Years ago, as a boy about 10, I became mesmerized watching the “Tilt-a-Whirl” at a carnival camped near Independence Street.
     Most fascinating was the girls’ reactions as they emerged from the ride and the operator pulled a lever that released a blast of air, uplifting their skirts.
     That attracted a crowd almost 100 percent male, waiting to see which female would hop on the ride and what her attributes would be when unwittingly made public.

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    It was a wee bit embarrassing as an airport security officer right next to me grabbed a cigarette lighter and proclaimed, in a voice intended to resound considerably, “And this is where this cigarette lighter is going,” as he dramatically tossed it into a black hole of a deep metal container. Several dozen people clearly got the message. I was embarrassed because the actions of the security officer at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas drew considerable deliberate attention, and to the casual observer, I had gotten “busted.” He seemed to draw the lighter out of nowhere, and my being the closest to him made me a likely enough target.

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    One of my passions is sitting down with my 8-year-old grandson and namesake and telling stories about “the way things were in the Dark Ages.”
     It’s revealing to discover that many of the younger generation see the world as strictly late-20th century. Whereas we products of the Dark Ages can recall having lived under some 13 presidents, Bush, Clinton and Reagan are the presidential names that come most readily to mind for teens.

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    A recent event has provided the impetus for considerable soul-searching over actions and beliefs of Americans.
     The event took place only last week, involving an eight-day experience in central Mexico.
     This trip has convinced me that Americans generally, the “haves,” are anthropocentric enough to believe everyone should be just like us–and as soon as possible.
     We toured with other Americans and were led by a Chihuahuan-born guide and took the famous train ride into Copper Canyon, an area inhabited by an indigenous group, the Tarahumara Indians.

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    Evidence of a hotly contested primary election, scheduled for Tuesday, abounds. One merely needs to drive down certain streets in town to see the competition.
     With only minor exceptions, local campaigns appear to be clean. In Santa Fe, however, candidates are accusing one another of removing or damaging the opposition’s signs. And in Rio Arriba County, a county employee was arrested after three elections signs were allegedly found at his house. He told police he had no idea how they got there.

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    The constant changes in the language, wrought by inventions, travel, cross-fertilization of cultures and, especially, wars, would make it difficult, say, for people who use 19th century language to adapt to today’s usage.
     Although modern technology makes it impossible for the average Joe to work on his car, men still lift the hood to impress their neighbors. Does anyone stranded on the interstate, hood up, have any idea what’s broken? True, raising the hood alerts others to your situation, but can you really get help, short of using your cell phone to call a wrecker?

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    With the New Mexico primary election scheduled for June, candidates are redoubling their efforts to gain exposure.
     Because of the interest in the Busy-Kerry battle in November, people in this area are getting involved as election fever hits.

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    Two past columns concerned levity, the idea of finding humor in an otherwise serious situation.
     That theme is fitting, as my mother typified the notion of taking an otherwise somber situation and injecting humor into it.
     Marie M. Trujillo, my mother, who died in October 2002, epitomizes more than motherhood. Seeing my mom in a nursing home, hours before she passed on to another life, affected me profoundly. They say that when death is imminent, people’s lives flash before them. But how about the survivors? In the time I spent watching her breathing become shallower, a torrent of memories came through me.

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     A popular sitcom of the sixties, “Get Smart,” featured Don Adams as Control Agent 86, whose responsibility was to undo evil forces of KAOS.
     Bumbler that he was, Maxwell Smart made life miserable for his long-suffering boss, played by the late Edward Platt. On the many occasions in which Smart committed a faux pas, he’d simply utter, “Sorry about that, Chief.” So popular did that expression become that even the public used those exact words to rub out an error.

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     Is there any way to live decades and decades without getting old? I went to bed just before midnight Tuesday, at age 64. I tossed and turned for a few minutes and arose to take another look in the mirror, now at age 65. Instead of the Brad Pitt-type appearance I imagined, the new, more mature look resembled Mr. Moldy Face, Puffy Eyes and Turkey Neck.

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