Author: Amber Foxx

Author of Mae Martin psychic mystery series.

A New Mexico Movie Review: Eddington

“Are you on Team Joe or Team Ted?” asked the person at the swag table after the Truth or Consequences premier screening of the movie, Eddington on July 10, 2025. I picked a “Ted Garcia for Mayor” button. Given the choice, I’d have voted for him over Sheriff Joe Cross, but I was really on a third team.

If this movie were a mystery, the person solving it would have been the Pueblo cop who wasn’t minding his own business, who was encroaching on the sheriff’s territory because a crime took place on the border between Sevilla County and San Lupe Pueblo. (Both fictitious locations, FYI.)  He would have been the protagonist. I was rooting for him as the person figuring it out, observing who is acting suspiciously, and what circumstances suggest that people aren’t telling the truth, but the story is not told as a mystery. He’s actually part of the Western movie tradition of conflict with Native Americans. He’s trouble for the sheriff.

Eddington is a modern dystopian Western. Or maybe an anti-Western, turning the genre on its head. It’s primarily in the points of view of the sheriff and the mayor, political rivals who have different visions for the town and its future, and they disagree about how to cope with COVID. The mayor is enforcing the strict approach to COVID taken in New Mexico in the spring of 2020: mask mandates, no large gatherings, keeping your six-foot distance, and limiting the number of customers inside stores at one time. However, the sheriff has asthma and hates wearing a mask. The trouble begins in T or C’s real grocery store, Bullock’s. Sheriff Joe Cross defies the mask mandate on behalf of an elderly man who says he can’t breathe in a mask. Cross  goes into the store unmasked and buys groceries for the guy. The sheriff can get away with it. He hands him the groceries and doesn’t ask him to repay, making him both a law breaker and a compassionate guy.

When you think of the sheriff in a western he’s usually a tough guy. Sometimes corrupt, sometimes heroic, but tough. This sheriff is too, in some ways, but unlike the stereotypical version of the role, he wears glasses, needs to carry his inhaler around, and has problems in his marriage. Joaquin Phoenix is brilliant as Sheriff Joe Cross. (Perhaps getting out and about in T or C as much as he did helped him in his portrayal of the sheriff in a small New Mexico town.) Pedro Pascal’s portrayal of Mayor Ted Garcia is more restrained and equally powerful. Emma Stone plays the fragile and damaged Lou Cross, the sheriff’s wife, a new take on the Western trope of the woman with a past. Her conspiracy theorist mother is a 21st century addition to the genre cast of characters. The self-healing pseudo guru Lou and her mother follow is a new variation on the itinerant preacher and/or snake oil huckster of the old West.

Eddington also presents 21st century takes on the genre tropes of the bar fight, the stand-off, the big shootout, and the evil outsiders coming to town.

The conspiracy theory aspect of the pandemic is portrayed quite realistically, and the presence of phone and laptop screens gets appropriately oppressive. Toward the end, one of the secondary characters, a teenage boy, changes radically. His transformation is shown on a phone screen, as if the person he becomes exists only as seen through this medium.

One of the film’s themes is “you’re being manipulated.”  Notably, Joe Cross can’t spell it correctly; his campaign signs say “your being manipulated.”

Ari Aster, the director, was at the El Cortez theater to speak to the crew, who made up half the audience, about how wonderful they’d been to work with, and to tell the townspeople present how much he loved working in T or C. He seemed humble and not terribly comfortable speaking in public. I didn’t get a chance to talk with him after the movie, though some friends did. I would have liked to ask him how much the town influenced the final script. Did he see our water tower with Apaches on horseback painted on it and then decide that a scene on that hill would be perfect? I also wonder if Aster was inspired by our museum. When the sheriff crashes his way through it in extreme duress in the middle of the night, he’s scrambling through exhibits of the history of this area and coming out the actual exit, which is an old miner’s cabin. Rushing through the history of the West and coming out the other side.

Other strengths of the movie are the complexities of relationships, the absurdities of the political campaigns, the corruption, the deception, and the COVID realism. (I don’t know that this detail even shows in the movie, but they had signs on Bullock’s announcing toilet paper back in stock, with limit of a certain number per customer.)

