© 2023 Dean William Rudoy, PhD
On my very first visit to New Mexico, I was sitting at a window seat on the plane, as it made its landing in Albuquerque. I looked out and saw the Sandia Mountains, the Rio Grande River, and the color of the desert. Catching sight of the back of my hand, my knuckles became the mountains, a vein became the river, and my skin matched the desert. I didn’t know it then, but I was home. I got off the plane on that crisp, clear April afternoon and smelled the sweet fragrance of burning piñon in the air. I looked up at the enormous vault of the blue sky and then to the long horizon. The Land of Enchantment. Within a year, I left the gruff embrace of Manhattan and moved to the tender hold of the desert.
Some years later, two young grandsons of a friend were visiting and I suggested we take a drive. The two boys hopped into the back seat. My friend rode shotgun. As we crossed the Rio Grande, I looked in the rearview mirror and asked the kids if they knew the name of the river.
“The Rio Grande,” they shouted.
“Where does this river begin?”
“Up in the mountains.”
“What’s up in the mountains.”
“Snow, and it melts and makes the river.”
“Where does the snow come from?”
“The clouds.”
“Where do the clouds come from?”
They were stumped. And so, I told them about evaporation—like when you heat water on a stove and it makes steam. The same thing happens when the sun heats rivers and lakes and oceans. The steam goes up into the sky and eventually clouds are formed, which then rain and snow.
“Where does the river begin?”
“Everywhere!!” they shouted.
And we all laughed.
Dean Rudoy is author of Emissaries: Stories and Reflections
“a quiet book for chaotic times”.