We just completed our annual Fourth of July sacrifice of more than $200 in fireworks for the benefit of our grandchildren and some visitors from a state where such shenanigans aren’t allowed.

The finale was a device called “Kooky Caterpillar,” which shot crackling sparks of vivid colors out of various orifices, whistled loudly and concluded its death dance with two red glowing eyes. I think it cost us $20 and the entire display lasted for 45 seconds. But the giggles and laughs from our grandchildren and visitors was worth it.

It made me wonder about what Fourth of July Celebrations were like in our town decades ago, so I looked up “Fourth of July” celebrations in Las Cruces on Newspapers.com.

Most entries were rather mundane, proclaiming that Independence Day activities would feature large displays of fireworks and that there was an upcoming election of a “Fourth of July Queen” in Mesilla.

But one article from the July 3, 1940, edition of the Las Cruces Sun-News caught my attention. The headline was “Blue Army Will Defend Cruces In 4th Battle.”

“Las Cruces will be defended by approximately 800 troops of the Blue army under the command of Col. Allen Fletcher against the Fourth of July blitzkrieg of an opposing army attacking on his flank at 9 a.m. tomorrow,” according to the lead paragraph in the story.

It appears that the battle was a mock attack staged to help prepare R.O.T.C. students from “State College” (Now New Mexico State University) for wartime duties as the nation began engaging in World War II.

The article said the students “have a special reason for putting up a hard fight, even though they fall in the tactics.” I interpreted that to mean that the students were pre-designated to be on the losing end of the mock battle.

The opposing and presumptive winning “army” was under the command of Col Cleveland C. Gee, an R.O.T.C. instructor from Fort Logan, Colorado. Fort Logan was an army base just southwest of Denver which was closed following World War II.

The article notes that the troops from Fort Logan had been spending several days in training at Fort Bullis in Texas, while the local boys trained at the “Dona Ana Target Range.”

The story said that the majority of the “fighting” would take place on the south end of downtown Las Cruces on Main Street.

Citizens were warned to keep their distance from the mock battle, since there would be guns fired with blanks.

“There are no balls,” Col Fletcher told the Sun-News. “But there is a wad. No one could be badly injured, but could be painfully hurt if a wad were to strike them.”

The article said smoke bombs were to be used during the mock battle, and Col Fletcher warned that “if a black smoke suddenly appears, there is no reason to call out the fire department.”

I suspect the smoke from our single “Kooky Caterpillar” was significantly more intense than that what was disbursed in downtown Las Cruces on the Fourth of July, 1940.

Things continue to improve in the Ruidoso area following the two devastating fires earlier this month. Police have now confirmed that they have now located everyone who was feared missing. The fires are largely contained and rains continue to dampen the area. Stories of kind gestures in the aftermath of the fire are starting to surface.

There was one story about a guy who had stayed during the fire and was checking on neighbors’ homes and feeding flocks of chickens while the owners were awaiting word that they could return to the village.

My own barber in Las Cruces took a day off and volunteered his heavy duty pickup truck and trailer to haul supplies from distribution centers in Mescalero and at the Inn of the Mountain Gods to various locations in Ruidoso.

“I heard what was going on and just wanted to do something to help,” he said. “I saw on social media that there was a call for large pickup trucks and trailers to haul needed supplies to residents and first responders. When I got to Ruidoso, there was a lot of confusion about where to go and what to load up and miscommunication between agencies, but we got it worked out and got things delivered.”

And police said that despite rumors and fears, there has been no evidence of looting in the area after the fire.

Well, except for one case. It seems that one man who somehow missed or defied the orders to evacuate the town on June 17 was wandering around and looking for someplace he could stay protected from the fire.

He stumbled upon a deserted house and went inside for shelter. He not only found a safe place to be during the fire, but also discovered the owners had left a case of wine in the house.

The man, who police described only as a “Texan,” managed to drink most of the 12 bottles of wine in the case — likely justifying it as helping him ease the fear of being left alone and surrounded by fire.

