Being Home, Too

By Catalina Claussen

Being Home, Too, the much-anticipated sequel to Claussen's debut short story collection Being Home: A southwestern Almanac, delivers several humorous made-for-radio stories. Painting a panorama of high desert living with zany characters riding out the seasons in the Mimbres Valley, this book will not disappoint. From Jimmy Dean's January polar plunge to Ratticus Finch's Christmas hoard, Claussen renders the magic and mystery of the Valley in a series of delightful vignettes. Complimented by photography making you feel as if you have been cast into the story with the characters themselves; not your typical coffee-table book, but one to add to your collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Progressive Rising Phoenix Press, LLC
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781950560615

Catalina Claussen

Catalina Claussen is an award-winning young adult novelist, poet, and short story author who carries on a love affair with the land, language, and people of southwest New Mexico. She lives with her dog Bandit and raises a prolific organic garden on a ranch in the Mimbres Valley. Her two young adult novels Diamonds at Dusk (2016) and Diamonds at Dawn (2018), have been recognized by the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards, The Wishing Shelf Book Awards in the United Kingdom, and the New Apple Book Awards for Excellence in Independent Publishing. Last year she released the young adult novel Holding on to Hope and her debut short story collection Being Home: A Southwestern Almanac. Being Home, Too is the sequel to her debut short story collection, Being Home: A Southwestern Journey. To listen to the podcasts of the stories included in this book, go to the author's website at catalinaclaussenbooks.wordpress.com.

Book preview

January: Stars and Stripes Forever

It has been a quiet week in the Mimbres Valley. The regulars at the Chisme Café gather on the red vinyl booth seats, suck their teeth, and settle into their lattes, trying not to mention the elephant in the room. It’s nearing the end of the first week of January, that uncomfortable time of the year when the glitz and glamour of the holiday season has died down, and there are simply no more wisecracks left after last week’s polar bear plunge in Bear Canyon Lake when Lester almost drowned. Lester insisted that he would be all right in his denim camo cargo shorts. Turns out he had forgotten that he had left his plumb bob level in the right side pocket and his multi-tool in the left. Both pockets were soon overfilled by frigid water. Who knew that man’s tools could spell the end of him?

And then there was John Barnum, so eager to outdo his hunting companions in this annual tradition that he forgot to take off his brand new pair of patriot ropers, a gift from his me-maw and paw-paw. Sure enough the water rushed in over the leather tops emblazoned in stars and stripes, tipping that delicate balance between life and death. John narrowly escaped a lake bottom fate by kicking off his new boots and letting them sink to the bottom. The guys are sympathetic and careful not to mention John’s current footwear, a pair of vinyl, all-terrain sandals that will have to do until the postman delivers John’s former patriotic dignity from the Boot Barn in Wichita, Kansas.

It’s those near misses in life, those moments where one grapples with one’s sins and faces one’s transgressions in the icy waters of Bear Canyon Lake that provide the best fodder for discussion. But because such a death-defying moment has not occurred in the last two days, there is an uneasy silence among them.

Outside there’s the distinct sound of rubber hitting gravel as a car pulls up to an antiquated gas pump. The pumps retain their historic grandeur because old Doc says, Well, they work don’t they? and you can’t hardly argue with that.

Judd is quick to notice a vehicle he’s never seen before. It’s a late model Cadillac Seville painted gold with a bare-chested lady hood ornament, bold and bawdy against the gathering winter storm. Doc hears the gravel crunch, too, and looks up from the cash register.

Folks in the Valley have a quixotic, impractical relationship with visitors, or should I say foreigners, of any sort. They have an innate curiosity about what would possess a man to leave his hometown and venture out to a lonely windswept basin in the high desert of southwest New Mexico. Was it a nasty divorce? A bank robbery? A tawdry affair? Or, was it some shady trans-border business dealing involving unmentionables that might land the town of San Juan, NM on the map when the U.S. marshals come barging through the door. Lord knows the residents are opposed to gaining such notoriety.

Yes, certainly a portion of the Valley’s economy relies on tourist dollars. Residents have done their part to make folks feel welcome. Look no further than the Mimbres Culture Heritage Site and Museum where locals and visitors alike are educated on the habits and misfortunes of ancestral Valley residents. For generations it seems that Valley residents have been farmers, hunters, and gatherers. From all accounts, the original Mimbrenos left, due to too many people and the weather, which accounts for why modern-day residents are skeptical about both. And all of this history and glory is well documented on obsolete satellite dishes regaled in Mimbreno black and white pottery designs that date back to the Classic Period somewhere between 1000 and 1130 AD.

None can deny the friendly welcome from the stuffed javalina with a red bandana neckerchief upon entering the museum doors.

Tourist-ready or not, the real question confronting Valley residents is: are they prepared for Jimmy Dean Malone, a career Elvis impersonator, who has lost his way? On January second, when the party died down at the Zia Casino just outside of Albuquerque, something possessed Jimmy Dean to snatch a few bottles of liquor from behind the bar and walk out. Jimmy is accustomed to the performance seasons in the world of impersonation. His high time is summer on the sunset strip, which culminates with the Las Vegas Elvis Festival in July. He spends New Year’s Eve in Indian Country and college spring break in far-flung states like Florida. But it’s these uncomfortable, in-between seasons that make him nervous.

Jimmy Dean finished the last of the liquor and ran out of gas at about the same time. Pulled up next to the gas pump, he takes a quick look in the rearview mirror. Jimmy straightens his sideburns, runs a hand across the wave of his sculpted pompadour, and gives his ducktail a quick pinch. He engages the handle on his red velvet upholstered door and gives it a shove. Jimmy’s not sure if he can stand after the miles he’s traveled and the bottles he’s emptied. He gets to his feet, steadies his sea legs, and wonders how he ever doubted himself. After a brief sway in the chilly air, Jimmy Dean closes the door behind him and prepares to make his entrance into the Chisme Café.

It’s the same old story, especially in these one-gas station towns. Jimmy Dean will make his grand entrance and then there’s an instant of awe. The locals flock about asking to touch his hair, his suit, and try on his sunglasses. Then there’s that awkward moment when they talk about him in the third person, trying to figure out if this is the real Elvis and if he is impersonating himself, so he can hide out in a tiny American town unnoticed. Someone will soon realize the flaw in that logic and come to understand that yes, Jimmy Dean is a genuine impersonator.

Jimmy navigates his way among the gas pumps with his white bell-bottoms and faux leather shoes in polished ivory. He straightens his shimmering, bedazzled jacket at the entrance to the Chisme and pulls open the door. The cowbells announce his entrance.

Something about his reception is different this time. There’s no shock and awe, just a dumbfounded silence. Doc pays Jimmy his due; he is after all the proprietor of this here establishment. So he says, How much will you be needing?

Judd looks on from the booth seats, savoring his latte through a straw. Lester sips. So does Norm. They don’t say much of anything. Norm’s whipped cream tickles the roof of his mouth, but he doesn’t let it bother him.

The men of the Valley have their own style of visitor interrogation that involves a disturbing silence, followed by speculation that plays across their faces. Ultimately, their curiosity is settled by an investigation of sorts.