My City Different. Betty E. Bauer

abundance high in the mountains, and the foothills are alive with forests of stunted piñon and juniper. It is breathtakingly beautiful country.

      The state is sparsely settled with fewer than two million inhabitants which ranks it thirty-sixth among the states in population; however, its extensive land area measures more than 120,000 square miles which puts it fifth in the nation in size. Santa Fe, with a population today of about 65,000, is still a relatively small city. Its population totaled about 19,000 when I arrived in 1953 but, being neither a boom nor bust city, a steady growth rate in the two percent range has been responsible for the population increase.

      Normally, Santa Fe’s climate is mild, but extremes do happen. It has four distinct seasons, with winter lows near 30° and summer highs in the mid-80°s. I have known a few winters where the temperature dropped to 12° below, and summers where it rose into the high 90°s. Extreme temperatures are far more tolerable in Santa Fe than elsewhere because of the very low humidity which sits at about 13 percent most of the time, but has gone as low as 6 percent on occasion.

      It is high desert, and lack of precipitation can be dire. There are years when winter snows have been generous and spring and summer rains plentiful. Then the run-off fills the reservoirs to overflowing and the desert is lush and jumping with wild flowers. In those years, the native wild life stay in the upper reaches of the mountains, the grass down below is green and bountiful, and gardens bloom with abandon. Then there are the other years when winters are warm and open, and snow doesn’t come. Spring and summer rains have forsaken the land and it is brown. The grass dries up, flowers fade and die, and the mountain critters come to town in search of food and water. Magnificent deer saunter through residential grounds, plucking leaves from the trees and grazing on the remains of whatever edibles are to be found. The bears come around to gobble fruit from the few trees that are bearing and frighten the newcomers who are not in the habit of finding bears in their yards.

      Santa Fe has only two major industries—tourism and government. For this reason, the town is full of small businesses, most of which depend on tourism for their survival.

      It is called The City Different and was so named because it was strange and foreign to visitors and not remotely like any other American city. Its inhabitants also were thought to be a bit strange and different. This was in part caused by the cultural stew represented by the mix of Spaniards, Indians and Anglo Americans, seasoned with sprinkles of ex-patriot Russians, French, British, Germans and Chinese. And the lifestyle was also strange and different, being largely unrestrictive and tolerant.

      Santa Fe is an inventive place, alive with creative people because newcomers, without trust accounts or other means of outside support, have to invent a way to earn a living or leave.

      It is a land of contrast—a land than can be soft and seductive—a land that can be harsh and cruel.

       1

      Icame to Santa Fe by accident in 1948. I had been with my parents and their dearest friends to a fishing resort in Colorado’s Conejos Canyon just across the border from New Mexico. A day or two before we were to leave to return home to St. Joseph, Missouri, the cagey old duffer that owned the place got my father and his buddy, Lou, alone and said “You fellas ever been to Santa Fe?” They naturally said “What’s that? Where’s that? Why?” I say naturally because certainly no one East of the Missouri River, and not many West of it, had ever heard of Santa Fe. At any rate, he pricked their curiosity and further suggested we could see Taos on the way, then Santa Fe, then White Sands, Carlsbad Caverns, Juarez, Mexico, and so take the Southern route home. He had an ulterior motive—his daughter, a girl about my age, was staying with him during the summer and, this being August, he wanted to get her back to her mother in Lubbock, Texas in time for school. So once the men agreed we’d go that way, he suggested we take his daughter and so we did.

      Santa Fe was unlike any place I’d ever been or even imagined—low-lying, sun-baked adobe buildings with parapets along the roofline out of which short wood troughs jutted at each end and sometimes toward the center, slanted slightly downward. I learned that they were called canales and drained the roof of rain and melting snow. There were no harsh edges or corners. The buildings had a sculpted quality and were uniformly brown in color, highlighted with deep blue, green or white trim around the doors and windows. Here and there were murals painted on the walls—garden scenes, Spanish dancers in elaborate costumes, and religious icons. Behind gates and arches in the walls you could glimpse effusive gardens and sometimes a fountain—little droplets of water lazily flowing from its upper tiers to the basin below and, from somewhere behind those walls, was the delicate hum of guitar and lilting Spanish lyrics flowing from some disembodied caballeros.

      We went to the Pink Adobe which at that time was in Prince Patio, and what a treat to sit outdoors to eat in a garden—no flies or mosquitos. In Missouri in August we’d have been eaten alive and suffocated in the heat. And the sky was so blue, breathtakingly blue and clear and clean.

      I had never missed St. Joe, but I missed Santa Fe the day we left and every day thereafter until at last in 1953 I came home.

       2

      Ilived in a small compound off Galisteo for about a year and worked at the New Mexican. In those days, the paper still published a weekly Spanish Edition, Nuevo Mexicano, as well as the daily New Mexican. It had a staff of two. The younger member of the duo was a cute little fellow barely five feet tall named José Gallegos. José and I became good friends. I think he was attracted by my very blond hair. We’d go out after work for a beer, and one of our favorite hangouts was Frank’s Bar (where the Palace Restaurant is now). Along with Frank, it was presided over by Rosie Moya—a big, jolly gal who did not suffer nonsense or fools easily.

      One night we were sitting in a booth in the front part of the bar. I was facing the back part of the place which had an arched hallway that led into a rear room of some sort. I was never in there so don’t know what, if anything, went on back there. I was gazing absently toward this arched opening when suddenly a gigantic woman appeared. She filled the archway. She just stood there and looked at me and said aloud, “Wellll!” Jose’ looked up, saw her and said to me, “I think it’s time for us to go.” I found she was not the giant it seemed she was that night. She was Margaret Williams, known by everyone as Scoop. She surely had given me the once over.

      Later I met her through a friend of mine. She lived in an old cluttered adobe house on Camino Don Miguel, and she had a piano which she played beautifully. She was a strange one and reclusive. I never saw her again.

      The paper threw a big Christmas party at La Posada for all the employees. Mary Rose Bradford, former wife of Roark Bradford and mother of Richard, was dating Bill Bailey, Sportswriter at the paper. He was a crusty, sarcastic son-of-a-gun but, at a party, all the Irish came through and he was a lot of fun. I think Mary Rose, who was vivacious and full of hell, brought out the best in him.

      There was an old upright piano in the dining room, and Mary Rose hammered out tune after tune and sang the words in a gutsy, raucous voice. Most of us sang along.

      Jim Hughes, the Advertising Manager and my immediate boss, had promoted brides, babies, beauty, friendship, Fiesta, fireworks, rodeo, ranches, races, saints, sausage and siesta in an effort to build advertising inches for the paper until he hit the really big one—his vacation issue special—also his swan song. After that issue was sold and packaged, he left. Exhausted I should think.

      Emory Bahr was the General Manager, and he hired a young man from the Midwest, George Mouchette. George and I became good friends, and he recalled to me his employment interview with McKinney. Robert McKinney was the owner and publisher of the paper. George was invited to the ranch—McKinney’s home—and was shown into the library by their man who was sort of a butler, gentleman’s gentleman, handyman and general factorum.

      George sat in an upholstered, but miserably uncomfortable, chair and waited. McKinney finally entered and sat opposite George on a couch which had a long coffee table placed in front of it. There was a rectangular-shaped