State Police were able to identify the suspect, capture him and charge him with “tresspass… and larceny” of items valued at $250 or less. That works out to be a little over $20 per bottle of wine, which in my experience as a low-budget oenophile sounded like pretty good stuff. I confess to have sampled some bottles of “Two Buck Chuck” from Trader Joe’s and described it to friends with the less than enthusiastic recommendation of “not that bad.” Hopefully the “Texan” found a little more enjoyment in what he sampled.

The situation in Ruidoso continues to unfold as residents have finally been allowed to return to see if their homes, businesses and favorite places in the mountain community have been destroyed in the devastating fires. At this point, there is good containment of both the South Fork and Salt fires, but officials still estimate more than 1,400 structures have been lost. And the number of people still missing is around 30.

I’ve received lots of comments on the blog that I wrote about the disaster last week. I’ve heard from several people with ties to my old home town, including one person who I haven’t heard from since we were in high school.

I’ve heard from the two teachers who I helped set up the Trout in the Classroom project at White Mountain Elementary this spring, and thankfully their homes were spared. But they worry, as I do, about the children in their classes and how many of those lost their homes. The teachers also confirmed that many of their fellow staff members have lost their homes as well.

I’ve done quite a bit of reflecting on this catastrophe and a couple of things have occurred to me.

First is how fortunate I was to grow up in a place like Ruidoso. It was a story book town for a kid, with many adventures to be had in the forests surrounding us, a close-knit community of like-minded people and a generally positive view about life. I’ve regaled you with memories of some of my adventures and misadventures I had in Ruidoso while growing up, and the fire has brought back many more — thinking about the places and people there. I think anyone who has grown up in a small town appreciates the things in that kind of environment that shaped them, and in my case, the spectacular mountain setting that I enjoyed.

The other thing is why it often takes something like this to remind me — particularly as I get older — that I need to stay in touch with people I have known over the years. I mentioned the person from my high school days who I hadn’t heard from in years.

It turns out he kept a letter that I wrote him 61 years ago when he had transferred from Ruidoso High School to the New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell. He scanned it and sent it to me in an e-mail. We shared some funny stories about things we’d done in high school, and he told me that he is suffering from what appears to be a terminal case of prostate cancer. I was touched by the fact that he had kept the letter and could find it.

My letter to him mentions some other friends who were attending NMMI and some other activities we did that I didn’t remember, like bushwhacking our own ski trails through the woods at the Sierra Blanca ski resort (now Ski Apache.)

I wish I had kept in better touch with him over the years. I wish I had kept in better touch with other friends of the years. I’ll promise myself to start doing that, but I fear I will probably backslide and then feel regret the next time someone who was once close to me has died or another disaster has triggered memories.

If you read this and think I’ve forgotten you, send me an email — we’ll catch up.

Growing up in the southern New Mexico resort community of Ruidoso, my father always said he feared that some day there would be a catastrophic forest fire that raced through the canyon and destroyed much of the community.

As you’ve probably been reading or hearing on electronic media, that very thing seems to have happened this week with devastating results.

As I write this, the extent of the damage is not completely known. And to make matters worse, the area was pounded by heavy rain and hail today, likely triggering flooding from runoff which normally would have been held back by vegetation.

Winston Churchill is credited with the phrase “sum of all fears” and in this case forest fires and heavy rain and hail seem to have combined to create that apocalyptic situation.

As my readers may recall, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in Ruidoso in the last several months working on a Trout in the Classroom project for the third graders at White Mountain Elementary. The project helps students learn about the importance of clean, cold water fisheries and the environment and give them an appreciation for nature in general and trout in particular.

I fear that most of those tiny fish we put in the Rio Ruidoso in early May are now gone because of this catastrophe — likely suffocating from mud and ash washed into the river and unable to survive a raging torrent of water.