Garcia’s bar, created for the movie in an old antique store long out of business, reopened for us after the screening, serving non-alcoholic drinks. There was a drone show out over the river, hundreds of drones lighting up with the logo of the production company A24, the name of the big bad tech company in the movie, and a 3D New Mexico Zia symbol accompanying the words Eddington, New Mexico. The town we will perhaps always be, at some level. Our Geronimo Springs Museum now has an Eddington Room, a permanent exhibit. I recommend the movie. It’s thought-provoking. Ambiguous. Ambitious. And it’s ours.

*****

For a look at the town when it was a film set, see my post from last year, None of These Places Are Real.

 

A New Mexico Mystery Review: The Pot Thief Who Studied Calvin

Like all Pot Thief mysteries, this one is unconventional, entertaining, and educational, with historical and philosophical explorations as well as a mysterious little pot and a sudden death, perhaps a murder. These ingredients are blended and seasoned with insight and humor. If you’re a series fan, you’ll enjoy a reunion with the usual characters as well as another trip to the village of La Reina. It was good to spend more time in Old Town Albuquerque and in Hubie’s shop. As usual, his personal life gets a good share of the story’s pages, as you’d want when catching up with an old friend. After all, he’s a person, not just the person solving a mystery. (Actually, he’s part of a team solving the mystery.)

The solution left me puzzled and questioning. Was this supposed to be like King Solomon and the case of the two women claiming the same baby? Was the reader meant to still be sorting it out, or was the reader supposed to get some hints? I am so bad at getting hints. Nonetheless, I loved the ending. It left me with a smile.

Bob Stories: A Cup of Coffee at the DMZ

Bob told me this story as he enjoyed a fresh cup of hot black coffee on the patio at the New Mexico State Veterans Home on a ninety-nine-degree day. In the shade. the weather wasn’t bad—dry heat really is quite tolerable—and his coffee stayed hot. Bob loves coffee, and it has to be strong, hot, and black. According to him “there’s no such thing as strong coffee, only weak people.” His favorite beverage led to the story of a welcome cup seventy years ago.

Bob remained in Korea after the armistice. He liked the country and preferred to be there rather than go back to a base in California. On a rainy night, he was one of the men on lookout duty at the edge of the DMZ, lying under some sort of waterproof shelter with his rifle at ready. Rain dripped from a tree nearby, but it just missed him. The ground was rough, “not a place where you would go out for a stroll.” They had to hold still and stay alert “in case hell broke loose.”

One of his fellow Marines was sent out with fresh, hot coffee, not a job the guy delivering it liked, since he had to get wet. Bob was so grateful, though. He found a place in his shelter where the coffee could sit on a rock right within reach, protected by another rock, so the rain wouldn’t get in to cool or dilute the coffee. And then the wind blew a dribbling tree branch directly onto it.

The man who’d been bringing the coffee around came back to check on Bob.

Bob indicated the branch. “Can you do something about this?”

“Better yet. I’ll bring you a fresh cup of coffee.”

 

A New Mexico History Review: The Villista Prisoners by James W. Hurst

The great strength of this book is its emphasis on the ordinary people involved in the international incident at Columbus, New Mexico in 1916. The book is not about Pancho Villa. It’s not about General Pershing. It’s about the men who were captured during Villa’s raid on the small town on the border of New Mexico and Old Mexico. One of the Villistas captured was a twelve-year-old boy. Their stories—how they came to be in Villa’s army, whether or not they knew they were in the United States, whether they wanted to be doing what they were doing—were matters of controversy at the time.

The author is an excellent historical detective, learning everything about these men that he could. Many of were illiterate conscripts who had been forced into Villa’s army; others had joined because they feared the army of his opponent, Mexican President Carranza. They didn’t want to be at war at all, though, and this issue came up in their trials, as did other questions Could the governor of New Mexico pardon them? Shouldn’t unwilling, illiterate conscripts be considered innocent? But there was a precedent set in both the United States and in Scotland that a soldier who follows an illegal order is still guilty of a crime.

