Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities
Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities
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When I was a kid, I stayed alert to the whims of the Axis power, namely my mother, and I found she had a vast array of covert knowledge hidden beneath her quaint farm-girl homilies. Her views on some of mankind’s most endearing areas of scholarship stick with me to this day. Such as: •Mom’s view of religion: “You’d better pray that oil stain will come out of the carpet.” • On time travel: “If you don’t straighten up, I’m going to knock you into the middle of next week.” • On logic: “Because I said so, that’s why.” • On pla...
When we lived in the boondocks outside Santa Fe, I woke one morning to the sound of a whining dog. That wasn’t unusual, because we had half a dozen semi-literate canines at the time, stray animals that showed up each day for breakfast. But I peered out the window anyway and saw a spotted pup knee deep in snow and shivering. I’d seen the animal before. It belonged to our neighbor, Ned Fricker. “It’s Ned’s dog,” I told my wife Marilyn. “I’ll bring it inside.” It wasn’t the first time I’d made such a mistake. Obviously th... Full story
When we lived in the boondocks outside Santa Fe, I woke one morning to the sound of a whining dog. That wasn’t unusual, because we had half a dozen semi-literate canines at the time, stray animals that showed up each day for breakfast. But I peered out the window anyway and saw a spotted pup knee deep in snow and shivering. I’d seen the animal before. It belonged to our neighbor, Ned Fricker. “It’s Ned’s dog,” I told my wife Marilyn. “I’ll bring it inside.” It wasn’t the first time I’d made such a mistake. Obviously th...
I’ve been out of focus the last few days — a flu bug bit me — but I’ve kept busy wallowing in self pity and researching the bad side effects of medicines I saw advertised on television. When you have the flu, you do silly stuff like that. What I really wanted was a summer day on a grassy knoll in Akron. There I’d sit with a long-legged blonde who would pat my hand and softly murmur, “Poor, poor boy.” But instead, into my fogged brain popped memories of old-time pharmacists who were all called “Doc” in those days, because the... Full story
I’ve been out of focus the last few days — a flu bug bit me — but I’ve kept busy wallowing in self pity and researching the bad side effects of medicines I saw advertised on television. When you have the flu, you do silly stuff like that. What I really wanted was a summer day on a grassy knoll in Akron. There I’d sit with a long-legged blonde who would pat my hand and softly murmur, “Poor, poor boy.” But instead, into my fogged brain popped memories of old-time pharmacists who were all called “Doc” in those days, because the...
Now that all the sentimental Valentine love stuff is over, let’s talk about why this month always gives me the flimflams. It’s an emotional roller coaster dating back to a religious experience I had in the fourth grade. Each February in those days, docudramas were staged in towns across the land commemorating the birthdays of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. Students were tapped to publicly portray historic presidential moments, acting out these parts in citywide celebrations. My school was no different. I had alw... Full story
Now that all the sentimental Valentine love stuff is over, let’s talk about why this month always gives me the flimflams. It’s an emotional roller coaster dating back to a religious experience I had in the fourth grade. Each February in those days, docudramas were staged in towns across the land commemorating the birthdays of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. Students were tapped to publicly portray historic presidential moments, acting out these parts in citywide celebrations. My school was no different. I had alw...
Bob Huber: CNJ columnist A couple of years ago I was in a quandary concerning an appropriate Valentine’s Day gift for my wife Marilyn. Should I buy her a new fly rod or a miter saw? I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. All our married lives I never let Valentine’s Day slip by without lavishing some amorous keepsake on my lifelong sweetheart. But once in a while I had a problem. One time I wanted to buy her a new fishing boat. I couldn’t help myself. But a week before the eventful day I stumbled across a better gift — a mount... Full story
A couple of years ago I was in a quandary concerning an appropriate Valentine’s Day gift for my wife Marilyn. Should I buy her a new fly rod or a miter saw? I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. All our married lives I never let Valentine’s Day slip by without lavishing some amorous keepsake on my lifelong sweetheart. But once in a while I had a problem. One time I wanted to buy her a new fishing boat. I couldn’t help myself. But a week before the eventful day I stumbled across a better gift — a mounted large mouth bass that...
Bob Huber: CNJ columnist It happens every spring — hornets buzz, dirt blows, and I recall my youthful romance with Tangerine Crotchmire. It didn’t last — it just wasn’t meant to be — but it was a shining moment in my misspent youth, and it comes back every year to haunt me. Tangerine was the sister of my friend Virgil, and when we were kids, she often carried our weapons to European battlefields on the slopes of the Colorado Rockies. She wasn’t old enough to be certified in any weaponry, but she was a good gun bearer. Her...
It happens every spring — hornets buzz, dirt blows, and I recall my youthful romance with Tangerine Crotchmire. It didn’t last — it just wasn’t meant to be — but it was a shining moment in my misspent youth, and it comes back every year to haunt me. Tangerine was the sister of my friend Virgil, and when we were kids, she often carried our weapons to European battlefields on the slopes of the Colorado Rockies. She wasn’t old enough to be certified in any weaponry, but she was a good gun bearer. Her duties came to an end one... Full story
Bob Huber: CNJ columnist In case you haven’t noticed, the Legislature is firklytootling again up north, which brings to mind a political alert for all citizens of New Mexico: “Stay in the roundhouse, Nellie. The senator can’t corner you there.” I had occasion to spend several character-building years in that round building we call the state capitol, and I can say without fear of contradiction that when the Legislature is in session, it’s serious business. Now that I’m in my autumn years with a Bow-Flex body, I admit the r... Full story
In case you haven’t noticed, the Legislature is firklytootling again up north, which brings to mind a political alert for all citizens of New Mexico: “Stay in the roundhouse, Nellie. The senator can’t corner you there.” I had occasion to spend several character-building years in that round building we call the state capitol, and I can say without fear of contradiction that when the Legislature is in session, it’s serious business. Now that I’m in my autumn years with a Bow-Flex body, I admit the reason I seldom talk about San...