But that’s only a minor concern. I think about the kids who were so excited to participate in the program. Who knows how many of them have lost their homes? Who knows how many of them will have to move somewhere else because their parents will lose their jobs because of the collapse of the tourist industry or the loss of their parents’ business? Who knows what kinds of nightmares they will experience after witnessing the giant smoke and flame-filled clouds racing toward them

And I worry about the teachers — two in particular — who I worked with so closely to set up the Trout in the Classroom program. At least one of them had to evacuate and I’m not sure about the other one. I texted both of them when the story broke and said I was thinking of them and hoping for the best. I think they still don’t know if their home survived. And in the long run, I suspect many families will move out of Ruidoso when their work and home is gone, meaning enrollment in the schools will likely decline. Will the decline in enrollment mean some layoffs in the school system? I hope my two favorite teachers survive — they are the type of teachers you want your kids to have.

Will an expected significant decline in summer visitors mean many of the small businesses that barely make it in Ruidoso have to close? Will the waiters, people who clean hotel rooms, shop attendants, mechanics, etc. have to relocate to find a new job?

I worry about the many friends we have who have vacation cabins or second homes in the Ruidoso area, many of whom looked forward to being in cool Ruidoso during the hot summer months here. And I think of the many people who looked forward to retirement in Ruidoso, wondering if their homes were spared and what kind of place the Village of Ruidoso will be like in the coming years.

It’s all very frightening and I wish all of them all the best and keep them in my prayers.

Ruidoso was a wonderful place to grow up as a kid. I think it shaped me in my generally positive outlook on life. I hope none of that goes away for those who experienced this tragedy, and that things can return to as near as normal soon.

The Albuquerque Journal’s Business Outlook section this week had a story about young kids — mostly teenagers on summer break — getting their first paying job.

There was a lot of focus about Dion’s Pizza, which has always made an effort to hire teenagers for work in their statewide franchises (including two here in Las Cruces.) I love to go into Dion’s and be greeted by the energetic, enthusiastic smiling teenagers wearing their bright red caps and aprons with yellow lettering. I figure for most of them, it’s a pretty good job — learning how to deal with customers in a busy environment. Both of my children did their time in the food service business while in high school and I think it was a good experience for them and taught them some valuable life lessons.

The story in the journal made me think back to my first serious summer employment when I was growing up in Ruidoso.

Of course I had work experience on my father’s newspaper from middle school on. I delivered papers to local businesses on publishing day, poured molten lead pigs for Linotype machines, occasionally set type, operated an engraving machine and did other tasks. The pay wasn’t good, but I did it because it was “family” and I learned a lot.

My first real job was at a small amusement park that set up for the summer months in mid-town Ruidoso. The rides included a carousel, small Ferris wheel, some bumper cars and a small train which operated on a track encircling the park.

My job was to operate the carousel. The work involved making sure everyone from the previous ride got off the contraption, that new riders were seated safely and that they got a certain number of revolutions when I started it up. It was a pretty simple job, but at that age, my mind drifted frequently and I sometimes lost count of how many revolutions the carousel made. Often, I became immersed in wondering how the contraption worked with all its rotating parts.

The owner of the amusement park soon noticed that I had a less than optimal focus on counting revolutions and concluded that I just wasn’t up to the task. He gave me a pink slip and my wages due. However, two days later, he called me back to work because he had forgotten that the busy Labor Day weekend was coming up and he needed more staff. Tail tucked between my legs, I agreed to return and finished up my job that weekend. I suppose I could have asked for a pay increase since I knew he was desperate, but I was pretty sure that strategy wouldn’t go well for me.

I also remember that one of the people I gave a ride to on the carousel was the super-stud quarterback of the high school football team. He seemed shocked and then embarrassed to see me operating the kiddy ride, knowing that I could blow his cool image.

“Please don’t tell anyone — especially the coach and my girlfriend — that I was here,” I remember him pleading.

I kept his secret, and when I joined the football team as a sophomore a couple of years later, he always treated me well.

I guess there are many morals to this story — mostly don’t get caught where you don’t want to be seen. And that’s especially true these days when everyone has a camera in their phone.

For reasons that probably won’t interest anyone, I have rejoined the Boy Scouts of America (soon to be renamed Scouting America) as an adult member of troop 66 in Las Cruces.

