Bus ride December 17, 2010: A discussion with driver Bob about his work at the shamanic studies foundation as we were skidding over the mountain down towards Ojo. Gail got on at Ojo. We talked about dreams and I told the story about dreaming that the brother of a friend had died, and then being misled by a stupid facebook page into thinking that it was true. Then Gail told of a dream in which she found her lost dog but there was no outcome she knew of that confirmed what she saw in her dream, whci washer dog happily chasing a dark green pickup. We talked about New year’s Day food traditions and I said I always ate black-eyed peas. She asked me if I was from the South. I suppose, I said, I am…grew up in D.C. and then spent the bulk of my adult life in the south or deep south. When I told her I had once upon a time lived in NOLA, she said oh… she had lived in Morgan City. I asked how did she come to live in Morgan City. She said that she and a girlfriend were driving to NOLA and broke down by Morgan City. So they ended up staying nine months. “I love those coonasses!” she said, sort of punching me on the shoulder (she was sitting behind me). I laughed and she said, “you know what I am talking about!” Then she said she moved to Alexandria for a while. Coonasses isn't really the right word, I thought, and I thought of Michael Doucet and wondered if I should correct her, and say "they are Acadians." But she was on to something else. And here I had thought she was an Española dyed-in-the-wool native (and she might be) but she has been around. You can hear the cigarettes in her voice. And the second hand smoke. I told her I might come and help out at the flower shop on Valentine’s Day. Then the talk turned to the Rio Grande Sun police blotter. About the cows that got ticketed for walking on the main highway through town, Paseo de Oñate. She reminded Bob of the time a dead cow was stretched across his driveway when he left the house to start his morning rounds. I told them about the small dead horse I saw by the side of the road one morning on my commute. It shocked me so that I swerved nearly into the ditch. I mean, it kills me every time I see a dog that's been hit. Why? Dogs don't do any harm. But...A little horse got hit by a truck and no one stopped? This can be cruel country...like Yeats said no country for old men--make that women. I asked about Shorty? She is locked up again. I wonder if I should go check on her grandmother. I would probably get shot if I approached...but still...maybe not.