D  e  s  e  r  t     E  x  p  o  s  u  r  e     May 2005

Time Will Tell

An aging whippersnapper learns to respect his elders.

I always try to frame my columns in a culturally relevant context, making analogies to situations that touch on common human experiences. So it should come as no surprise when I reminisce about a poignant scene in the classic Farrelly Brothers' movie, Dumb & Dumber wherein the protagonist, played by that consummate thespian Jim Carrey, is in a predicament. He is encumbered with a substantial amount of baggage, and needs change to buy a newspaper. Not wanting to carry all the boxes and items with him to get change, he asked a passing old lady on a motorized scooter if she could watch his stuff. When she agrees, he thanks her by saying something to the effect that, "Gee, senior citizens, although slow and dangerous behind the wheel, can still serve a purpose." After years of extensive sensitivity training, I now understand that to laugh at such a statement is wrong.

Of course, when we are young, we are taught to scorn all that came before, such as polyester pants and Pat Boone. As we become more mature, we understand that maybe just because something's older doesn't mean it's without merit. Cast-iron skillets are actually better than Silverstone, and maybe this Shakespeare dude knew what he was talking about. Of course, about the time we start accepting the wisdom of our predecessors, a whole generation of whippersnappers comes along to make us feel irrelevant. Kismet.

I went to Deming last month, a quaint, historic village fairly populated with quaint, historic people. As a big fan of local history, I was surprised to learn that Deming was founded in 1627, and many of the original residents are still there. The original settlers were a roaming band of wayward Mulatto touch-typists, and they found Deming's, um, sand to their liking. Undaunted by the lack of flowing water or timber or game or shade, they immediately erected a 700-foot-tall granite edifice commemorating their trek. Unfortunately, it blew over in a spring dust storm. But they were resilient, and the following year, they built a 400-foot spire out of creosote limbs and chicken bones. This structure caught fire, but the next structure was a masterpiece: a 200-foot-tall temple built of corn tortillas, mud and Wal-Mart bags. This, unfortunately, blew over, caught fire, and was eaten by wolves.

But I digress: Deming is a veritable gem in the tiara of southern New Mexico, and I am impressed at the town's historic downtown district. When I visited, I met with an elderly gentleman who was selling a used car I had interest in. He was an authentic Deming-ite, with sun-blasted leathery skin and a slow, considerate manner of speech. I guessed him to be in his late 70s, and he was a talkative fellow. Luckily, I'm like flypaper for these characters, and he regaled me with many stories of his long tenure in Deming.

I already knew that Deming, like many communities in New Mexico during World War II, had a military base. Old aircraft hangers south of town provide dilapidated testament to an airbase for training during the war, and this old fellow had worked there back in the day. He told me about meeting the famous Tuskegee airmen, the squadron of black airmen who did their job with outstanding ability—and no lost pilots—in an age that didn't necessarily appreciate them for their skin color. He said the pilots were nice enough, but kept to themselves, and flew off again without much fanfare.

He told me about a B-25 bomber that had an accident there once when it had to land on its belly without landing gear. The men worked on the plane for six weeks, repairing it and getting it airworthy again. When the work was completed, a pilot took it up to check the aircraft out and promptly returned to the airbase to perform another outstanding belly landing. The men began to understand the definition of the word "futility."

The old man still recalled all his stories with crystalline vision, even after 60 years of intervention and distraction. He remembered the name of the young mechanic who'd accidentally set a plane on fire and barely escaped the cockpit alive. He recalled target bombing east of town, and an errant bombing run that left craters crossing the highway. He remembered all this with startling clarity, as if it was important that I understand his story. Me, a stranger there to look at an old car he was selling, was given this unexpected gift of his experiences.

Well, I guess I still don't appreciate the fine fashion sense of a pair of polyester pants, and I don't get how people amused themselves before TV, but I do understand something: Old people are pretty smart, and they can teach us a lot. All we have to do is listen, and take the time to appreciate the world they lived in, and the world they have given us. And by the way, I made up all that stuff about the people who settled Deming. It was actually established by aliens. True story.

Henry Lightcap gets a little bit older, if not necessarily wiser, every day at his digs in Las Cruces.

Back to top of page.