In order to join, I had to pay dues and various entry fees of more than $100 and take a course called “Youth Protection Training,” which is a good thing these days.

The whole process made me think back about my son’s experiences in scouting and my own Boy Scout memories in Ruidoso years ago.

My son was in Cub Scouts in elementary school when he competed in the “Pinewood Derby,” a gravity powered model car race in which vehicles made from blocks of pine wood must use certain components and weigh a specific amount.

My son Tyler and I purchased a kit and not knowing exactly what was in store, put together a green and red racer that basically looked like a wedge-shaped potato on wheels. We accidentally managed to get the weight exactly right by pouring some lead solder in holes we had drilled in the body of the vehicle and then attached the plastic wheels with nails as axles. The wheels looked a bit wonky and out of alignment, but we figured we’d give it a go.

Before the official race, Tyler lubed up the wheels with powdered graphite, most of which got on his face, making him look like an NFL player before a SuperBowl game.

On the race course, which was about a 10-foot ramp at a 20 degree angle, Tyler’s car zipped down fast and won every heat. On the championship round, his car smoked the competition by an eyelash to win.

We felt we had conjured up the perfect balance of wood, plastic and lead and decided that for next year’s race, we would make an even faster car that would win each heat by huge margins.

It wasn’t to be. We crafted a new silver and red car, festooned it with a spoiler and fancy lead weights that looked like a tuned exhaust system from a Formula 1 car. It looked like the fastest car among the competition. But when it rolled down the ramp, it performed like a Ford Pinto instead of a Ferrari. We didn’t even win the first heat, as I recall.

My recollections of scouting are somewhat foggy, given the many years that have passed since the time I joined Troop 59 in Ruidoso. (Our cheer ended with the incredibly imaginative words “Troop 5-9 — that’s mine.”)

I remember parts of my first overnight camping excursion on the middle fork of the Rio Ruidoso on the Mescalero Apache Reservation. As expected, the older scouts made sure we knew they were in charge. They made us stay up far past our bedtime on a legendary “Snipe Hunt” in which we waved flashlights in front of open pillowcases urging the imaginary birds to run inside so we could capture them. Having heard rumors about such things, we neophytes concluded it was a ruse and quickly gave up.

The worst thing about the trip was that someone squirted something truly putrid in my canteen which I had left outside my tent overnight. When I awakened in the morning, I took an unsuspecting sip and quickly spit it out, gagging afterwards. I have an opinion on what was put in my canteen, but I could never confirm my suspicions. The experience made me always keep my source of water close by my sleeping bag during camping excursions.

What I also remember vividly is when one of our assistant Scout Masters attempted to play the bugle at one of our troop meetings. The adult assistant, Elmer Pirelli, was widely known as the town drunk. He had lost a one or two front teeth over the years from excessive drinking or in bar fights. As a former trumpet player, I can tell you that your front teeth are a necessary for producing nice sounds from the musical instrument.

That fact that he was missing important teeth didn’t seem to deter Elmer. He placed the trumpet on his lips, inflated his cheeks and then blew through the mouthpiece, producing a flatulent sound like a sputtering Cushman motor scooter without a muffler.

I’m not sure what tune he was attempting to play, but it certainly didn’t sound like taps that we hoped would end his bugling career.

During World War II, Britons dubbed the German VI rocket that terrorized London as the “Doodlebug.” It alerted residents of its approach with an annoying pulsing buzzing sound from its primitive rocket motor, then became silent when the engine quit over the city and then after a few moments exploded when it crashed randomly around London.

Well, this post is not about that rocket, but about a real bug that I believe has its largest population base in the world just a short walk from our house.

It’s more commonly known as the “ant lion” or “antlion” and its scientific name is Myrmeleontiformia, (you can click on the name for a Wikipedia link to learn more about it.)

