Resurection in the place you were crucified

I have had a lot of time to think since my last blog post in October 2010. This blog was always about giving me an outlet to write and a place to express my thoughts. Even though it caused me to be popularized as "the blogging sheriff" I never intended this blog to be about making me popular or famous. I have always wanted to write and yet was not very disciplined in keeping a good writing schedule. The blog helped with that in that it forced me to write in order to keep the blog alive.

In November of 2010 my crimes were made public and as any lawyer would say you have the right to remain silent so use it. I stopped blogging and even though I stopped blogging and removed my blog from the public view it was used by my supporters and my detractors and the blog never really went away. I missed blogging and actually missed having that outlet for expression and writing. So here I am, it's a new year and I am trying to start a new life and decided to try blogging again. Because of who I am I have to know that I will not be able to do this with the relative anonymity that many bloggers have and that my thoughts and my words will be public and scrutinized. I take this step at least having convinced myself that I know the risks and understand them.

The other night I was channel surfing and could not find my usual shows I like to watch (at least not episodes I had already seen) when I came across the show celebrity wife swap. I never watch this show but I do watch Celebrity Apprentice and last year Gary Busey was on the Apprentice. Gary Busey on the Apprentice was fun to watch. I compare it to knowing a train wreck is coming, knowing you can't stop it, so you just sit there and watch it.

Well, Gary Busey was on Celebrity Wife Swap so I decided to watch. Swapping wives with Gary Busey was Ted Haggard. He is a pastor from Colorado Springs who ran a large church before he was caught soliciting a male prostitute and allegedly purchasing meth from the prostitute in 2006. I never heard of Ted Haggard but while watching the show I could not help but compare what he called his "scandal" to what my family and I are going through. He has three children and a wife who all stuck by him through the ordeal.  In the show you saw a glimpse of what his wife and children went through and what they are still going through as they stick by there father and husband. You also see that as he throws himself into restoring his life that he has begun to neglect his children. He seems to be a very passionate person who throws himself into what ever he does. It is part of my personality and sometimes can be a fault of mine. As I said I never heard of Pastor Haggard and after seeing the show I read about him and do not agree with some of his past teachings.

This show did make me look at my family and friends and reaffirm how lucky I am that they have stood by me in my struggles even as my sins have been cast on my loved ones and friends. As we were in the midst of the court case many people asked me why we did not just move away and start over. I would have done so but it was my wife who did not want to. She had had her life upended enough and to leave her friends and family to go else where was not an option. Now I am glad she felt that way. We have stayed and tried to make a go of a new life here. It is all made much easier by the fact that where ever I go I am stopped in the streets or the aisles of stores and people I do not even know wish me luck, prayers and tell me to hang in there because people still believe in me. It is the greatest gift god has given me. On New Years eve I posted on my face book that I feel like the person in the footsteps in the sand story who at the worst times in his life was carried by Jesus. The difference is that now in the worst time of my life I am carried by my family, my friends, and people I do not even know, as well as god.

One other thing that Pastor Ted Haggard said really hit home for me. He said  that after Jesus was crucified if he was resurrected in Rome, or Spain, or some other country that it would not have worked. He needed to be resurrected in the place he was crucified.  Before my critics say I am comparing myself to Jesus let me just say that in my wildest dreams I could not compare. But Pastor Haggard and his family had left Colorado Springs in shame after his ordeal and they later returned. He and his family understood that they needed to return to the place he was crucified in order to redeem himself.

I am glad my wife insisted we stay in Santa Fe, I need to redeem myself here in the town I was crucified. I need to show those who stood by me in my darkest days that they did not do so in vain and that there acts of compassion were appreciated and made a real difference in my life. To all of you who have prayed for me, forgiven me, and who have stood by me and even carried me, God Bless You. I still have a ways to go and while I can not promise I will ever truly redeem myself I do promise I will still try. To my family and extended family whom I sometimes get sidetracked from, I can never repay the debt I have placed on your shoulders but I will keep trying.

Footprints in the Sand

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.

Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.

In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.

Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,

other times there were one set of footprints.

This bothered me because I noticed

that during the low periods of my life,

when I was suffering from

anguish, sorrow or defeat,

I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord,

"You promised me Lord,

that if I followed you,

you would walk with me always.

But I have noticed that during

the most trying periods of my life

there have only been one

set of footprints in the sand.

Why, when I needed you most,

you have not been there for me?"

The Lord replied,

"The times when you have

seen only one set of footprints,

is when I carried you."

Mary Stevenson

La Llorona, A Short Story

For Halloween I give you a short story. I grew up with the legend of La Llorona and if anything it kept us from playing in ditches and until I was older it kept us from wandering around after dark. I hope you enjoy.

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La Llorona (the crying woman)

By Greg Solano

Shiela was a beautiful young girl. She was only a few months past her eleventh birthday. As she walked along the arroyo (ditch) she picked dandelions going along the bank and tossed them into the water that filled the ditch from the last rain. The arroyo ran through the back yard of the 20 acres her grandfather passed down to her mother after her wedding in 1963. The sun was settling behind hills surrounding her home and the reflections of the last rays of light created shadows along the still water.

Shiela reached down to pick up another dandelion and as she did a translucent figure burst from the water. Terror filled Sheila’s face and before she could even scream a woman’s hand with blackened and cracked fingernails grabbed her arm and pulled her into the water. Just as quickly as the water opened up, it grew calm again. A dandelion floated on its surface, like a flower left at a grave site.

