As 2020 lurches to an end, the United States exhales a sigh of relief after experiencing one of the most trying years in our modern history. As of this writing, American democracy has just barely survived the stress test of an attempted coup d’état by a would-be dictator and his flunkies. Three vaccines appear on the horizon, although disbelief and suspicion might prevent a vast section of our population from making use of them.
On March 10, I started what I called my “Plague Journal.” It recorded not only facts, but the national mood as well as mine. On that starting date, there were only 808 Covid cases in the United States with a handful of deaths, mostly in a Seattle nursing home. I was shopping at Costco and noticed nothing unusual, no masks, lines or panic. The very next day, Trump issued his “reassuring” speech which set off a nationwide frenzy whereby toilet paper became more valuable than gold. Photos of empty supermarket shelves reminded me of gas station lines during the 1973 oil crisis.
But enough of that. Thinking back on this past year, my fondest memory is the 10 weeks I spent as part of teams delivering meals to Taos schoolchildren confined to their homes. The kitchen women at several schools — true heroines — organized a system with the precision and discipline of a major military operation. School bus drivers would drive their usual routes with two volunteers and deliver bags containing a breakfast, lunch and two milks to each child. It was not uncommon to give anywhere from two to six bags to each family — for some, a necessary source of nutrition. Every morning, we would load up five boxes containing nearly a hundred bags and three coolers of milk. It was rare to return with any, but extras were given to a grandmother who lived on my road adjoining Taos Pueblo or to our bus driver for his many relatives.
I rode on Bus No. 14 with Faustin, who had driven his route for 15 years and knew every family, child and pet in the towns of Arroyo Seco and Valdez, both north of Taos. Faustin was a true character. An expansive soul, he wore a hat adorned with the several rattlesnake rattles he had collected over the years. An avid hunter and fisherman, he gifted me with a pound of Oryx meat (legally hunted) and a filet of rockfish he caught on a recent fishing trip to Alaska. I routinely brought him coffee and cake snacks. Every weekend, Faustin would “cowboy-up” on his horse and move his cattle herd from one pasture to another. From him, I learned a great deal about the cattle business for small ranchers who don’t rely on feedlots but prefer their cows to enjoy the many pastures of the county. I was impressed that Faustin knew the owner of every herd we passed.
It was usual for him to stop the bus in mid-road to say hello to a passing compadre in a battered pickup or to ask women on their morning constitutionals how their children and grandchildren were fairing. If children were too slow to come to the bus, he would honk his horn and make amusing comments about sleepy teenagers, many of whom he’d known since their birth. Several of the families we delivered to lived in generational compounds, which is common with the traditional Hispanic population in Northern New Mexico. Several acres would contain separate homes for the nuclear family, siblings and grandparents, all surrounded by beautiful gardens, orchards and stables for the critters. One compound contained three teenage girls who raised chickens. They offered eggs to us by the dozen but refused any payment in return (I gave them several greeting cards of my artwork.) A few driveways down from them was the entryway to the home owned by movie icon, Julia Roberts. You would never know it because the adjoining properties are modest, as is she. Roberts keeps a low profile and we locals respect her privacy.
This autumn, the meals are still being delivered by Faustin and his stalwart co-workers. No doubt, they will do so for the remainder of the school year. Like others across the United States, our hospitals and care workers are being overwhelmed and the food banks are stretched to the max. But these brave souls carry on.
May the coming New Year bring not only relief but hope and a return to much needed peace, compassion and clarity.
Daniel A. Brown lived in Franklin County for 44 years and was a frequent contributor to the Recorder. He lives in Taos, N.M.