Post
by timmy » Sat Aug 08, 2009 9:33 am
Two comments on the pic:
First of all, we don't have nearly enough women in the ranks of gun owners! It may be a chauvinistic saying, but the motto of my Mother's women's club was: "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world." That's something to think about!
Secondly, there was once a time (and I fervently hope that time will come again) that we lived in the paradise of the World, New Mexico. The little mountain town we lived in at one point, Red River, is a ski town during the winter and a retirement retreat during the summer of grandmas and grandpas from Texas. The town fathers (whatever that means in a town of about 300 to 400) determined to encourage an annual visitation by Harley Davidson -riding "Main Stree Desperados", the sort that dress up like Hell's Angels and ride their $20,000 bikes during the weekend and put on their suits and tasseled loafers for the rest of the week, during the summer, at least. Every Memorial Day (the end of May) hordes of them descend upon this little town and fill it with their drunken debaucheries (relieving themselves in any lawn is considered proper behavior), racing up and down the streets, and whatever other mayhem their repressed minds can think of.
One year, my aged uncle and aunt visited us. They were horrified to see that two were killed the weekend of their visit when they were racing down Main St. and hit the curb on the east end of town. Another pair were killed when they were roaring down Cimarron Canyon and hit a deer. (I've hit a deer, too, up there, but it was in a car and that was bad enough! Deer on the highway at night is always a constant menace and only a bird brain would roar through that canyon on a motorcycle under the influence of alcohol.) the 5th person parked their Harley in the middle of Red River (the stream) near where my uncle and aunt stayed. They found him floating face down a few hundred feet from his parked bike.
Anyway, most of these people seem to come from Denver. A large crowd had come down and were parked in a bar in Questa, at the base of the canyon on the way to Red River, 13 miles up the hill. (Red River is 8750 feet in elevation.) Questa, unlike Red River, is a very New Mexican town, and it has been around for ages. It isn't filled with gringos from Texas and Oklahoma, but by real New Mexicans whose families have lived there forever and which probably came over with Columbus.
At this bar, an altercation occurred where some of these motorcycle desperados attacked a Questa resident. Some of the locals came back and pumped a few rounds into a motorcycle, just to give a warning that this wouldn't be tolerated. The motorcycle goons (I guess here, I should say "goodhas?") gave warning that they would be back and the town would pay.
A few weeks later, they did come down from Denver again. The group was met at the state line by the New Mexico State Police. The troopers told the biker goons that they would not stop them from coming, but that they'd like to take a few representatives for a ride into Questa first.
The town, of course, was waiting. Anyone with sense could see that a bunch on motorcycles would be little match for an angry population of New Mexicans, all behind the thick adobe walls of their houses, houses that, behind every door, probably had a .30-30 just waiting for an emergency.
After a ride through town, the troopers took the bikers back to their group at the state line and the pack of them went back home to Denver.
Now, when they come, there is no more trouble with the residents of Questa, a generally peaceful and sleepy little town.