Officer Wolf drove up the small adobe house in his ford bronco. The old brown 1985 Bronco had seen better days but its ability to handle the rugged terrain that was his beat made this the perfect cop car for Officer Wolf. As he got down from the Bronco the teary eyed lady ran up to him. “Something’s wrong, she’s never done this, she never leaves the yard!” the lady exclaimed. “Whoa, whoa, slow down, what’s going on?” The lady fought back the tears and told the story of how her eleven year old daughter was playing in the yard. When it was time for dinner she went out to call her inside and she would not answer. She searched the whole yard and could not find her.

The area is pretty desolate and there are no neighbors within a mile so the chance she is at a neighbor’s house is nil. After getting the basic information the Officer began walking around the large 20 acre property. Officer Wolf learned tracking as a necessity for his favorite passion, hunting. He located fresh small foot prints and followed them along the property and up to the arroyo. The ground was still moist from the recent rains and the footprints were easy to find. He followed them right up to the arroyo where they seemed to just end. The most telling was that there were no prints headed back towards the house either. The water was not deep and an eleven year old child should be visible if somehow she fell in and drown.

It was getting dark so Officer Wolf instinctively walked downstream although the water was hardly moving at all. Removing his flashlight from his belt he continued walking. The wind was whistling through the trees and it made a sound that sounded like a young woman crying. It reminded Officer Wolf of the childhood story of La Llorona. The son of a Native American who married his Hispanic father he grew up fearing the lady who cried for her children along the rivers and arroyos in Northern New Mexico. The legend told by his father said that the lady had two children a boy and a girl. The lady loved her husband and children and devoted her whole life to them. One day she learned that her husband was having an affair with a single lady in town. She felt that she had lost much of her beauty after having her two children and blamed them for her husband’s affair. She took the two children and threw them in the river killing them both. When she realized what she had done she took her own life. Legend has it that she arrived in heaven and god asked her where her children were. God then sent her back to earth to spend an eternity looking for her children. She now roamed the earth looking for her two children and crying eternally. Legend also had it that she would take children who were alone near rivers or ditches in order to try and pass them off as her own and try and get access to heaven.

Officer Wolf remembered his father telling him that if he was not good or if he took off alone he could be snatched by the crying ghost. It was eerie how much the wind sounded like crying. The hairs on the back of the officer’s neck and arms stood on end. “I’m just freaking myself out” the officer thought to himself. He continued down the arroyo when a whitish transparent figure seemed to move across the water just up ahead. He moved his flashlight towards the area and it went dead. As quietly as he could he shook it trying to get it back on. He turned the switch on and then off again but nothing. He had taken his eyes off the water to look at his flashlight. He slowly looked back up towards the water sure that his mind was playing tricks and there would be nothing there.

She was still there, he could now make out that it was a lady, middle aged, with long white flowing dress or nightgown. While she appeared to be all white and floating above the water, her eyes looked red. Tears of blood seemed to drip from her eyes and now what earlier sounded like crying from the trees was definitely coming from her. He placed his hand on his gun while at the same time realizing it would not help him here. In his mind he prayed while his mouth spoke the words “where is the girl?” Where is Shiela?” The figure did not respond it just floated there for what seemed like forever but in reality was only about ten seconds. Then it slowly faded away, the crying also slowly faded away.

Officer Wolf still could not move, He was more afraid then he had ever been in his life. The earth was quiet, the only sound was the officer’s heart pounding and chest heaving and struggling for breath. Then the water splashed as though the earth opened up and spit something out. A young child’s body shot up from the water and then floated on the surface. Officer Wolf walked over and pulled the young girl up to him. The child’s skin was bluish white and cold to the touch. He knew she was dead. He picked her up and began walking back to the house. His mind raced as he thought about what to say. He would only say he found her in the water. No one would ever believe otherwise.

From Baghdad to Santa Fe, A Short Story

In 2005 I wrote a short story for the Santa Fe Reporter's yearly writing contest. I won second place for the story. I posted it online on an old AOL account I had and a few years ago AOL shut down its FTP site and I lost it. I had it on an old computer and lost my copy there also. My assistant did me a favor and contacted the Santa Fe Reporter and retrieved a copy. So besides saving it in multiple places so I don't lose it again I thought I would archive it by posting it as a blog post. Its kind of dark so I won't necessarily say I hope you enjoy it.





From Baghdad to Santa Fe By Greg Solano

Sweat poured down my forehead as I awoke in the middle of the night for the fourth night in a row. What the hell is going on? I glance over at the clock and the red neon numbers tell me that its 3:30 am. I am wide-awake and the adrenaline is still pumping through my veins. My heart pounds and I can feel my chest still heaving for air. Might as well get up, no way I’m going back to sleep. As I step out onto the portal the Autumnal Moon lights up my entire neighborhood, big bright and so large I felt like I could reach out and touch it. The brisk morning air felt good against my still sweating body. I couldn’t help but think how different this was than early morning in Baghdad. Actually, I can’t help but think of Baghdad every day, or every night.

It’s now 8:00 am, time for my morning walk to the convenience store to get the paper. Another day spent looking for a job.So much for “being all that I can be”, I often thought that going into the military out of high school would be the beginning of my adult life. A good start to some kind of career. Boy was I wrong. When I left Santa Fe I was making $7.00 an hour at the auto parts store. This was my after school job while I finished my senior year. Now with the living wage law, that job as many others pays at least $8.50 an hour. But still, what do I do, go ahead and take one of these minimum wage jobs?I sure am not having much luck with anything else. The only job I have been offered so far is from a friend who needs help cleaning Whole Foods parking lot at night. I don’t really think my country owes me a job or anything but is this what I spent two years of my life in the military for? Maybe this is all I can be.