Its sole purpose in life is to catch other small insects in a cleverly crafted pit in loose sand or dirt, attack them with its formidable jaws, inject them with poison and then suck the juice out of them. Sometimes, they can kill insects larger than themselves. On their journey to create the “insect pit of death,” the bugs leave a crazy wandering pattern on the ground looking like someone’s mindless doodling with a pen on paper — hence the name “doodlebug.” For the longest time, I thought earthworms were leaving the meandering paths, but after some research discovered they were created by these weird bugs.

Just down the street and around the corner from our house, there is one section of dirt bordering the roadway where there are literally hundreds of the bug traps left by the ant lions. Below are a couple of photos I took recently of the doodlebug-infested landscape:

I’m not sure why the population of ant lions has chosen this particular spot for their home. It’s probably the fine sand that provides the slippery slope that their victims can’t escape from when they fall into the traps.

As I’ve mentioned before, our neighborhood has been home to lots of wildlife over the years — raccoons, skunks, squirrels, javelinas, foxes, owls, wild turkeys, coyotes, etc. I guess there is just something about Mesilla Park that appeals to critters.

I’m happy the ant lions seem to like it here and take care of capturing otherwise undesirable ants, spiders (and maybe scorpions), but I’m especially happy that they’re not large enough to create traps that humans can fall into and have their blood sucked out.

Anyone who’s been in New Mexico for a while knows about the burning of Zozobra, the effigy portraying gloom and doom that is torched every year around Labor Day during the Santa Fe Fiesta.

The burning of Zozbra began in 1924 when Santa Fe artist Will Shuster decided to have a private Fiesta party in which the ceremonial burning of an effigy would rid his guests of any chance of bad luck in the coming year. Schuster and a friend came up with the word Zozobra for the effigy, which is based on the Spanish verb Zozobrar, meaning “to worry.” The roots of the ceremony can be traced back to Easter Holy Week traditions in some Native American communities of Arizona and Mexico, in which an effigy of Judas was led around villages on a donkey and ultimately set on fire.

I once interviewed legendary State Historian Myra Ellen Jenkins about the New Mexico tradition and enjoyed her colorful description of such events in the state’s past.

“There were communities that would goof around with a ceremony every year and set little statues on fire to make sure there was good luck from the coming year,” I think I recall her telling me. “And I think they had some libations with the ceremony which made them feel even more optimistic about the future.”

The burning of Zozobra — now a 50-foot tall effigy that isset on fire every year around Labor Day at Santa Fe’s Fort Marcy Park — now has a new twist.

The cities of Santa Fe and Albuquerque announced this week that they have authorized construction of a 135-foot tall hot air balloon in the shape of Zozobra that will fly this year’s Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.

Naturally, in keeping with tradition, I wondered whether the balloon will be set on fire after each flight — an expensive proposition given that the balloon is estimated to cost about $300,000 to construct. And of course, hot air balloons already have fires on board to heat air inside them and make them buoyant, so torching them immediately upon landing would be easy.

This made me think about a Federal Aviation Administration regulation, Part 830.5, which defines what constitutes an aircraft incident or accident which must be immediately reported to the National Transportation Safety Board.

It says the operator of an aircraft must notify NTSB in the event of several occurrences, including: “(4) in-flight fire,” and “(5) Aircraft collision in flight.”

Well, duh, you kind of have to have an in-flight fire to keep a hot air balloon aloft. And if you’ve even seen the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta, you’ll frequently notice balloons gently bumping into eachother during mass ascensions, which I guess counts as an “in-flight collision.”

In my experience in flying a hot air balloon, I’ve always had an “in-flight fire” and I’ve had numerous occasions at Fiesta where other balloons bumped into me or I bumped into them during a flight without any consequences. I’ve never reported any of these incidents to the NTSB — maybe I should have.

This Labor Day weekend, maybe I should burn a miniature version of Zozobra so I won’t have to worry about reporting myself to the feds.

There was a sad story in the Albuquerque Journal last week about a young man from the Boston area who had died from ingesting too much capsicum in chile extract from participating in a “One Chip Challenge” that was circulating on social media.

