Carnegie libraries visited: None
Michael’s Kitchen Coffee Shop and Bakery is a must-stop for anyone traveling through Taos at breakfast, or at any other time before the middle of the afternoon, as the breakfast menu is open as long as they are. Like Hugos in Fayetteville, Michael’s is timeless: the menu that Chris, Maureen, and I ordered from in 2024 is almost identical – except for the prices – to the one offered to customers in 1974, when it first opened. Cinnamon rolls as big and round as Charlie Brown’s head are the item I remember best, but in recent years I have gravitated to the huevos rancheros: “Two eggs served on a corn tortilla, piled high with pinto beans, cheese and smothered with your choice of homemade chile.” Key phrase: piled high and smothered. I prefer mine ‘Christmas’ style, with one half of the plate covered with red chile and the other half with green.
After breakfast we walked around a bit. The central part of Taos is compact, with streets in an irregular pattern around the central plaza. Jewelry, western, curio, and tourist shops ring the plaza. I remember visiting Taos as a boy and wandering around the plaza, where Native Americans spread their jewelry, pottery, and other items for sale. I wouldn’t have had either resources or knowledge to buy anything good. My parents had limited means but sharp eyes. They bought a small black vase – my family believes it came from Santa Fe, not Taos, and yet I’m going to include that story here – from an artisan connected to the San Ildefonso Pueblo, perhaps Maria Martinez or one of her protogès. Over the years, my parents also purchased a couple of prints signed by RC Gorman. In case Gorman has not made your list, in a profile of him the New York Times notes that Gorman has been called “the Picasso of the West”. The part of this profile that tickled me is Gorman’s statement that “I work pretty hard” – usually, between about 8.30 and 9.30 in the morning. “I know it sounds like just one hour a day,” he said, “but I'm getting things done.” Were I so productive.
In the center of the plaza, two dancers dressed in ‘native’ garb with bells around their calves moved to their drummer and chanted. This confused me, and I did not know how to react. I’m guessing that they were doing this to get tips, just like any other street busker would. If they were dressed in kilts and dancing to a fiddle, I would have just watched and, if I were moved, I would give them a tip. But were these dancers authentic? Were they dancing a genuinely indigenous dance? If not, would authentic dancers scorn them? This was one of those times I wish I did not overthink what my reaction should be. Now I’m unsure whether to include this anecdote. Overthinking can be a way of life.
We three moved further up the plaza to a quiet spot, where I sprinkled some of Kitt’s ashes. It was eight years and one day since he died. The days leading up to this anniversary were agonizing the first couple of years, although now they are just a dull pain. I think of these days in terms of an upcoming death sentence: Kitt will die four days from now, three days from now, two days…Why can’t I intervene? Why will no one or nothing intervene to grant a stay of execution? On that day, I count down the minutes and imagine the moments. There, Kitt is hopping on the chair lift with Chris and Julie for the last time. Fifteen minutes left. Kitt now slides off the chair lift, adjusting his boots, gloves, and goggles. Five minutes. They all shove their poles into the snow and push off from the top, with Chris and Julie taking the lead. Three minutes. Kitt curls back and forth across the American Flyer run before cutting into a grove of trees. Thirty seconds…twenty. Ten.
After Chris, Maureen, and I said our farewells, they headed north and I south and west. Being Sunday, all the libraries on my route were closed. Still, I took the pictures of the seven I passed that afternoon: the Poe Tsawa Community Library in Ohkay Owingeh, the Richard L. Lucero Recreation Center and Library in Española, the Pojoaque Pueblo Wellness Center and Library, the Santa Fe Public Library, the Ernie Pyle Branch Library in Albuquerque, the Grants Public Library, the Octavia Fellin Public Library Gallup. Every one of these libraries is special, in some way, to the residents of their communities.
My itinerary for the day was hopelessly long, even on the open roads and high speed limits of the American southwest. Six hundred miles is a lot of ground to cover in an afternoon (I didn’t leave Taos until noon), so around sundown I pulled into a rest stop along Interstate 40 and camped for the night. I heard neither tumbling tumbleweeds nor howling coyotes; just the rumble and growl of the 18-wheeled behemoths.
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