What’s that smell? My mind flashes back again, I can hear the ammo flying through the assault rifle. I smell the gunpowder and hot metal in the air. I hear the sound of lead ricocheting on the pavement around me. Pieces of asphalt hitting my leg, or are they bullets? I look over at the rest of my regimen and realize that Adam’s been hit, several medics are working on him. He looks dead, Damn Iraqis! My fear turns to anger as I empty my weapon in a hail of gunfire. I sweep my weapon from left to right hoping someone ahead of me goes down. An eye for an eye, they kill one of ours we kill ten of theirs. What’s that horn? Oh, all right, all right I’m getting out of the way. Asshole flipped me off. And then you wonder why people have road rage and shoot others. Ok, so I was in the middle of the road. There’s that smell again, oh, ok it’s my neighbor and his welder. Amazing how much the hot metal being welded smells like the hot metal smell of an assault rifle. Or how the smell of meat on the barbecue smells like burning flesh. It’s been six months now. I wonder how long before I stop having these flashbacks. When will I be normal again?

I pick up the local paper and on the cover there is some kids stuffing the head of Zozobra. What a ceremony, thousands show up to see a hundred foot puppet burnt to the ground in a pagan ceremony that is the closest thing to witchcraft I have ever seen. It’s fiestas in Santa Fe this weekend. It used to be a big thing for me. All my friends and I would go downtown and hang out. Used to be everyone had drinks on the plaza and the burning of Zozobra was on Friday night. After the burning we would all walk down to the plaza and eat, drink and drink some more. Even though we were not 21, it wasn’t as big a deal as it is now. We all walked around with beer in our coke cups. The cops were ok with it as long as we didn’t totally get out of hand. Now there is no drinking what so ever on the plaza. Zozobra’s burning has been moved to Thursday, which cuts down on the party’s and drinking afterward since people with jobs have to be at work in the morning.

I go into the convenience store and get a cup of coffee and a lottery ticket. What the hell, if I can’t get a job, maybe I can win a hundred million and not have to worry about it. As I drink my coffee I look through the classifieds. Nothing new today, same ads that I applied for on Monday and Tuesday.

It’s 1:00 in the afternoon, my old high school buddy agreed to give me a ride to Albuquerque for my appointment. Two months ago I decided to call the V.A. Hospital and talk to someone about the flashbacks. A couple of visits and months later I am finally actually seeing a councilor. Man, me going to a shrink. Who would have ever thought this would ever happen to me. I never needed anything from anyone else before. I was a tough young man who prided himself on being a “real man”. I used to joke with my friends when one of them showed up in sandals and I would say things like “real men don’t wear sandals”. I never even went to the doctor. Once when I cracked a rib, I sucked it up. Took some Tylenol and went on telling others, and myself “there’s nothing they can do with cracked ribs anyway”.

The counselor is kind of a hippy looking dude. Turns out he was in Vietnam and came back with the same kind of problems I have. They have a fancy name for it now he tells me. It’s called P.T.S.D., stands for post traumatic stress disorder. According to the doc it’s pretty common for those returning from Iraq. The doc says it’s probably why I can’t get a job. I’m not at my sharpest and the depression I am feeling is probably showing up in my interviews. As we talk about my experiences in Iraq I start telling him about the first time I saw a dead body. I always thought it would be exciting with the moody sounding music playing in the background just like in the movies. But, it wasn’t.

The first body I saw as I exited the back end of a truck just inside Baghdad was lying in the middle of the road. It was an older man who only had a small amount of blood dripping down from the edge of his mouth. It looked unreal, I remember thinking how this was no different than watching a body on TV. At least it didn’t feel different. I had no feelings for this man; I looked at him with curiosity but no feelings. A hundred bodies later, some kids, some adults, some women, and some men, and I still thought I didn’t feel much. But now six months back in the U.S. I wake up in the middle of the night after I see their faces again. Now they matter to me, why now? Well the end of my first counseling session and I have more questions than answers. My buddy asks me if I want to go see old man gloom tomorrow night with him and his kids. Maybe, I tell him. I’ll call him tomorrow and let him know.

It’s 5:00 in the afternoon now, as we cross St Francis Drive and Cerrillos Road I see the protesters out again. This is odd; they are usually out on Fridays. Veterans for peace they call themselves. I wonder how many are actually veterans. Maybe that’s how they deal with their flashbacks. I wonder would that make me feel better? Standing on a street corner holding signs declaring to the world my quest for world peace? They are persistent. Almost three years they have been out here doing this. One day I sat in the old Bonanza parking lot and watched them for a while. Some cars drove by and gave the thumbs up and some gave the one finger salute. Sometimes the protesters didn’t know which was coming as they turned to wave at the latest car driving by honking. Sometimes they were waving to the finger and some derogatory comment, and sometimes they were waving to a peace sign or thumbs up. Would it be hypocritical to have the anger that I do towards those that killed my friends and still promote peace? Is that how I atone for all the people I killed or helped kill? The bible says only say the word and you shall be forgiven. Jesus forgave Judas, maybe that’s what I need, to be forgiven. Maybe that’s why they stand there every Friday holding their signs.

It’s 11:00 at night and I’m feeling a little woozy. The television blares a baseball game above the bar at foxes. One more Bud Light and I’ll head home. The lottery numbers flash across the television screen. My streak of luck continues as I see that I didn’t even get one number. Two beers later and I head to Taco Bell. Thank god for late night drive up windows. As I cruise down Cerrillos Road I try to keep the car centered between the white lines. I’m cool I tell myself, I can drive ok, I’m not that drunk. As I approach Taco Bell a mortar shell crosses in front of my windshield. I swerve right as I reach for my radio to warn the troops behind me. I feel my armored humvee start to roll. It rolls several times and I feel glass and metal all around me. The pain is sharp and sudden but then just as suddenly disappears. Medic, Medic! I can’t believe I’m going to die in an accident, no blaze of glory, no big firefight. I rolled my humvee! I can see myself lying in the street now, thrown clear of the small car that once surrounded me. Wait, small car? Who are those kids running away? Was that really just a bottle rocket?