The story noted that the young man had a congenital heart defect which made it more difficult for his body to process the intense hot flavor of the chile extract.

Reading the story made me think back to our daughter’s science fair project during middle school involving the effects of hot chile on humans. (I’m proud to say that both of our kids made it to the state science fair at New Mexico Tech with their projects. They didn’t get top state honors since those usually went to the sons or daughters of rocket scientists whose projects were so sophisticated and esoteric that it made my brain hurt when I tried to understand them.)

My son’s winning project involved predicting the time frame for deterioration of adobe bricks exposed to the outdoors. He had another project in which he tried to determine whether Seasonal Affective Disorder affected the behavior of mice kept in a dark closest. (I’ll save that story for a later time.)

Our daughter first tried an experiment to determine how quickly different colors or hot air balloon fabric deteriorated when exposed to constant sunlight and UV rays. She got an honorable mention at the local fair but did not advance to the state event . But her real “contribution to science” was an 8th grade project entitled “Chile Heat.”

In the project, she asked almost 50 neighbors, work associates and other individuals to taste some really hot green chile and determine whether it might instantly raise their body temperature. Her thought was that a dose of hot chile or its extract might help raise a person’s body temperature if they had been exposed to extreme cold.

The results were pretty impressive. Almost 84% of the participants showed an immediate increase in body temperature of about 1 degree after eating the hot green chile. Many of the participants (including me) had intensely watery eyes, red faces and at least a couple experienced severe hiccups.

I know from experience that you can get a pretty severe reaction to hot chile. I once ate a raw chile pepper that was so hot I thought I was going to choke and pass out. Another time, my wife and I peeled so much hot green chile that our hands began to burn. The pain was so intense that we called the state poison control center for help. Their only advice was to stick our hands in ice water for as long as we could stand it to numb the pain. I wore contact lenses at the time and I couldn’t insert them in my eyes for a week afterwards because of the continued burning sensation transferred from my fingers to the contacts and my eyes.

Chile does have its beneficial effects on humans. According to an article in “MedicalNewsToday,” capsicum, including capsaicin, “may help reduce pain and lower the risk of metabolic syndrome and cancer. Research also implies it may reduce the risk of death, as well as fight bacterial infections that are resistant to antibiotics.”

But as much as most New Mexicans love their chile, we have to realize there may be a limit to how much we can tolerate the really hot stuff.

One thing I think New Mexican can ever get enough of is the aroma of roasting green chile. After all, the New Mexico Legislature in 2023 declared it as “the official state scent.” I think that’s a lot more appealing than the smell of crude oil in Texas or feedlots in Nebraska.

I’m easily entertained by people watching at airports when I’m waiting for a plane. I wonder why people are traveling, what their lives might be like and who they might vote for in the upcoming elections. (Actually, I don’t think you can guess that by mere appearance, given my experience as a voter registration clerk in two previous elections.)

So while waiting for my flight out of Austin this week, I noticed a couple across from me, clearly trying to look affluent and cool and hide their age with excessive black coloration of their hair that seemed to conflict with the many creases in their faces. (Yes, I have those age lines too, but my hair is what it is — brown with more and more touches of gray).

On the lap of the man was a tiny dog, a terrier of some sort, with a pink topknot bow apparently indicating its female gender. I doubt the dog weighed more than five pounds and was well behaved. It never made a yip or a bark and only got excited when the man fed it a tiny bit of Amy’s Ice Cream.

As the couple’s flight was called to board for Kansas City, the woman picked up her medium sized and oh-so-fashionable black leather purse and unzipped it. I suspected she was checking for last minute flight necessities before boarding.

But what happened was not what I expected. The woman scooped up the pup from her husband’s lap and placed it (gently) in her purse. Then she zipped it completely shut and walked toward the boarding line.

The dog never made a noise — not a whimper, yip or a bark.

As far as I could tell, the purse was not made specially for carrying around a small dog. I saw no vent holes or screens where the dog could peek out.