I will not tell you how everything turned out them through the twists and turns of their of their trials. The book starts with the raid, not from the point of view of the leaders, but of the town’s people. And it ends with the fate of equally ordinary people entangled in international and national matters. I recommend this book if you have an interest in history and like to understand not only what happened and why, but who was involved and how they were affected.

 

The Back Room at Black Cat Books

On April 26, Independent Bookstore Day, I had the pleasure of doing a reading and signing at Black Cat Books and Coffee in Truth or Consequences. There were fresh flowers on the table where I was set up in the back room. To my surprise, the room was like a museum honoring a beloved Sierra County musician and luthier, the late Bill Bussman. He and his wife lived out in the middle of nowhere beyond Hillsborough, one of our living ghost towns, but people throughout this area and all over the country knew him because of his musicianship and the instruments he created. He was truly an original—warm and funny with irresistible charm. To learn more, read this article about him and this thread of posts from other musicians acknowledging his passing and sharing their memories of him. One of them mentions him playing the stand-up bass that had an Elvis head and a little red sneaker on its foot that tapped in time to the music. I heard him play that bass many times over the years. The bass wasn’t at Black Cat with me, but a number of his quirkiest creations were: the red chiles, the watermelons, and the bass bass. (Note the knives in the watermelons.)
While I was there, I had the pleasure of meeting fascinating people. Some were buying my books. Some of were there to talk—about my writing, about their writing, about their travels and families, and more. A retired New Age pastor told me about the life she left behind in California and some behind-the-scenes tales of famous spiritual teachers—a bit like something out of one of my books. When people tell me stories, it helps me write stories. And surely, the spirit of Bill Bussman lent light and delight to us all.

Senior Woman Seen Doing Flips!

An ad for one of the national EV charging networks shows a woman doing tree pose while her car charges. It seemed like a good idea to me, except for standing beside the charger. The charging station at the Dona Ana County Government office center in Las Cruces is right next to a busy street and in full sun. I plugged in my car and found a quiet, shaded place for yoga, a large, recessed area between the county offices and the sheriff’s department. I took off my hat and left it on the paved floor, then did basic standing poses (Warrior One, Warrior Two, and related poses), then some one-legged standing balance poses. I was right side up, which matters later. For seated poses, I moved to a bench, since I didn’t want to sit on the pavement. Then I collected my hat and returned to my car, relaxed and refreshed, but sneezing.

I was sitting with the door open taking a stinging nettle capsule for allergies when suddenly there were people outside my car. Two sheriff’s deputies, a young woman and a very large man.

The woman wanted to know what I was doing. I thought, “Oh my gosh, do they think I’m using drugs?” Alarmed, I said, “I’m taking my allergy medication.” I’d already swallowed it and couldn’t show it was a harmless herb.

“Someone reported that you were doing flips, and they wanted to know that you were all right.”

Flips? I got out of my car. “I was doing yoga. I was stretching. I didn’t flip.”

“This person was worried about you. You left your bag.”

“I didn’t have a bag. I’d put my hat down.”

“We needed to check that you’re okay.”

So, I executed a deep forward bend with straight knees, hands flat on the ground, then repeated the three one-legged balances in sequence, never putting the second foot down as I made the transitions. “I did that. I think that means I’m okay, right?

The female deputy said, “Yeah, I can’t do that.”

“Okay, then?”

They allowed that I was and left.

Bird Meditation

The mystery in the book I’m currently writing centers around a missing birder and the people who care about him. To enter the experience of my characters, I needed to learn more about birds. Learning facts is useful, but what’s even more meaningful is paying attention. I’m starting to understand why people become birders.

I discovered the small songbirds were quieter in Elephant Butte Lake Park on the trail in the middle of the desert than when I ran on a dirt road behind a nearby residential neighborhood. The further I went, the more songs I heard. Are the trees taller in this neighborhood? Do people feed the birds? Are there more predators in the park than in back yards? The park sounds different, full of Gambel’s quail and their single-note mews or squeaks and occasionally the loud, laughing calls of roadrunners.