The cops are around me now. The ambulance arrives and one of the men tells the cop, we can’t resuscitate, he didn’t make it. “Another D.W.I.” the cop says as he unrolls the yellow crime scene tape around my car and body. After all that fighting in Baghdad who would have ever thought the Iraqis would kill me, right here in Santa Fe New Mexico.

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Drug Interdiction Summit Seeks to Solve Northern New Mexico Drug Problem.

I have been writing a few articles for law enforcement publications and I thought I would share with you the following one I wrote for the New Mexico Lawman, a publication of the New Mexico Sheriff's and Police Association.

Drug Interdiction Summit Seeks to Solve Northern New Mexico Drug Problem.

Mayor Joseph Maestas spent his last days in office at a Drug Interdiction summit in his hometown of Espanola New Mexico. Northern New Mexico and Espanola have had a long history of Drug abuse that spans generations. Grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren within many families all are addicted or use drugs. The results are high property crime rates and the highest rate per capita of drug overdoses in the nation.

The summit was hosted by Mayor Maestas and City Police Chief Julian Gonzales on February 25, 2010 and included sheriffs, city police, state police, federal officials, district attorneys and members of the medical and treatment fields. The summit was facilitated by New Mexico First. Participants were broken up into two groups and each were tasked with coming up with ideas to combat the problem. Ideas were taken at large and broken down into groups of things we are not doing now, things we can do better and things we need to stop doing. Thirty or forty ideas were then broken down into four groups of importance from most important to least. The majority of participants were law enforcement and many in the public would be surprised to find that education, intervention, and treatment were very popular as opposed to incarceration and prosecution.

On the Law enforcement side a lot of participants felt that using recent efforts to strengthen and enforce D.W.I. laws would be a good model to use in drug interdiction. Making it the next state priority was the theme. Another popular idea was revising the states forfeiture laws to make them more usable and enforceable. Of course lack of funding was another big discussion.

New Mexico first is going to gather the results of the summit into a report and action plan which will hopefully be the blueprint for the future of combating drug abuse in Northern New Mexico. At the end of the day nine recommendations were made to be part of the action plan.

· A comprehensive strategy for coordinating programs for law enforcement, prevention, and training

· Formalizing and coordinating multidisciplinary, multi-agency drug interdiction initiatives

· A greater commitment to the Region III task force that is showing positive results in drug interdiction in the region

· A community involvement campaign targeting neighborhood associations, church groups, and rural groups in helping address narcotic and criminal activity

· Implementing evidence-based youth prevention programs

· Revising the state forfeiture statute

The summit recommendations will be turned over to an Implementation Team comprised of volunteers from the event who are in a position to move the recommendations forward. A full report on the results of the summit will be released in about two weeks and will be posted at www.nmfirst.org.

By Sheriff Greg Solano, Santa Fe County

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Check Raising the Devil

For your Halloween pleasure I have written
a short story. I hope you enjoy.

Check Raising the Devil

By Greg Solano

Ivan carefully peeked down at the two playing cards, carefully lifting one corner at a time. You had to protect your cards, make sure no one could see them. The first was an eight of clubs, the second an eight of spades. Pocket snowman as the poker players called them. Ivan was down to his last two hundred dollars, he had been running bad for weeks. His normal bankroll of ten thousand dollars was all but gone. He was getting desperate and had dropped down from the big game of ten and twenty dollar blind no limit game to the much smaller one and two dollar no limit game. Everyone so far had folded to him and with only three players yet to act he raised to ten dollars. The man to the left of him folded and the next two called the ten dollars.

The flop was four of clubs, six of hearts, and seven of spades. Not a bad flop for his eights. He had a chance of a straight if a five came and he still had top pair. There was no chance of a flush and anyone who stayed with high cards could not have liked the cards that were dealt. With thirty dollars in the pot he decided to bet the pot, throwing thirty dollars worth of chips into the middle of the table, he kept his face stoic showing no emotion as the chips made that familiar sound as the clay chips hit the felt.

One more player folded and the last pushed all his chips in without any hesitation whatsoever. Ivan was not expecting that. His mind raced, what could he have? Two pair is unlikely, did he have a pair of fours, sixes, or sevens? If he did then he now had three of a kind. If Ivan called the all in bet and lost he would be broke, if he won his two hundred would become four hundred. He had seen this player show a bluff just a few hands earlier, could this be another bluff? Did this man sense that Ivan was on his last dimes and decide to scare him off? Ivan had always played aggressively and felt the man was just being a bully; Ivan pushed his remaining one hundred and sixty into the middle. He flipped over his snowman and said a familiar prayer to the poker gods, “ONE TIME BABY!”

The man who had been stone faced until now, cracked a smile and turned over the three of hearts and the five of clubs. He flopped a straight. Ivan’s hope turned to anger, “HOW COULD YOU CALL ME WITH THAT! I RAISED PRE FLOP!” Ivan still had a chance a five would give him a higher straight. The next two cards revealed no five, only a king and an ace.

Ivan got up and walked away, dejected, broke and cursing the day he began playing poker for a living. It was the most depressing walk, often compared to walking the plank on the pirate ship of old. He headed out to his car put the key in the ignition and began the hour long drive to his home from the casino. Halfway home and the dash began beeping. Damn Ivan thought, low on gas. Come on car make it home. Ivan slowed down to the speed limit and hit the cruise control hoping enough gas would be saved to make it home. As the Chevy headed up a long steep hill on the highway the car began choking for gas and then stalled completely. He coasted to the side of the road and parked the car. Just my luck Ivan said out loud as he pounded the steering wheel.

