Does anything on the menu look good to you?

I was leaning towards the ribs and a beer. What are you thinking?

I’m not sure. Maybe carne asada tacos? And I want a spicy Bloody Mary for certain.

No kidding. This house hunting is not for sissies. Three different neighborhoods and three totally different properties wore me out.

I’m glad we had the GPS. That made it a lot easier.

None of them felt right to me. The new one on Calle Bonita was pretty nice, lots of light, but those diamond-finish walls? How are you going to hang any art?

Well, you can get those display systems with Plexiglas rods that attach to the ceiling, like they have in the galleries up on Canyon Road. That would fit right in with the chrome hardware and concrete floors. No, the whole idea of hospital finishes is too cold for me.

The big problem was the neighborhood. I like that part of town for all the trees and walking distance to the grocery store, but I counted ten lots in the subdivision and only five houses are built, so you know we would be living with construction for a while.

Still that one was the best of the three. The place on Garcia was tiny. It would have been fine for me in my twenties, but the idea of a communal washer-dryer out by the carport has no appeal. Did you hear the other couple ask the agent how you deal with that in the wintertime? I loved her answer:

Oh we have sunshine three hundred days a year.

That’s what they mean when they say ‘The City Different.’

What did you think of the place on Don Cubero?

Yeah, I told you when we looked at the pictures that one was a long shot. If the realtor doesn’t show any pictures of the interior, it’s for a reason. That house was a disaster, built in 1925, added on to more than once, and the floor plan was inscrutable. I guess a hundred thousand dollar make-over would help. It was charming, but not livable.

The garden was beautiful.

Trust me, you are looking at a maintenance nightmare. The dog would go crazy eating all those leaves.

So what do we do?

Let’s go home and take another look at where we are. It’s not Santa Fe, but I wouldn’t mind at all if we decided we didn’t have to move.

Harpeth Rivers is a New Mexico transplant from all over who has in the last year written songs about isosceles triangles, played bass guitar in a band, and declared himself “Retro-eclectic.” His novel-in-progress is entitled Last Year.

She’s actually quite a lovely person, as long as you find yourself in alignment with her version of absolute truth. Any attempt to debate, discuss, refute or think differently from her firmly-established points of view is an invitation to ruin. She can be difficult.

After thirty years I know her pretty well. I’ve learned that “Never a dull moment” is all you can count on. I know that she knows what she wants, and that I can’t tell her anything that she doesn’t already know and also consider to be wrong and beyond stupid so why did I even mention it? Then it’s a spat.

I am conflict adverse, and even when I know for double-dog sure that she is completely uninformed about a given subject, I have learned to keep it to myself, which means that I spend a lot of time looking down at my shoes so she doesn’t see me rolling my eyes. It is also a powerful incentive to spend as much time as I can in the recording studio with the door closed. I don’t see that my presence is missed.

An old friend once ventured, “Relationships have a shelf life.” He’s been married more than twice, and I know plenty of other couples who act like they are ready to trade the relationship either for the single life or what they hope is a better match. The question for all of us seems to be: “Is this how I want to spend the rest of my life?”

Is the devil you know of less concern than the one who might or might not be waiting around the corner? What will it take for me to decide I’ve had enough? Do I even believe in magic anymore or is that done? Does it all come down to cutting your losses?

I don’t know all the answers. If I did know I’d probably suggest that it’s time to practice the notions I preach to myself when I lay me down at night and pretend to sleep:

This is not a dress rehearsal

Bloom where you are planted

Be here now

Life is good

Be careful what you wish for

Then I turn on the light and write down what I hope are the start of lyrics for a new song:

Out of nowhere, a change of plan
Starting all over
all over again
It happens, it happens

Harpeth Rivers is a New Mexico transplant from all over who has in the last year written songs about isosceles triangles, played bass guitar in a band, and declared himself “Retro-eclectic.” His novel-in-progress is entitled Last Year.

I bumped into Eleanor Roosevelt the other day outside the Apple store. It looked like she was carrying the new iPad. No surprise there – the lady has a knack for connecting with people and texts and emails are great tools for that.

Elly, how goes it? What’s your take on #metoo and #timesup?

The battle for the individual rights of women is one of long standing and none of us should countenance anything which undermines it.

Amen to that sister. But do you think women can sustain the movement?

A woman is like a tea bag – you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.

But the personal attacks that some women have experienced…

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

You certainly demonstrated that a first lady could have great influence.

As for accomplishments, I just did what I had to do as things came along. 

Sure, I can see that but you risked a lot when you spoke out about injustice, civil rights and the plight of the poor.

Do what you feel in your heart to be right- for you’ll be criticized anyway. You’ll be damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.

Does it pain you to see what the political climate is now in America? 

Sometimes I wonder if we shall ever grow up in our politics and say definite things which mean something, or whether we shall always go on using generalities to which everyone can subscribe, and which mean very little. 

A lot of people are discouraged by our present polarization and want to opt out or disengage. 

Life must be lived and curiosity kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life. 

How do you stay so upbeat? Everyone wants to be happy but we don’t know how to get there.

Happiness is not a goal; it is a by-product.

It seems like everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame now, to go viral on the internet, to be recognized for something, anything. Do you see the downside to it all?

I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.

Funny. I’ve got to run but what’s the biggest lesson you learned from your experience?

I think that somehow, we learn who we really are and then live with that decision.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

The beer-bike race is a campus tradition that takes place just prior to spring break, when the end of the year is in sight and the Houston weather is begging you to be outdoors. Just barely interested in my freshman courses, I was eager to participate as one of the riders representing our dorm.

The event had been around since the introduction of the Schlitz 16-ounce beer can in the 1950’s. Each team fielded ten drinkers and ten riders. The tops of the cans were cut out for increased speed, but drinking that much beer in a hurry takes practice, and our team worked at it in the weeks leading up to the race. Somebody was always pushing the envelope for a personal best time.

The spectacle began with a gunshot, heads were thrown back, and representatives each drained a can of beer. Then a teammate would ride full-throttle into the first of the 90 degree turns required to circumnavigate the campus.

At the end of each lap, burly teammates would stand ready to jerk the exhausted rider off the bike, another teammate chugged another beer, while a new rider jumped on for the next lap. And so it did continue, the spectators screaming for their favorites, and the crashes were part of the entertainment. I was the first rider on our squad, and I managed to finish the course with a small lead.

We had chosen a student to ride the last leg for all the right reasons. Robert was almost 7 feet tall and had been captain of the football team that played in the Sugar Bowl. He was also a Rhodes Scholar and a serious competitor.

He was pulling away from the pack and only fifty yards from winning the race when the front tire blew out and sent him sprawling across the asphalt. He was hurt, but not so badly that he couldn’t pick up the demolished bicycle and carry it with him as he hobbled for the finish line still in first place.

That was a proud moment for the team and a good enough excuse to party like it was 1961. There was a young new President in the White House, Ricky Nelson sang “Hello, Mary Lou,” I had a girlfriend visiting for the weekend, and only a few people knew at that point what was about to happen to the country, to the music, or to the tradition.

Harpeth Rivers is a New Mexico transplant from all over who has in the last year written songs about isosceles triangles, played bass guitar in a band, and declared himself “Retro-eclectic.” His novel-in-progress is entitled Last Year.