Keep The Porch Light On ....or not?

 For years, since 1980 or so, we, the neighbors, if you can call us that ‘cause we live so far away from each other, relatively; well…..we helped each other build our houses some and raised our children and horses and dogs together and fell in love with the land in unison; the land and the beauty around us was and is the “great leveler” of our differences, be they political or some other diversity….well, we neighbors have been threatening to “shoot out” ______’s personal streetlight.  That is quite a statement to make and so it begs the question of : why?  I will try to make it clear somehow; shed some “light” on the subject (read as in flashlight…) 

Despite our basic fear of the dark, there is another aspect that bears understanding, which is that lights often glare in our eyes and cause discomfort.  When we are talking in the parlance of these issues, we talk about the viewshed as the basic  common item of interest.  Anything that interferes with the viewshed, or that which we look at, or “pollutes” the charm of the landscape, be it dusk, dawn or the other variations of light quality and quantity….is, in fact, a detriment to our quality of life.  Some of these things shock us into wanting to “shoot” them  out and get rid of the offender.  When the offense adds up by having more and more of them, then you are no longer, for many practical purposes, nestling in the charms of the country; you have brought the city out here with you, often unbeknownst to yourself.  The phenomenon happens in cities in the southwest, like Phoenix, where the people are trying to get away from their allergies of the Midwest of East  but just can’t help but grab that Colorado River water and irrigate and plant…….more flowering plants and trees; bringing, ironically, back to their lives the things they were trying to get rid of.  This is the case with light pollution. 

I had read somewhere something written by  a astonomer.  He or she stated that the amount of light that people have seen through telescopes for all these centuries till now is, actually, measured in lumens or whatever, less than the amount of light that can be put out by a flashlight for a few seconds.  Despite the need to factcheck this is speaks great volumes on the light that is constantly competing with the night skies.

Why do we care?  It all depends on our sensitivities and sensibilities.  In terms of the viewshed, the light from a lone high wattage, uncovered porch light begins to make it so we cannot view the glory of the stars at night or see that sublime line of the mesa as it greets the sky.  We must avert our eyes and in one way  or another we are forced to stare at the light (or have it “stare” at us) all night long.  Put in another way, it is extreme for not much good reason.  It is like the neighbors’ dogs barking all night; they may be used to it but it is, like cigarette smoke, putting to test their right to do something with our right to be left alone.  It tests their “need” for a sense of security and convenience with the greater “need” to keep what we bought and paid for to come out here.  Some things fly in the face of history and reality as we “knew” it, such as the  two lights up on the mesa line now, far away, but perched, for a few years now, on the edge of the mesa.  You would think this is not such a big deal, really, but think of it; there is a line of unspoiled Landscape  of Glorietta/Rowe Mesa that can be seen from Galisteo, past the Lamy turnoff, going north and then past Eldorado and along the Old Las Vegas Highway and up Glorietta Pass and down that long slope to Las Vegas and now, from Galisteo to Las Vegas, these are the only lights (read break and “pollution” of the “viewshed”) that can be seen in that, perhaps, 75 mile run.  Does one person have the right to change that sublime beauty?  I really don’t know, but it does make one wonder.  One could try to reframe it like I did with the constant din of traffic that dominated my friends property near I25 and pretend the vehicles going by are like the ocean with waves constantly coursing and crashing on the beach somewhere.  After a while, though, it just feels like what it is.  Turn it off, por favor.

Guy

When I first saw him he was playing with a large pig

Then he tipped his hat to my wife

Then regaled us with talk of roping elk, riding elk and chasing burros

For only twenty something I think he was quite a guy

In fact I think his name was Guy

He could live here too and take a cowboy dip at the falls

Or he could be driving the crawler around the ranch fixing things

Or taking Belle out dancing and two-step, polka, waltz, schottische, pretzel

Or making a table or set of shelves with all those tools, or less tools

He could be drunk in a bar, staggering all over the place

Wrapped around the toilet after closing time

He could be getting a divorce from his Anglo wife or his Spanish one

He could be talking to cops because his son turned him in for child abuse

He could be crying like a baby because it is all so beautiful and yet so sad

He could be writing a story of how he dumped the 1010 off the back of the truck

Or drove it off the mesa with no brakes with the 1010 and wife aboard

Or lifted it with a crane with neighbors and cops everywhere

Or hugged the bulldozer and then the crane guy for good measure

Or picking peaches with Fernando and supporting apple branches with sticks

Or walking in the river bed looking at rocks, beautiful rocks

Or making art, rustic and textural, pouring bronze or melting glass

Or wondering where the next dollar was really coming from

And worrying whether he was taking too long or charging too much or too little

And  bringing children onto the land so they could scamper around day after day

All summer long

Or catching rattlesnakes with a long pole and loop, dropping them into the dynamite box

And watching the children dreaming of catching one themselves later that day

And hearing his daughter talk of how the hawk swooped down in a blur of feathers

As she stood by wondering “what the hell” as it tried to get the duck six feet away

Or watching the ducks in water as they freed up that tension in his chest

Just by being themselves and loving water by birthright

Or playing his electric guitar loud and long and feeling the music in his body

Or playing Leadbelly songs on a 12 string Stella

Or going to an iron pour in Denver and playing for everyone solo

As the molten metal was poured into moulds for bowling balls

And sent down the chute spraying sparks and glowing red-orange

Headed for the white pins made of ceramic mold

Or speaking Spanish all day long to his helper, learning about Mexico

And how difficult it is down there and how much poverty and crime

Robos and drogas, gubierno sin mucho ayuda

And how they took the railroad apart for the steel

Or working hard, sweat dripping, arms pushing and pulling

Hands manipulating, making , making, thinking , thinking

Stress and tolerances, level and plumb, straight and curved

All things leading towards a goal, a house, a fixture, a door, a shower

Working for a living like our lives depended  on it

Like a young cowboy, Guy, playing with a large pig

On a beautiful rented ranch above Folsom and east of Clayton

Just a small one, barely 20,000 acres, barely enough to make a living on

Ya gotta give us credit where credit is due

For playing with that pig, alone, with noone watching

Except for maybe a tourist or two or a lessor and his friend

Credit for knowing that a donkey can toss a lady in a creek

If you aren’t careful

Or a sunset is worth taking a camera to, worth pointing and shooting

Give us credit that we got that elk and butchered it and brought it home than lean year

Credit for telling his hunter friends they are full of shit

Cause they don’t know a rat turd from a pinon nut

Credit for tanning the hide or trying to

Credit for buying the gun and chasing the bastard down with it

And going half-crazy afterwards, like a man in war who just shot a guy

Yeah and for saying “Howdy, maam”  and tipping that hat to the lady

And deciding not to get wrapped around a toilet anymore

And learning how to help things cool off

And learning how to type

And knowing how to read a tape measure, by god, and not tossing it into the nearest drink

And write stuff that is important, somehow