It was a continuation of the bad luck that had plagued him for weeks. Ivan got out of the car and began thumbing for a ride. Many cars blew by him and the wind was cold and pushed him back against his dead car. Semi trucks were worse. The wind and cold from the semi’s chilled him to the bone. Finally a large RV bus pulled to the side just past his car. Ivan began walking to the RV when the side door popped open and a well dressed man poked his head out. “Car Trouble?” “Nope, just ran out of gas, you don’t have any do you?” Ivan asked as he continued to walk to the bus. “Nope, come on in we will give you a ride.” Ivan stepped on the bus and for a second thought he had stepped into the Bellagio Casino. The bus was opulent and right in the middle was poker table with gold cup holders and gold inlayed chips. It was odd though, only two chairs were at the large table. The bus drove off and Ivan sat at the poker table as it was the closest chair. The chair was unbelievably comfortable and swiveled on its permanent mounts in the floor.

The man was well dressed, could be an Armani suit, deep dark black hair and black metal framed glasses. “Want a drink?” the man asked as he lifted up a gold metal flask. “Sure” Ivan said “I could use one.” “I’m Grigori but my friends just call me Greg” as he handed Ivan a shot. “Do you play?” Greg said as he picked up some chips. “a little” Ivan replied. Ivan was in no mood to discuss poker as he headed home broke from a poker game. “What do you do for a living?” Ivan asked. “I make deals, help people make their dreams come true or rid them of their problems” Ivan’s curiosity was piqued, what exactly did that answer mean? As he thought about that very question the words also came out of his mouth, He didn’t mean them too but they did.

“You want to be a big shot TV poker player right?” How could Greg have known that? Ivan thought. “I make my living at poker, I don’t care about fame just the money” Ivan said as he tried to hide the fact he was lying. “I can make it happen for you, but like any good poker game there is a risk for the reward.” “you can be the next winner of the world series of poker, you can be the next poker superstar” I just need one thing, your soul” Ivan laughed, “ok, yeah whatever, my soul, sure.” The hair of the back of his neck stood up and somehow Ivan knew it was real, or was it? “I told you I make deals, make peoples dreams come true, but every dream comes at a cost.”

Ivan had always been a gambler; he looked down at the gold inlay chips and decided he could outplay the devil. “Heads up, my success against my soul, I win you make my dream happen, you win I am yours” The bus ride was smooth and quiet almost as though it was not barreling down the highway. The tinted windows let very little light in yet the full moon was visible. It seemed to turn orange as the devil himself contemplated the deal. He picked up the cards, smiled and said “shuffle up and deal.” The two sat down at the table and took turns dealing the cards. Each started with ten thousand in chips and Ivan played conservatively at first trying to gauge his opponent. The two traded wins back and forth and the pots were small keeping each essentially even in chips.

Then Ivan looked down at ace of spades, eight of spades. He was on the button which meant he was last to act after the flop. Ivan raised three times the blind which was now at five hundred and one thousand. His raise was to three thousand, Greg just called and the flop was eight, eight, ace. Ivan had flopped a full house. Ivan checked hoping that the devil would bet. The devil obliged and went all in. Ivan had him now he thought. He had beaten the devil. Ivan pushed his chips to the middle as he stood up.

Grigori stood up and began a speech, “in the Hebrew religion, the 2nd Book of Enoch, contains references to a Grigori, a fallen angel. I am that fallen angel, I am Satanael or Satan. Many have tried to defeat me for thousands of years, who do you think you are to defeat me? Ever heard of Wild Bill Hickox? He tried to defeat me with the very same hand you are holding. For a hundred years that very hand has been called dead mans hand. Those who fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.” Satan smiled and turned over a pair of aces. Satan held a bigger full house than Ivan's eights full of aces. Ivan sat down knowing he had lost.

The RV drove away into the darkness. A lone police car headed down the highway towards Ivan’s Chevy parked on the side of the road. As the police car approached the Chevy you could see a body laying in the middle of the road. A semi was overturned a few hundred feet past the Chevy. Ivan’s cold dead body lay in the road. Blowing in a gust of wind to the side of the road were two playing cards, The Ace of Spades and the Eight of Spades.

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Minds Interrupted: Stories of Lives Affected by Mental Illness

On March 15, 2008 I took part in Minds Interrupted: Stories of Lives Affected by Mental Illness. It was an evening of monologues featuring stories of people affected by mental illness. The pieces included performances by people both with a diagnosis of mental illness as well as family members living with this disease. The event was produced by the Santa Fe Chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness and Project Life Stories. It was interesting from a writing perspective because other than this blog most of my writing has been fiction. It was one thing to write the monologue but performing it became an emotional event. I still choked up a little when I got to the part where my mother passed away. The house was sold out and all the monologues were inspirational. Those who are afflicted with mental illnesses were particularly inspirational and their bravery in standing up and telling their stories was indescribable. It was one of those things that you just had to be there. Here is my monologue.

He was a Marine, through and through. Although as a child the movie Rambo with Sylvester Stallone had not yet been written it could have been the story of my uncle. He was a large man with a serious look and a stone chiseled face. Vietnam had made him into the man he was, yet unlike Rambo he was intelligent. Always reading a book, sometimes a dictionary or a bible. Many times even after his tour of duty ended he still read army manuals. Books about infiltrating enemy camps or out thinking the enemy on the battlefield. After Vietnam his intelligent side kicked in. He went to work for defense contractor McDonnell Douglas building bombs and missiles. Still contributing to the war effort. At the time he was the successful one in the family. The one with the nicest house and the pool in the backyard. He lived near Los Angeles with a wife, two young girls and what appeared to the rest of us as a perfect life.