A learned friend of mine spent the holidays in Los Angeles and later wondered if she shoulda stood in bed. Her sad tale began when she left the comforts of her prairie home in eastern New Mexico and drove to Albuquerque to catch a plane. Remember last month when a blizzard hit just before Christmas, snarling traffic, giving weatherpersons the flimflams, and otherwise making it impossible to get a suntan on the sparkling beaches of Oasis State Park? As usual, snow and ice caused a truck to jackknife east of Albuquerque, tying...
Bob Huber: CNJ columnist A learned friend of mine spent the holidays in Los Angeles and later wondered if she shoulda stood in bed. Her sad tale began when she left the comforts of her prairie home in eastern New Mexico and drove to Albuquerque to catch a plane. Remember last month when a blizzard hit just before Christmas, snarling traffic, giving weatherpersons the flimflams, and otherwise making it impossible to get a suntan on the sparkling beaches of Oasis State Park? As usual, snow and ice caused a truck to jackknife... Full story
It’s hard to let go of Christmas. Take for example a yuletide footnote I have in hand signed off by none other than the Alaska Department of Fish & Game. It has to do with love and marriage among Santa’s reindeer. By the way, Alaskans call their reindeer “caribou,” although we know a reindeer when we see one. They’ve been on TV for years in holiday cartoons. What the note says is this: Both male and female reindeer grow antlers in the summer, but in early December, when the rutting season is over — I love that term — the... Full story
Now comes the post-holiday clamydamps, which always reminds me of high school Christmas productions and my rookie Thespian career. They were epic moments in theatrical history ranked up there with performances by Larry, Moe, and Curly. The one I remember most was the result of a unique blend of blonde hair and my snarling teenage genes. In other words, this certain blonde asked, “Are you trying out for the Christmas play?” “You bet,” I replied. I’d have said the same thing if she’d asked me to confront Godzilla in downtown...
Now comes the post-holiday clamydamps, which always reminds me of high school Christmas productions and my rookie Thespian career. They were epic moments in theatrical history ranked up there with performances by Larry, Moe, and Curly. The one I remember most was the result of a unique blend of blonde hair and my snarling teenage genes. In other words, this certain blonde asked, “Are you trying out for the Christmas play?” “You bet,” I replied. I’d have said the same thing if she’d asked me to confront Godzilla in downtown...
In the years when I was forming, I attracted several pet dogs of dubious persuasion. One of them was so ugly we named him “Gag.” It was actually my father who named the dog while deep in the throes of a terminal malady called Boozus Griefus, or as they say in medical circles, an awful hangover. When he first saw the homeless dog, and he said, “Oh, gag!” and the name stuck. Dad wasn’t normally that chatty during daylight hours because of his nightly soirees to Larsen’s Saloon. At sundown he donned his drinkin’ clothes — a g...
In the years when I was forming, I attracted several pet dogs of dubious persuasion. One of them was so ugly we named him “Gag.” It was actually my father who named the dog while deep in the throes of a terminal malady called Boozus Griefus, or as they say in medical circles, an awful hangover. When he first saw the homeless dog, and he said, “Oh, gag!” and the name stuck. Dad wasn’t normally that chatty during daylight hours because of his nightly soirees to Larsen’s Saloon. At sundown he donned his drinkin’ clothes — a g... Full story
When Christmas dust settles, I always face a colossal quandary — what do I do with the poinsettias? They never come with directions. In many cases, I don’t even know who sent them. To my way of thinking, they’ve turned into a national dilemma. Do I transplant them in the garden? Hack them to pieces? Put salt on their tails? They’re an albatross around my neck. Each Christmas I get some poinsettias anonymously. Even when I sat before the character-building teletype machines of United Press, poinsettias came each year. I had h...
When Christmas dust settles, I always face a colossal quandary — what do I do with the poinsettias? They never come with directions. In many cases, I don’t even know who sent them. To my way of thinking, they’ve turned into a national dilemma. Do I transplant them in the garden? Hack them to pieces? Put salt on their tails? They’re an albatross around my neck. Each Christmas I get some poinsettias anonymously. Even when I sat before the character-building teletype machines of United Press, poinsettias came each year. I had h... Full story
Now that I’m knee deep in sunset years, I suppose it’s time to stop pining for the mornings of my life and enjoy the evenings. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop playing with Christmas toys, does it? I say nuts to that. I don’t want you to think I’m angry, but I refuse to accept the old bromide that toys are only for kids. Why should they have all the fun? We’re the ones who pay for it. What’s more, I remain steadfast about folks who think I should grow up and stop pestering toy store clerks. I have an excuse — I’m simply a...
Now that I’m knee deep in sunset years, I suppose it’s time to stop pining for the mornings of my life and enjoy the evenings. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop playing with Christmas toys, does it? I say nuts to that. I don’t want you to think I’m angry, but I refuse to accept the old bromide that toys are only for kids. Why should they have all the fun? We’re the ones who pay for it. What’s more, I remain steadfast about folks who think I should grow up and stop pestering toy store clerks. I have an excuse — I’m simply a...
An independent survey this week showed that hidden in the dusty catacombs of my files are dozens of juicy Christmas stories I experienced as a young, insolvent reporter. But only one stands out as a reminder of how innocent I was in those days. (Some biased reports claim I was stupid.) That story goes like this: A young mother in Denver hocked her cheap wedding band just before Christmas to buy a scraggly holiday tree for her three children. Her husband had emptied the family coffers and deserted her, and the pawn shop... Full story
