Seventy-Nine

I remember staying the night at a bed and breakfast in the New Mexico desert. It was a stout and stately enclave of faded, cracking adobe and distressed cedar, a place rich with the musical traditions of New York. Owned by a woman who insisted that her guest sleep on starched sheets, the tiny compound was steeped in Native American culture and overflowing with an attitude of abundance and prosperity. Strangely opulent, the grandeur of old money sent to live in the southwest seemed surprisingly at home amidst the tangle of shrubs and dust on the banks of the Rio Grande.