I was about 14 or 15 when I first realized things had changed. I soon learned that after Vietnam my uncle came back with addictions. Addictions to marijuana and alcohol. While he was functional for many years eventually it caught up with him. He lost his job, and then his wife, the house with the pool came next. By the time my mother got involved he was deep into a mental illness that turned him from the most successful Solano to the homeless Solano. That's when he arrived at our house. For the most part he still looked like the big strong marine. He even still walked around with large books, reading intensely as he walked back and forth in the front yard. He often would lift large boulders and carry them back and forth across the yard as a way of keeping physically fit. It was only when you looked into his eyes that you first realized something was wrong. When you looked into his eyes it was as though the soul was no longer there. He was not the uncle I grew up with. He was someone else. In some ways it was only the shell of the man I once knew. Did anyone notice I have been referring to my
uncle in the past tense for the last few paragraphs? I only just now noticed it. He was a marine, he had a nice home, he was married, etc, etc. I guess it’s because all this was pre-mental illness. Its as though he died, only he didn't, he is still around today. Just not the man he once was.

My mother worked two and three jobs to raise her two boys and two girls. A single mother who was intent on keeping her family off welfare. I remember as a young boy going to the grocery store and paying with coupons, food stamps. No fancy debit cards like today, In those days you separated the food and non food items, pulled out your book of food stamps and payed with the different denominations. Everyone in line knew that you were paying with food stamps. My mother hated it; I could see it on her face every time we went to the store. Now we had another mouth to feed, my uncle, her brother. My mother tried to get help for my uncle. He had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD was a new thing in those days although it really existed for centuries. In World War I it was called shell shocked, Later Combat Fatigue, now PTSD. Different names, same ruined lives. He received medications which seemed to work, when he took them. He would go though bouts of getting better only to go though bouts of drinking and not his taking medications. The cycle ended with him going to jail. Jail, for those of you who don't have immediate family members with mental illness combined with drug and or alcohol addictions, is where we send our ill family members. That is where they stay until a bed opens up in a short term treatment facility.

The more my mother learned about his illness the more she wanted to help, not just my uncle but others as well, the future mentally ill who maybe could be saved before they lost it all. One of my mother’s jobs was with the State of New Mexico as a clerk at the Department of Motor Vehicles. While working for the state she learned of a state funded program called Sangre De Cristo Mental Health. A small clinic which was trying to provide outpatient treatment for those with mental illness. She applied for and received a job there, first as a secretary and later she progressed to a case worker. All while armed with nothing more than a high school diploma. While making mental illness her job, she still kept working to help others outside of work. At one time she traveled to Washington DC to learn about a new group called the National Alliance on Mentally Illness. Her travel companions and her returned to Santa Fe and began forming the local chapter. Meanwhile my uncle was still in and out of jail. Most of the time he was arrested for Protective Custody or Public Drunkenness. With no other place to take those intoxicated or mentally ill, police could only take them to jail. My mother next began work on a sobering center. A place where the intoxicated could be taken to sober up, get treatment and get back on their medications. A very early edition of the Newspaper the Santa Fe reporter chronicled her attempts to make the sobering center a reality. I was now 21 years old, just married and beginning a family of my own. I had moved into my own small, actually really, really, small mobile home with my new wife.

I remember the phone ringing in the middle of the night. You know one of those wake you up in the middle of the night calls that can never be good news. I reached over for the phone and it was one of my uncles. One who hardly ever called me. My mother was dead. She had taken a van load of staff from Sangre De Cristo Mental Health to a seminar in Taos. She dropped them off and then headed back down the canyon. The theory is that she swerved to avoid a boulder in the road, lost control
and went off the cliff above the Rio Grande. My life was never the same. My uncles only got worse. While family member after family member tried to care for my uncle no one could get the cooperation from him my mother could. His daughter moved to Santa Fe just to care for him. This ended in frustration and despair. Today you can still see my uncle, you can catch him at the St. Johns food Kitchen for lunch. You can also find him walking Cerrillos Road in Santa Fe. He refuses to live with
anyone and seems to be complacent living on the streets. He hardly recognizes me or anyone else.

Sangre De Cristo Mental Health closed down a few years after my mother died. Other Mental Health Centers have also come and gone. Those with mental illness still go to jail awaiting a bed in a mental health inpatient facility. Twenty three years after my mother began efforts to open a sobering center, the center came to fruition. The joint City, county sobering center opened last year. I am a conglomeration of my experiences growing up. The struggle my mother went through with my uncle and his mental illness taught me a lot about love and devotion. My uncle’s illness became my mother’s life. Her career developed out of her efforts to support him. In a way her death came in the same manner. While I can’t say that I began a career in law enforcement because of these experiences, they have definitely shaped my policies and issues. I can never forget seeing my uncle go from the most successful in the family to the homeless one in the family. I will always remember the love, devotion and sacrifice my mother endured for her brother. As I write this I struggled for a way to end this monologue and then I realized my family still struggles with my uncle’s illness and we pray for his safety while grasping for answers. There is yet no end to this story.

Red's - A short story.

When I was young there was a story often talked about but usually not believed. It was the story of how one night the devil himself came to Reds Bar in Espanola. Mothers used the story to try and keep their daughters from going out drinking and partying. Although there are many variations to the story as my Halloween treat to you I have written my version. Parts are from memory of the story as told to me when I was young and parts are filled in by me to complete the story. Enjoy, and Happy Halloween!





