After eight years at Lakeside, some friends are considering relocating to the USA, but would prefer a place that reflects Mexican culture. They have mentioned Las Cruces, New Mexico, having found some information on the web about this southern city—240 miles straight south from Albuquerque and 40 miles north of El Paso.
For those unfamiliar with the area, Las Cruces (The Crosses) stretches beneath the magnificent Organ Mountains and, with a population of 50-60 thousand, is considered the southern capital of New Mexico, known for its pecan and green chili production. New Mexico State University, the state’s original land-grant university, sits in the middle of the city. When my friends mentioned a possible move to Las Cruces, I experienced a wave of deep nostalgia, having spent 50 years in the “Land of Enchantment,” which does indeed still carry much of Mexico’s magic, plus its own unique blend of culture.
In 1949, I found myself in the northern New Mexico village of Santa Cruz, adjacent to the town of Española and situated between Santa Fe and Taos along the Rio Grande. My stepfather had followed Horace Greeley’s call to “go West” and we lived near the foothills on Llano Road, a dirt track about a mile from the Santa Cruz plaza. My youthful world was indelibly transformed by Latino and Indian cultures.
First, our new home: sun-dried adobe bricks covered with chicken wire and rough stucco; a flat roof made of sand, gravel, and tar, with vigas and latillas inside to hold up the tremendous weight; canales surrounding the rooftop to drain rain water; sealed brick floors decorated with Indian rugs; inside wall nichos with icons made by local santeros; a low adobe wall circling the front yard. The whole house smelled of earth and wood, from which it originated. A huge mud pit and an angled stack of adobe bricks with protruding straw fragments glistening like gold lay near piles of adobe forms, cut 2 x 4 frames crusted with mud and clay, waiting to be filled by Mexican and Spanish workers with leathery, lined faces, cordy forearms, and amazingly agile hands.
The village of Santa Cruz, a dusty 20-minute walk from our home, had its own rustic version of a plaza. The main attraction, of course, was the twin-spired Catholic church surrounded by adobe walls and cottonwoods. A nunnery stood close by, the sisters controlling the local school, Holy Cross. At Christmas, they filled our bags with candy and invited us in for delicious pastries and hot chocolate. The church, one of the oldest in North America, was constructed about 1692 and also served as a lookout to warn the nearby capital of Santa Fe, 26 miles south, of marauding Indians. Just up the road sat Chimayo and its famous santuario.
Many low-slung adobe homes circled the plaza, always emanating the inviting smells of tortillas, roasting meat, and beans from outdoor hornos. Two plaza tiendas, Torres’ and Lucero’s, stood at opposite ends of the plaza, where local aged males (viejos) in weathered western hats, worn jeans, and cracked boots hung around swapping tales in Spanish and Spanglish. A narrow dirt road ran alongside the church, and in the center of the plaza, surrounded by numerous paths, rested a large cross on an even larger pedestal, all made of adobe and stucco, and painted white.
I spent many hours on that plaza with my Spanish and Mexican friends, playing marbles, spinning tops, chasing chickens, throwing rocks, petting passing horses and burros, and leaning against the sacred cross eating fresh tortillas. After ten years in Santa Cruz, we moved to Albuquerque, but lost little of the village charm by settling into another adobe home just two blocks from Old Town Plaza, the original heart of the “Duke City” established in about 1706. Since moving to Jalisco and along the lake, I have simply exchanged a New for an Old Mexico.
So I hope that my friends, after many charmed years at Lakeside, find a similar ambience in the inviting arms of southern New Mexico. The stunning agave fields and Lake Chapala may be missing, but the musical sounds of Spanish, mariachis, and rustling palms will again greet them.