I can’t imagine anything more terrifying for a dog — being zipped into a complete dark case with little or no air circulation and no way of seeing out. And on top of that, I’m sure the high-pitched whine of the jet’s engines and the extremely rough ride we all experienced getting out of Austin that day was even more frightening for the dog.

I love all dogs, even though I’m partial to full sized ones like our pooch Chester. I like it when they are around, but I think there is a limit to that. I see more and more people traveling on planes with their pets these days. These owners must like showing off their dogs or proving how cool they are by traveling with them. (Service animal owners excepted). However, I suspect most dogs (or cats) would much prefer just to be left at home in their familiar places while they are temporarily cared for by someone hired by their owners.

I could not imagine treating an animal like that small dog was treated this week.

Maybe next time I see something like this at an airport, I should rush over and grab the animal’s container from its owner then free it. But of course, that would be terrifying for the animal as well and I would end up in jail. I can just hope people like this dog’s owners will display good common sense in the future.

__________________________

On another topic and speaking of elections, I will start another round of volunteering as an election clerk tomorrow. I work as a same day registration clerk for the two weeks prior to the June 4 New Mexico primary and then on election day doing that same job and working as a “Machine Judge” — essentially the No. 2 person at the polls.

Because of these duties, my blogs may be a bit sparse in the next couple of weeks. But I’ll have lots of time to think about what I hope will be entertaining topics to write about.

And as always, if you have any comments or questions, please forward them to to me at my email address at patrick@aero.cordero.com

My wife and I have become fans of the “Father Brown” mystery series on Brit Box. A meddling Catholic priest in the mythical town of Kembleford in the Cotswold region of England is an amateur sleuth who always manages to upstage the local police in their investigations of murders in the otherwise tranquil British countryside.

One of the characters in the series is Lady Felicia, a woman of nobility who is shuttled around in her classic Rolls Royce by her chauffeur, Sid, who also occasionally assists Fr. Brown in his investigations.

And while Sid may have a guaranteed job during the time period of this series, a recent article I read showed more and more Rolls Royce drivers are choosing to drive their own luxury sedans rather than having a chauffeur at the wheel. That means that more and more Rolls Royce chauffeurs may be looking for new work these days.

I once read an excerpt from a Rolls Royce owners’ manual which had a separate section on driving tips for chauffeurs. One of those tips suggested that upon coming to a stop, the chauffer should slowly decrease pressure on the brake pedal so that the passengers do not experience a lurch forward at the final point of stopping. (I actually try to practice that myself, although I’m certain no one has noticed.)

And speaking of cars eliminating jobs, I spotted a related article in my last edition of the “Roundel,” the BMW owners group magazine.

In that article, it said the BMW is currently experimenting with a self driving feature that allows certain high-end Bimmers to valet park themselves. It apparently only works at locations that have the proper technology to guide the driverless car to an appropriate parking spot. Here’s what the article said:

“Cars that can park themselves once you have found a spot are becoming increasingly common, but BMW takes this to a whole new level with the Remote Valet Parking Assistant. The feature has been integrated in a research version of the electric BMW i3, and combines information from laser sensors with digital plans of multi-story car parks to navigate.

The driver can just get out and activate the parking assistant on a smartwatch, for example. The sensors let the car recognize the structural features of the car park and avoid any obstacles that appear unexpectedly, such as incorrectly parked vehicles. Once the car has arrived at the parking space, it locks itself.”

So if you’ve been nervous about tossing the keys of your $165,000 BMW M8 Competition convertible to an overly testosteroned 20-something valet parking attendant, fear no more — Remote Valet Assistant Parking will do the parking for you.

But if you pull up to that fancy restaurant in a ratted out 1996 Chevy Malibu, you’re on your own to park it. The valet parking attendendant has been replaced by BMW.

Imagine you come to self awareness and realize you are a rainbow trout in a 55-gallon glass prison cell. You constantly bump up against the clear walls that surround you and you endure the endless sound of buzzing machines pumping water. Each day, at least 100 scary animals, mostly small humans, peer at you quizzically through the glass. A larger human occasionally dips testing things into the water, but you’re not sure if she’s trying to help or catch you.

