Beside the old Route 66 is an old playground. It’s hard to imagine anyone playing here, with the hard ground littered with glittery bits of broken beer bottles, but maybe in the past someone did.

Maybe I did. Santa Rosa was on our family’s route from home to the mountains, where we camped each summer of my childhood. We didn’t stop often on these trips; Santa Rosa would have been the first stop since home, and I guess there’s a chance that my sister and I were shooed from the car to go use up some energy before the next part of the trip commenced. (I am almost positive that it was in Santa Rosa that my dad gave me, in the very early days of my literacy, a lesson on how to find the correct restroom. The one I wanted, he explained, said, “Whoa, men.”)

These days, the swing set and the rest of that playground don’t have any visitors. Except for a photographer or two, stopping by.

Santa Rosa, New Mexico
photographed 5.4.2013