Did not get up at night for a change.
Instead, I dreamed of Warren Buffet. I was ushered into his office that looked as dull as a 1950’s office could. He sat at one of those big, old fashioned desks but got up as I came in. Not in response to me particularly but to go into another space through a transom door. The view through the door showed Buffet getting his exercise by being at bat taking pitches from a man in long, gartered up, sleeves; wearing an old fashioned striped soft baseball hat . In the dream, I do not know how I go the appointment and so I am unsure of what I am doing there. After his at-bats, Warren returned to his desk and motioned me forward to sit down on a bench covered with a crumpled blanket. At this point, he was summoned by a young and pudgy Charlie Munger-ish character and they stepped out on Fifth Avenue to have a discussion; kind of like the old Godfathers in the Village — They spoke into their cupped hands while looking over their shoulders. I wondered why the Oracle could not have his own building swept for listening devices. Then, found myself considering if I should straighten up the blanket on the bench and wondering what Buffet did for the homeless.
Present, now, 1:29 est I am switching back and forth between the Market and the BLOG. My stock that does Foreclosures is up and that is good, so now I have leverage to buy Chevron while the market gets hammered as Arch Crawford told us yesterday..
The evening activity prior to our dose of Sister Wendy was a magnificent community exhibit at the Convention Center.. Valerie Martinez, Poet Laureate of Santa Fe had invited residents to create “Lines and Circles” to celebrate their multiple generations in the city. http://www.santafenm.gov/CurrentEvents.aspx?EID=2854 This was a moving installation where eleven families created displays charting their family’s lives — The amazing thing about this city as the Docent pointed our, is the amalgam of Spanish, Mexicans and homesteaders. (Yes. this was a territory and homesteading ended in the 1930’s.)
Each family had a representative on hand to answer questions. Early in 1930, the Jones Brown family was enroute to California from Chicago when baby, Florenceruth (Flossie) had to be hospitalized. Her father, a newspaper man was reading the local papers when he saw post regarding homesteading deadlines. As told us, “the light went on just like in the cartoons and Dad was off to the land office to put together the required number of land parcels for us to qualify. He had pieced together almost the required acreage (about 6 times the size of parcels for homesteading in the middle west)and by luck he saw a lot on a hill. Well, that hill property was the passageway for local sheepherders and there was some ruckus when the drovers came through and saw him putting up fencing.” As an aside, Flossie, now 80 years old, let it be know that she had been the longest serving Attorney General in the state’s history. The mainstay of their exhibit besides was the Brown family tree made by her grandson a metal smith – it was a grand structure of twisted rusted wires on which she draped her mother’s black shawl (sent by a beau from France.) In the album, Ms. Brown pointed to a photo of her mother wearing the floral and fringed treasure while sitting on a fence.
The Salazar family display was enriched by the genealogical research of Julia Celebration Salazar. She proudly displayed photos of her two sons one of whom was appointed to Annapolis in their uniforms (they served in Desert Storm.) I asked the younger one how it was that a kid from the desert became a sailor and he said that he loved the contrast to the desert..
At the entrance there was a series of mailboxes with letters back and forth from the current generation of Martinez Ridgely’s to their ancestors and a map of the route they took to their European origins in Spain and northern Europe to Santa Fe.
My favorite of the many poems was from the Ortiz Dinkel family. The paeon, in praise of the oak dining table from the 1860’s, summed up their display of several dinner plates with photos individuals from the interwoven generations and one grand platter with the family tree. Around the walls were tintypes of matriarchs who had been widowed many times and raised the children of their dead siblings, as good people did in those days. The poem spoke lovingly and articulately of the long and dear conversations that had taken place around this table.