the second tune he played, a ballad by Eddie Cochran, that nearly made tears flow from my painted eyes. Ironically, as the song “Three Stars” broke the deafening silence of the cemetery, a lone mockingbird landed on the large wooden marker located across the roadway from Buddy’s grave. In my mind, that was a sign that Buddy Holly’s spirit was with us at that moment. After all, the mockingbird is the state bird of Texas and they have been known to imitate the sound of crickets. Oh, boy! A minute or two after my photographer’s graveside tribute had finished, Tom’s wife said to him in a semi-sarcastic voice: “I hope someday you’ll pay this much attention to me at my grave.” All I could do was smile as I thought to myself: “That’ll be the day!”

The three of us returned to the Jeep where Vicki searched for a reasonable price for a hotel. My companions chose My Place Hotel, which was located on the southwest side of Lubbock and was roughly 10 miles from the cemetery. We arrived at the hotel around seven o’clock; my companions were registered and unpacked less than 15 minutes later. I nearly fell out of the camera case from laughter when I heard my photographer tell his wife he wanted the bed closest to the window. While Tom usually sleeps in the bed closest to the door, he wanted the other one in that room instead. Why the sudden change? It turned out there was a framed photo of the Buddy Holly statue displayed next to the window. Just as I scoffed at Tom’s decision, he placed me on the window sill where he wanted me to stand throughout the night – next to Buddy Holly.

When Tom and Vic returned from their dinner at a place called Teddy Jack’s, they watched television for an hour or so before the lights went out at 10:30pm. Throughout the night, I tried to think about the life of Buddy Holly and the associated sites my photographer had on his agenda for the following day. But the only thoughts that filled my resin mind was the bone-crushing jolt I felt and the loud smash of sheet metal I heard when our Jeep was hit from behind in New Mexico. As I stood in the darkness feeling sorry for myself, a sudden dose of reality hit me like a ton of bricks. We had been lucky; my companions weren’t injured, and our Jeep was drivable. That accident could’ve been a whole lot worse. After all, Buddy Holly likely felt a jolt and heard the mangling of metal, at least for a split second, when his chartered Beechcraft Bonanza’s right wing made contact with the frozen cornfield on February 3, 1959. Over and over, I envisioned Buddy, Ritchie, and The Bopper seated in that small plane as it hit the ground. And as hard as I tried throughout the night, that vivid image just would not fade away.

“But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn’t take one more step.

I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.”

Thank you, Don McLean, for your amazing words!