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Cans of Hormel Chili and Memories

A can of Hormel Chili for dinner sounds good. I don’t remember the last time I had a can of chili. There’s nothing spectacular about it besides how RWR used to combine it with cans of peaches, tomato soup, beef stew, whatever into some mix down by the campfire at night when we were done for the day doing the archeology. Archeology is a doing thing. Not a passive thing. Dinner was not either. Often we would sample his world class homemade chili with rattlesnake in it along with other meats and pan bread. All this by the fire in the middle of the mysterious Mojave Desert somewhere south of Tehachapi and west of who the Hell knows where.

And when I open the can of chili, it provokes the same memory. Those wonderful, crazy, meaningful days of riding in the back of his Land cruiser yelling, jumping naked in the swimming hole that only he knew the location of, getting lost and found on some desert road around the buttes north of Rosamond, California. Those red rhyolite buttes. Maybe the same color as that concoction we served at dinner sometimes. But then the warm budweiser beer ran until it was gone and we told ghost stories about enchanted deserts and forgotten peoples and lost geologists. We always picked on the geologists because they had this law called,

the law of superposition

Anything on top is younger than what is on the bottom. So it made us laugh for a few reasons. You can guess some of them. Them were the days of chili and warm beer and the archeology that flowed from the power of a jeep. Lets bring the chili.

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