On a recent evening the weather was beautiful, the end of a rare spring day without wind. I walked down to the Rio Grande, expecting that all the migratory birds would have left the river by now, but a scattered raft of coots still swam there, clacking and honking and grunting and beeping. A heron soared and circled without flapping its wings for much of its flight, even though, at an earth-level perspective, the air was still. It landed on the other side of the river a few bushes away from where a man was fishing. He acted excited when he caught a fish. The bird held perfectly still and did not catch a fish. Yet.

A coot flipped upside down and disappeared underwater for an incredible length of time. A red-winged black bird in a tree next to the river sang, and one answered from a tree in the wetland on the other side of the parking lot, trilling back and forth to each other. Birds in bushes along the hot ditch, where hot spring water from home tubs and spas empties into the river, were singing a chorus, a symphony. The extraordinary range of sounds silenced my mind. The human world has been a bit stressful lately. As I grew absorbed in the world of birds, everything else fell away, leaving only wings and feathers, swimming and flight, and music.

Bob Stories—Jobs and a Robber

My eighty-nine-year-old friend Bob has often said that he never had trouble getting a job. He described a job interview he had once as a young man. The employer asked him what kind of work he was looking for, and he said, “Anything you tell me to do.”

The employer said, “I like that attitude. But … what if I asked you to kill someone?”

Bob replied, “Well, I know how.”

The man said, “What?” And Bob explained he’d been in the Marines, trained in hand to hand combat. He assured him he really had no intention of taking that sort of job but was otherwise willing to do anything. That was good news for the employer, because what he needed Bob to do was shovel a lot of horse manure.

After Bob had been working for a while, the barn owner asked, “How do you stand the smell?”

Bob told him that his summer job in high school had been on a farm with sixty cows, so he could get used to anything. If you paid him, he’d do the work.

This leads into the next story. In Philadelphia, shortly after getting out of the Marines, Bob was, as he put it, walking on the wrong side of the street. A man came up close and shoved a gun in his ribs, demanding, “Give me your money.”

The way Bob describes it. “For some reason I wasn’t scared. I felt like I was in control. The robber made a mistake, getting the gun too close. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Bob twisted the gun back at him and asked, “Why do you want to do that?”

“I need the money,” the would-be robber replied.

“Then get a job.”

“I’m desperate. I don’t have time.”

“Yes, you do. Have you got time for the trouble you’ll get into if you keep doing what you’re doing?”

The guy left.

Two years later, Bob ran into him in a bar. “You gonna stick a gun in my ribs?”

“No, actually, I did what you said. I got a job. I was starving for the first week until I got paid, and then I ate like a hog for the first two days that I had money. But now I’m doing fine. Thank you.”

Or that’s the way the story goes.

There is still beauty.

As I watered the forsythias, a soft, humming fountain of bees rose up from the flowers. The plants are hardy and ask for little, but they’re working hard now, the first to flower at the end of what passes for winter here. The bees gave me joy. Certain flighted creatures silence my mind into bliss—bees, bats, sandhill cranes circling with their purring, gargling songs. They sound like crows who took voice lessons from doves.

The internet did me a favor and cut off, waiting exactly until the end of a Zoom yoga class I was taking. I missed sharing “Namaste” with my teacher and classmates, but after that, I was free from listening to the news online or reading the news or my email.

When I needed a break from writing in the evening. I took a walk. Jupiter was glowing in the West, huge and pale gold. Straight overhead, Saturn shone. Further east was Mars, a steady red dot. The streetlights are weak and few in my neighborhood, and the night sky glitters. I invited a neighbor out to share the planet-and-star show. Disconnected from the world, we reconnected with the universe and each other.

 

Uphill Against the Wind

High winds. No rain.
Hot air blows. A dangerously early spring.
This land I love could burn before it blooms.
I run on desert sand so dry
it slips beneath my feet.
I’m going nowhere.
Firm ground tempts me to linger
on a sheltered stretch of trail.
Jogging back and forth. Going nowhere.
A parhelion glows, an opalescent shell in the cloudy sky.
Rose, violet and mango hues surround a turquoise eye.
I change my stride, long and low, and lean into the gusts.
I can do this.
Uphill against the wind.