You’d consider swimming so fast that you could leap out of the tank, but who knows what fate might await you once you escaped.

But today, one of the larger human animals dipped you out of the glass prison and put you and your other 12 brothers and sisters in a white round object filled with water. Next you went on a scary rumbling ride in a thing that looked like a giant yellow dragonfly, then were scooped out into a smaller white round object and then … suddenly released in a clear, cold river in the mountains. You are now free to live your life with other members of the Oncorhynchus mykiss in the Rio Ruidoso.

Yes, the White Mountain Elementary Trout In the Classroom fish were freed today into the waters of the Rio Ruidoso.

Okay, enough of the drama. If you’ve been following my blog, you know that I’ve been helping the third grade classes at White Mountain Elementary with Trout Unlimited’s “Trout In the Classroom” program to help young students learn about the importance of clean cold waters by raising trout in their classes and releasing them into the wild.

Today’s event culminated more than three months of raising trout from eggs to fry in the third grade classroom of Michelle Thurston at White Mountain Elementary. Assisted by “Trout Queen” teacher Rachel Lutterman and four other third grade teachers, the fruits of their semester-long effort were achieved today in a grand release party on the river. (You can read my earlier posts on this project by clicking on the blog section and scrolling down.)

The 125-plus third grade students who were bused to the park enjoyed the day by going on a nature scavenger hunt, checking water quality on the river and learning about fly fishing and casting from my wife and me. Then they all gathered around as we released each of the 13 fish into the waters of the Rio Ruidoso. And then to celebrate, they managed to munch down 35 boxes of pizza provided by Trout Unlimited and other donors.

I had the honor of releasing “The Big Kahuna,” the largest of the small trout that were raised in the tank at the school. He was in a large plastic bucket with 12 of his brothers and sisters when teacher Rachel Lutterman scooped him into a small paper cup. I took him to the bank of the river with scores of third graders looking on as I loudly announced: “The release of the Big Kahuna.” Then I kneeled down and let him slip out of the cup into the river. It was followed by a big cheer, one of the best I’ve ever experienced.

It was a happy moment but also sad. One of the teachers actually shed a tear because she will miss them swimming around the tank in the classroom and worried about their survival.

The teachers were so enthusiastic about the program that they are planning to do it again next fall. They put an incredible amount of work into this project and parents should be proud to have their kids in these classes. I hope it all goes well next time around and that the Big Kahuna can be a mentor to the new fish that will be released sometime in December.

Stay tuned!

Imagine that you’re cruising down Interstate 10 in southern New Mexico. It’s getting close to lunchtime and your Tesla’s charge is getting low. On your car’s navigation screen, a Tesla charging location pops up on the next exit in Las Cruces. You take the exit and there it is — “The Roasted Rooster” with about a dozen Tesla charging ports just waiting for your electrified ride and your growling tummy.

What could be more convenient — a charge and a chicken and waffle combo while you wait.

But wait — what’s this next door? The “Baked Chicken Farm?”

Look closely at the image above and you’ll see that it’s not another chicken-based eatery. It is a marijuana dispensary and a “farmware” outlet.

Tempted as I was to explore what might be considered “farmware,” I didn’t care to be seen venturing into a marijuana dispensary to determine if they sold overalls. I’ll just have to speculate that they sell farmer-type clothing or maybe other farming accoutrements.

I’m wondering what kind of person might venture into this place. I guess if you are an overall-wearing uber/urban cowboy/farmer who drives one of the weird Telsa Cybertrucks, loves chicken and waffles and likes to stay buzzed on weed, you’ve made it to the promised land.

But if you’re the typical southern New Mexico farmer/cowboy, driving a Ford F250 Super Duty in your wranglers, sipping a Coors light and craving a green chile cheeseburger for lunch, I doubt that this is your kind of place.

However, I do have to hand it to the owner of this facility for offering something truly unique in terms of cross marketing and especially for giving me some fodder for my blog.