Las Cruces pediatrician will be next Secretary of Health

February 28, 2011

Are you tired of living next to one of the world’s largest stashes of nuclear weapons?

Time to have the 2000+ nuclear weapons at Kirtland dismantled!

Contact your state senator today and ask him/her to support Jerry Ortiz y Pino’s Senate Memorial 17, sildenafil which calls for the dismantlement of the nuclear weapons at Kirtland.

Jerry introduced this memorial in a coordinated effort with Rey Garduno, who introduced a similar resolution at city council last fall.  Rey’s resolution came close to passing, with 4 of the council’s 9 members voting in favor of calling for the dismantlement of the 2000+ nuclear weapons at Kirtland.

The memorial will be in the Senate Rules Committee first, the Public Affairs, then Rules again.

To contact your state senator or the members of the committees, check out:

http://www.nmlegis.gov/lcs/legislatorsearch.aspx
By Steve Klinger

A grown man is not supposed to cry when a retired baseball player of 84 dies in a convalescent hospital in southern California, buy
but this wasn’t just any old baseball player, and it was Duke Snider, treatment
and I can still remember hearing the cheers in the apartment where I grew up, eight block from Ebbets Field, when the Brooklyn Dodgers mounted a rally back in the mid-50s, and the wind was blowing right.

This was the graceful, gliding centerfielder who rivaled Mays and Mantle in his heyday, before he stepped in a hole in Wrigley Field and tore up his knee, who was described by one sportswriter as having “steel springs in his legs.”  There was even greater torque in his hips and shoulders as he drove the ball out of the park on 407 occasions – or perchance struck out, which he did a lot as well.

But he was the Duke, probably the greatest of the Boys of Summer, and I kept a scrapbook of his exploits, only to leave it behind when I went away to college and my parents moved to Florida. It wound up, like most of my belongings, flooded in my aunt’s suburban basement a couple of years later.

The memories of Snider’s heroics in the 1955 World Series and numerous pennant races of that era were strong, however, and I couldn’t forsake the Duke and his cohorts even after Walter O’Malley uprooted them for more lucrative pastures in Los Angeles. While some of my friends became Yankee or, later, Met fans, I finessed the AM radio dial late into the night, searching for an LA Dodger broadcast. I even wrote to Vin Scully, who actually answered me, to relate that there were no radio stations from LA sending Dodger games back to Brooklyn. Where was MLB.com when I needed it?

About 15 years ago, I happened to be driving up the Florida coast on my way to the Orlando airport during spring training, and on an impulse I stopped at the Dodgers’ fabled training camp in Vero Beach to take in a Grapefruit League game. The crowd was sparse that day, but I spotted Snider, then about 70, sitting all by himself in the stands up behind third base. It took all the courage  I could muster, but I approached him and introduced myself. He was gracious and willing enough to talk about the Dodgers’ days in Brooklyn and their controversial departure, which he blamed not on O’Malley but on Robert Moses, a New York City official with great power over land use in those days.

Be that as it may, we had a pleasant chat and I drove off to the airport, tearful then as I was today, with those innocent days of baseball hero worship fresh in my heart.

I can’t think of anything more traumatic in my childhood than the day the New York Post announced the Dodgers were abandoning Ebbets Field — not for Jersey City, which would have been bad enough, but for California, and taking the Giants with them!

A couple of years later, the wrecking ball smashed into the 50-year-old bricks of that hallowed ballpark so that a man named Marvin Kratter could demolish it to build apartments.  I clipped out the photo and put it in my scrapbook.

Snider grew slow and fat and mercifully retired after a year with the Mets and another, inconceivably, with the San Francisco Giants.

But my boyhood bond was strong, and I was elated when he was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.  In retrospect, his career statistics don’t measure up to those posted by the other New York centerfielders of his day, but for a few seasons he could run and field and throw with the best of them and blast the ball as high and far as anyone. In fact, he hit more home runs than anyone in the National League in the decade of the 1950s.

He was the Duke of Flatbush, and today I wept for him and, I suppose, for the dreams of childhood, so irrevocably replaced with adult realities, where greed trumps glory every time.
By Steve Klinger

A grown man is not supposed to cry when a retired baseball player of 84 dies in a convalescent hospital in southern California, hospital
but this wasn’t just any old baseball player, refractionist
it was Duke Snider, and I can still remember hearing the cheers in the apartment where I grew up, eight block from Ebbets Field, when the Brooklyn Dodgers mounted a rally back in the mid-50s, and the wind was blowing right.

