White Sands!
I look at the photograph in the big leather photo album and marvel at the past. I'm wearing green shorts with white stripes on the sides, a light blue T-shirt with a Star Wars iron-on on the front, and knee socks with dorky red stripes. The seventies were odd, but hold memories. It appears in the picture that I'm in the middle of a Minnesota winter, but I tell my friends I'm not. They laugh at my fashion sense. I grin and think back to that image...
Afternoon sun burns bright. Its red soul standing sentinel in the sky. Warming and lighting the day. I look out upon the national park. A gypsum crystal sea awaits, blinding and sparkling in an ocean of endless dunes; waves of sand fill the horizon. I dream of childhood ventures. I dream of family get-togethers.
The temperature rises and I wipe tear drops of sweat from my brow. I'm amazed this winter wonderland exists in the heat of summer. I move my tennis shoes out into the desert covered with snow that never melts and I explore this undiscovered country. I wonder how this appeared to Cortez, to the Spanish, to the French in a time long ago. The edge of the desert glowing with a halo of pure heavenly light. It must have taken their breaths away and brought them to their knees in prayer.
Blue-green, rocky, sharp mountains stand watch over the kingdom of imagination. I stroll through this world and get lost among the dunes. North, south, east, west are forgotten. I look above my head to see only large smoke gray clouds. Puffed like popcorn by mother nature, those clouds become heavy and rain pellets fall. Not a shower, not a sprinkle. The hot air evaporates the water before it has a chance to hit the ground. Only a drop or two stains the sand. I hope it doesn't rain (although I love the rain; the way it washes the dust from the air). My mother calls me back to the picnic table.
Across this sea of sand, small islands grow. Islands of Yuccas. Each a platoon of slender shafts, with their yellow blossoms and emerald, razor bayonets standing at noble attention. I respect them. And I envy them. They never leave this spectacular place. Forever standing at home. I see my mother and grandmother setting the picnic table. The tables are old with arched canopies, some green, some yellow, like crescent moons. Uncle Mike lights the small, charred, black barbecue grill. I look back at my trail of footprints in the sand.
Once an ocean. Now, a valley of gypsum deposits. A beautiful way to go out, I think. Time lost; past and present; pages of time. I swim, dive and run in this forgotten sea. Looking for Easter eggs, chasing and surfing the wandering dunes. The smell of flame-kissed burgers floats to my nose. Cousins sit on the green '66 Rambler, parked next to the splintered table. Music squeaks out of an old AM/FM radio. Probably something by the Partridge Family. Ice cream oozes out of a pink carton, drips, forming a stinky pond beneath the weathered wood. Can we eat it now before it melts away? My mother slaps my hand back; the spoon drops to the bench.
Now, I'm all grown up. And, I hope to return to this place often, when the future seems so uncertain. The world awaits and I fear it. But in this place I will be happy, always remembering my past because that was when life was easiest. I will remember it by many names: New Mexico's most "enchanted land", a blinding wonder; Oz of the soul; Zia's promised land, of eternal snow -- White Sands!
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Christopher V. Whitfield
--1999 (revised)
