When I first cruised into Portales from Dallas for a job interview on a brownish summer afternoon in 1982, I almost made a U-turn.
Where were the co-eds on glistening slopes, feathered natives selling turquoise ties, quaint trains chugging through evergreen forests?
It’s taken 27 years, but I’ve finally stopped thinking of The Gulch as a gas-pumps paradise for high-speed getaways (with little chance of hitting a tree).
Beyond plentiful goobers, I cherish the many other “blessings” (as the 37 churches would describe).
These “godsends” include the occasional kite not leaving for greener pastures, an unbroken shock, a mower blade not breaking.
I even get teary about the money I could have invested in Peanut Valley Festival treasures but wasted on such Dallas frivolities as four-star restaurants, chart-topping concerts, King Tut exhibits, year-round professional sports.
Now those savings go into my kitty for a rainy day — which comes once or twice a year during water-main breaks.
The only sound that makes my 1982 U-turn veto even sweeter is, “Sir, would you like fries with that?”