This was the graceful, gliding centerfielder who rivaled Mays and Mantle in his heyday, before he stepped in a hole in Wrigley Field and tore up his knee, who was described by one sportswriter as having “steel springs in his legs.”  There was even greater torque in his hips and shoulders as he drove the ball out of the park on 407 occasions – or perchance struck out, which he did a lot as well.

But he was the Duke, probably the greatest of the Boys of Summer, and I kept a scrapbook of his exploits, only to leave it behind when I went away to college and my parents moved to Florida. It wound up, like most of my belongings, flooded in my aunt’s suburban basement a couple of years later.

The memories of Snider’s heroics in the 1955 World Series and numerous pennant races of that era were strong, however, and I couldn’t forsake the Duke and his cohorts even after Walter O’Malley uprooted them for more lucrative pastures in Los Angeles. While some of my friends became Yankee or, later, Met fans, I finessed the AM radio dial late into the night, searching for an LA Dodger broadcast. I even wrote to Vin Scully, who actually answered me, to relate that there were no radio stations from LA sending Dodger games back to Brooklyn. Where was MLB.com when I needed it?

About 15 years ago, I happened to be driving up the Florida coast on my way to the Orlando airport during spring training, and on an impulse I stopped at the Dodgers’ fabled training camp in Vero Beach to take in a Grapefruit League game. The crowd was sparse that day, but I spotted Snider, then about 70, sitting all by himself in the stands. It took all the courage  I could summon, but I approached him and introduced myself. He was gracious and willing enough to talk about the Dodgers’ days in Brooklyn and their controversial departure, which he blamed not on O’Malley but Robert Moses, a New York City official with great power over land use in those days.

Be that as it may, we had a pleasant chat and I drove off to the airport, tearful then as I was today, with those innocent days of baseball hero worship fresh in my heart.

I can’t think of anything more traumatic in my childhood than the day the New York Post announced the Dodgers were abandoning Ebbets Field — not for Jersey City, which would have been bad enough, but for California, and taking the Giants with them!

A couple of years later, the wrecking ball smashed into the 50-year-old bricks of that hallowed ballpark so that a man named Marvin Kratter could demolish it to build apartments.  I clipped out the photo and put it in my scrapbook. Snider grew slow and fat and mercifully retired after a year with the Mets and another, inconceivably, with the San Francisco Giants.

But my boyhood bond was strong, and I was elated when he was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.  In retrospect, his career statistics don’t measure up to those posted by the other New York centerfielders of his day, but for a few seasons he could run and field and throw with the best of them and blast the ball as high and far as anyone. In fact, he hit more home runs than anyone in the National League in the decade of the 1950s.

He was the Duke of Flatbush, and today I wept for him and, I suppose, for the dreams of childhood, so irrevocably replaced with adult realities, where greed trumps glory every time.
By Steve Klinger

A grown man is not supposed to cry when a retired baseball player of 84 dies in a convalescent hospital in southern California, buy there but this wasn’t just any old baseball player, more info
it was Duke Snider, recuperation
and I can still remember hearing the cheers in the apartment where I grew up, eight block from Ebbets Field, when the Brooklyn Dodgers mounted a rally back in the mid-50s, and the wind was blowing right.

This was the graceful, gliding centerfielder who rivaled Mays and Mantle in his heyday, before he stepped in a hole in Wrigley Field and tore up his knee, who was described by one sportswriter as having “steel springs in his legs.”  There was even greater torque in his hips and shoulders as he drove the ball out of the park on 407 occasions – or perchance struck out, which he did a lot as well.

But he was the Duke, probably the greatest of the Boys of Summer, and I kept a scrapbook of his exploits, only to leave it behind when I went away to college and my parents moved to Florida. It wound up, like most of my belongings, flooded in my aunt’s suburban basement a couple of years later.

The memories of Snider’s heroics in the 1955 World Series and numerous pennant races of that era were strong, however, and I couldn’t forsake the Duke and his cohorts even after Walter O’Malley uprooted them for more lucrative pastures in Los Angeles. While some of my friends became Yankee or, later, Met fans, I finessed the AM radio dial late into the night, searching for an LA Dodger broadcast. I even wrote to Vin Scully, who actually answered me, to relate that there were no radio stations from LA sending Dodger games back to Brooklyn. Where was MLB.com when I needed it?