REDS

By Greg Solano

It was a long day at work, but thank god it was Friday. Julie began putting things away on her desk and began the process of shutting down the IBM Computer. Since her company switched to the expensive IBM computer things are a lot easier during the day. Keeping track of accounts and delinquencies is definitely easier. At the end of the day before the computer she just closed up the ledgers locked them in the file drawer and left for the day. Now it took about 45 minutes to backup the data to the tape drive and shut down the computers for the day. On Fridays it seemed to take for ever.

Julie never used to complain, not even to herself, things have changed lately. Her mother’s death changed everything. Her mother never liked Julie’s job. As a collection agent for a finance company her job was to hound people every day and get them to pay their delinquent loan payments. Julie was good at her job, relentless and without sympathy she was known in the company as the “Pit Bull”. Loan officers though out the company wanted their delinquent accounts assigned to her. She would collect and keep them out of trouble.

Julie’s mother Christina used to call her Jewel’s and as a devout Christian who’s own mother came to Santa Fe New Mexico from Mexico City only sixty years ago Christina always thought her beloved Jewel’s work was not a good job for a Christian. Calling people all day to get blood from a turnip, “how could you do it me hita? “ she would often say. Now Christina was gone and Julie felt lonely. Julie partied a lot but never was able to have a stable relationship. It was usually one night stands or just guys she partied with. Julie hadn’t partied at all for over a month now, not since her mother’s unexpected death.

Christina died in a horrible car accident. Her 1979 Caprice Classic was destroyed by the semi load of trees coming down from the ski basin. It was one of those freak accidents that no one could have ever believed would happen. She was headed home after her day at work cleaning the homes of the rich on Bishops Lodge Road. As she headed home a Semi truck passing her in the opposite direction dropped its load of trees just as it passed her car. The huge steel car was crushed and Christina died probably never even realizing what had happened.

The IBM was through with its back up and shutting down. Julie picked up her purse and headed home. On the drive home Julie began thinking of going out tonight. Many times she would head over to Espanola and party at Red’s. This was a very small bar that had live music on weekends. It was the in place even though it could easily be described as literally a hole in the wall. “What the hell? Julie said to her self.” It has been such crappy week I need to get out.

At home Julie began looking through her closet for a dress; she picked out her black long dress with some black silk high heels, black panty hose finished off the ensemble. Some deep red lipstick and she was on her way. Julie glanced at her watch and saw that it was eight o’clock as she pulled into Espanola and headed down the strip to Red’s. She adjusted her dress as she stepped out of her long Red Monte Carlo. The large steel door of the 77 Monte Carlo squealed loudly as she slammed it shut. Julie’s high heels clicked loudly on the pavement as she headed to the door of Red’s bar and lounge.

Red’s was a dark small bar. The long bar ran along one end of the room with several tables scattered around the rest of the room. A very small dance floor was situated in front of a corner that was cleared out to make room for a band. Three men were set up and playing a Cumbia. The singer was a short olive skinned man with a pretty good voice, another Hispanic was on the drums and the band was rounded out with a bass player. Reds smelled of old beer which had seeped into the dark red carpet night after night for the past twenty years. Julie waited for her eyes to adjust before heading to the bar. “Hey Al, how’s it going?” “Julie! Where you been it’s been a long time, sorry about your mom, it was horrible” Al said as he passed her a Coors. “Let me have a shot also, lets kick this night off right” said Julie as she took a big swig out of the cold Coors can.

The bar was packed tonight and as usual the ratio of men to women was at least three to one. It wasn’t long before men began asking Julie to dance. She obliged them all, she was in the mood to party. Of course it was only a dance, she didn’t pay attention to the flirtatious advances that came during and after the dance. She danced and drank the night away and before she knew it the clock struck eleven. Julie sat down and used the bar napkin to wipe the sweat from her face. Another man walked up and asked her to dance. “I need a break come back in a little bit” she responded. As she sucked down what had to be her ninth or tenth coors her attention was drawn to the front door as it swung open. A tall dark skinned man entered the door. He was gorgeous she thought to her self as he looked over the room. He was dressed in black with black silky hair that reminded her of Elvis Presley and a body that looked sculpted by Michael Angelo himself.

Their eyes met and it was as though he came here looking just for her. He walked straight to Julie’s table and outstretched his hand to her. All of a sudden she wasn’t tired any more. She took his hand and headed straight to the dance floor. Neither said a word and it didn’t even dawn on Julie that this was weird. Julie was mesmerized and the two began dancing. All of a sudden he was the only man she saw in the bar. The couple all dressed in black and in the center of the dance floor became the center of attention. Yet they paid no attention to anyone else. “Julie you’re a beautiful woman” the man said as he finally spoke. “How do you know my name?” she asked him. “I met you here a few months ago” he said. “I am sure I would remember you” she said as she put her hand on his chest.

“You were pretty lit up and having a good time” his lips cracked a smile as he said this. The two danced and laughed for the next hour. As the clock reached a few minutes until midnight they were still dancing when he glanced up at the clock. “I’ve got to go” he said, “why don’t you come with me?” “No, let’s stay” she pleaded, “its early; last call is not until 1:15”. She held onto him trying to keep him dancing as he began trying to pull away. “I’ve got to go, come with me, let’s go!” His voice changed from the smooth man to a sort of growl. Julie was used to getting her way so she began kissing him and pulling him closer. She ran her hand through his hair and as she did so she felt two bumps, the bumps were unnatural, hard and almost seemed like small horns.

