My friend Fred Stoessel joined me last week for coffee at McDonald’s. As we waited in line, I noticed a teenager in the next line whose appearance connoted way too much experience for a girl who probably isn’t yet eligible to celebrate her quinceñera. Not only has this 21st-century Lolita been around the block — she may qualify for frequent flyer miles.
    A journalism student at Highlands, writing about a pair of students who had applied for work with the Albuquerque Police Department, said, “Before being considered, they must put in 400 hours of field work.” Then the writer added, “Those 400 hours are roughly equivalent to three college degrees.”
At least three services have been conceived for the benefit of ordinary folk: U.S. mail, the telephone and e-mail.
    Early in our marriage, when we set up shop in Zuni, N.M., one of us exclaimed, on our first trip to the post office, “Look, our first bills!
    Like magic, we are now five CDs richer. Had these been the kind of CDs one redeems at the bank, we’d be wealthy. But this batch is five compact disks.
    Long-time Highlands University secretary and neighbor Jane Quintana told me Tuesday that after reading Work of Art, she has to watch how she speaks, to mind her p’s and q’s. Her husband Nappy agreed.
    Anyone who believes “there’s no teeth to the law” might have emerged with a different perspective had they witnessed a confrontation Saturday at Camp Luna.
    One day this week we went to Santa Fe — twice. Well, it was actually more like two and a half times. Here’s what happened: We traveled to Albuquerque in the morning for an appointment. We returned mid-afternoon and got a call about picking up our two small grand-daughters. That accomplished, we recorded close to 400 miles, and neither we nor the car breathed hard.
    When the landscape takes on the appearance of a scene from “Dr. Zhivago,” that’s proof there’s been a heavy snowfall.
    Mother’s Nature’s early spring attack on northern New Mexico two weeks ago, justifiably has been called the “storm of the century.” No fewer than three national television networks identified Las Vegas by name, telling the country we were under two feet of snow.
    On a wall of our house hangs an old telephone, a reminder of rural life around the middle of last century.
    Unlike today’s slim, two-ounce Nokia version of instant wireless communication, this big, bulky machine has a crank, a generator that sends out real shocks, two bells, an oak case, plastic mouth and ear pieces and cord as thick as a python.
    It was enjoyable writing recently about dialects that people employ, depending on the situation.
    More than a year ago, I wrote about mall-dwelling, braces-wearing teenie-boppers named Jennifer whose every third word is “like,” as in, “And I’m like duh,” or “Like let’s go eat like a hamburger.” or “Like what do you want to do today?” The most recent exposition on language featured my take on how most people talk. People do not speak the way they read. On a good day, with a stiff tail wind, a writer can plunk down about 14 words per minute. That same person will speak 140 words a minute.