Julie felt strange for the first time she looked at the man whose eyes now seemed to turn red; he had a goatee where there was not one before. There seemed to be heat coming from his body, it was like standing in front of a fireplace. His hand pulled up to her neck and long nails that were not there before scratched across her neck. She could hear screams but they weren’t from her. She hadn’t realized it but the band had not only stopped playing, they were running out of the bar along with everyone else. The bumps on his head had extended at least two inches into the air and his clothes were smoking. The bar smell had changed from stale beer to burnt flesh. Julie could feel warm blood slowly coming down from her neck. She backed up slowly with out even realizing she was doing so.

The devil himself had now appeared before her, he smiled and then ran out the door a glowing tail swinging behind him. Julie wanted to run but could not move. She stood there in shock, the only one left. She walked out, still stunned and got into her car and drove away. It was a long drive home, 45 minutes. She was trying to comprehend what had just happened to her. Her heart was still pounding and her chest was heaving. The long road between Espanola and Santa Fe was dark and seemed even more so than usual. Then up ahead she could see a red bright light. Maybe it’s a cop she thought; as she drove closer the light appeared to be in the center of the road. She slowed down and the closer she got she realized it was a man, a man who seemed to be glowing red. Even though it was still far away she could see his face, it was the devil from Red’s Bar. He was grinning, his arms outreached toward her. She swerved the car to the right, and hit the brakes. The car slid into a ditch on the side of the road and stalled. Panic struck as she tried to start the car.

Julie looked into her rear view mirror and saw the demon standing behind her car, still grinning. He touched the trunk of her car and flames quickly encircled the car. Julie tried to open the door but it would not open. She screamed so hard that hardly anything came out. The demon turned and walked away. Screaming and frantic Julie tried the door again and it still wouldn’t open. She began praying the Our Father….. Our Father, who art in heaven hollowed be thy name. Thy kingdom com, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Suddenly she felt something, something calming. At the drivers door was a cloudy white light, in the center of the light Julie could swear she saw her mothers face and heard “Jewels, come to me”. The door opened and Julie stepped out. She walked towards the light as the flames continued into the sky. The light dissipated and Julie sat on the hill side and watched her car go up in flames.

Tomorrow she would start a new life……

Bloggers vs Newspapers?

Among the 46 blogs I keep tabs on and regularly read is "Burque Babble". The blog is written by Scot Key a middle school teacher of humanities and film. In his latest blog titled "On Blogging, The Tribune and Wearing Really Tight Clothing" he discusses the expected demise of the Albuquerque Tribune and Bloggers. He talks about what a blogger is and then discusses how blogging needs to develop more credibility. In the below excerpt he lists what he feels bloggers are missing.

Unfortunately, what’s missing from even the most laudable of blog reporting is: A. a sense of what used to be known as “credibility”; B. a readership that goes beyond the micro-community. All blog news reading is filtered by an assumption of bias, and the fact that nobody is reading anyone from the other political side. It reminds one of the old days where all newspapers were openly one-sided, only with fewer rich wingnuts running fewer newspapers and more geek wingnuts running more blogs.

I like to think there are many flavors of bloggers out there however, one of the things I like about reading blogs and writing them is the fact that they are biased. I don't read them for the news although Joe Monahan's and Heath Haussamen's blog among others contain news mixed with some slant or opinion of the news. I read them for the opinion pieces, I have to admit I read blogs that are completely opposite of what I believe although I favor those whom lean towards my beliefs. One thing I decided not to do was to promote blogs which do not agree with my philosophical and political beliefs. Therefor their are some blogs which I read however I do not list them in my links on my own blogs.

I listen to a lot of talk radio and from time to time, when I can stomach it, I listen to Rush Limbaugh and other left wing radical radio shows. It is good to see what the other side is saying and what their perspectives on the issues are. Each morning the first thing I do is make a quick run through the online editions of several newspapers and the 46 blogs I monitor. I use bloglines to keep track of all the blogs and recommend it to others.

I read the papers for news and the blogs for opinions, fun, and curiosity as well as some political news you wont find in the standard media. To be honest I like it that way. When bloggers move towards traditional news is when the real power and reasons to read blogs will go away. I write blogs because it allows my creative side to speak out and allows me to say to the world ( or at least my small readership part of the world) what I want to say in the way I want to say it.

The world according to Greg.

The Friday Night Rapist

I ran across a post from fellow Blogger and Writer Paul Huebl in which he chronicles his movie script about rookie Chicago police woman Ann Leybourne.

Officer Leybourne was a rookie police officer who found herself face to face with Robert Ellis dubbed the Friday Night Rapist in 1972. Paul shows his writing skills as he tells the story in short version on his blog. The story will make a great movie and I look forward to seeing it someday. I was definitely in awe of his writing skills as I read this story.

Book Signing with Michael McGarrity

Went yesterday to the book tour kickoff of Michael McGarrity's new book "Nothing but trouble" at Garcia Street Books. Michael McGarrity is a former Santa Fe County Sheriff's Deputy who writes the Kevin Kerney series of novels. Nothing but trouble is his 10th book in the series. I am looking forward to reading it. His novels always have interesting references to Santa Fe, New Mexico and its Law Enforcement Community. In "Serpents Gate" the author makes reference to the Sheriff's deputy's uniforms which he says they look something like valet parking uniforms. Its references like that which make the books fun to read. You can learn more about Michael McGarrity at his web site michaelmcgarrity.com. By the way the Sheriff's office is changing its uniforms and badge styles within the next five weeks. It will be a much more traditional look with the badge going from the Los Angeles Police type shield to the more traditional five point star. The uniform gets rid of the stripes on the pants and pocket embelishments and goes to a plain black pant and a simple grey shirt. Our hat is going to a more western style hat from the police type 7 point hat. It will be interesting to see if our new uniform gets mention in a future Michael Mcgarrity novel.