About 15 years ago, I happened to be driving up the Florida coast on my way to the Orlando airport during spring training, and on an impulse I stopped at the Dodgers’ fabled training camp in Vero Beach to take in a Grapefruit League game. The crowd was sparse that day, but I spotted Snider, then about 70, sitting all by himself in the stands. It took all the courage  I could summon, but I approached him and introduced myself. He was gracious and willing enough to talk about the Dodgers’ days in Brooklyn and their controversial departure, which he blamed not on O’Malley but Robert Moses, a New York City official with great power over land use in those days.

Be that as it may, we had a pleasant chat and I drove off to the airport, tearful then as I was today, with those innocent days of baseball hero worship fresh in my heart.

I can’t think of anything more traumatic in my childhood than the day the New York Post announced the Dodgers were abandoning Ebbets Field — not for Jersey City, which would have been bad enough, but for California, and taking the Giants with them!

A couple of years later, the wrecking ball smashed into the 50-year-old bricks of that hallowed ballpark so that a man named Marvin Kratter could demolish it to build apartments.  I clipped out the photo and put it in my scrapbook. Snider grew slow and fat and mercifully retired after a year with the Mets and another, inconceivably, with the San Francisco Giants.

But my boyhood bond was strong, and I was elated when he was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.  In retrospect, his career statistics don’t measure up to those posted by the other New York centerfielders of his day, but for a few seasons he could run and field and throw with the best of them and blast the ball as high and far as anyone. In fact, he hit more home runs than anyone in the National League in the decade of the 1950s.

He was the Duke of Flatbush, and today I wept for him and, I suppose, for the dreams of childhood, so irrevocably replaced with adult realities, where greed trumps glory every time.
By Steve Klinger

A grown man is not supposed to cry when a retired baseball player of 84 dies in a convalescent hospital in southern California, more about
but this wasn’t just any old baseball player, pilule
it was Duke Snider, and I can still remember hearing the cheers in the apartment where I grew up, eight block from Ebbets Field, when the Brooklyn Dodgers mounted a rally back in the mid-50s, and the wind was blowing right.

This was the graceful, gliding centerfielder who rivaled Mays and Mantle in his heyday, before he stepped in a hole in Wrigley Field and tore up his knee, who was described by one sportswriter as having “steel springs in his legs.”  There was even greater torque in his hips and shoulders as he drove the ball out of the park on 407 occasions – or perchance struck out, which he did a lot as well.

But he was the Duke, probably the greatest of the Boys of Summer, and I kept a scrapbook of his exploits, only to leave it behind when I went away to college and my parents moved to Florida. It wound up, like most of my belongings, flooded in my aunt’s suburban basement a couple of years later.

The memories of Snider’s heroics in the 1955 World Series and numerous pennant races of that era were strong, however, and I couldn’t forsake the Duke and his cohorts even after Walter O’Malley uprooted them for more lucrative pastures in Los Angeles. While some of my friends became Yankee or, later, Met fans, I finessed the AM radio dial late into the night, searching for an LA Dodger broadcast. I even wrote to Vin Scully, who actually answered me, to relate that there were no radio stations from LA sending Dodger games back to Brooklyn. Where was MLB.com when I needed it?

About 15 years ago, I happened to be driving up the Florida coast on my way to the Orlando airport during spring training, and on an impulse I stopped at the Dodgers’ fabled training camp in Vero Beach to take in a Grapefruit League game. The crowd was sparse that day, but I spotted Snider, then about 70, sitting all by himself in the stands up behind third base. It took all the courage  I could muster, but I approached him and introduced myself. He was gracious and willing enough to talk about the Dodgers’ days in Brooklyn and their controversial departure, which he blamed not on O’Malley but on Robert Moses, a New York City official with great power over land use in those days.

Be that as it may, we had a pleasant chat and I drove off to the airport, tearful then as I was today, with those innocent days of baseball hero worship fresh in my heart.

I can’t think of anything more traumatic in my childhood than the day the New York Post announced the Dodgers were abandoning Ebbets Field — not for Jersey City, which would have been bad enough, but for California, and taking the Giants with them!

A couple of years later, the wrecking ball smashed into the 50-year-old bricks of that hallowed ballpark so that a man named Marvin Kratter could demolish it to build apartments.  I clipped out the photo and put it in my scrapbook.

Snider grew slow and fat and mercifully retired after a year with the Mets and another, inconceivably, with the San Francisco Giants.

But my boyhood bond was strong, and I was elated when he was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.  In retrospect, his career statistics don’t measure up to those posted by the other New York centerfielders of his day, but for a few seasons he could run and field and throw with the best of them and blast the ball as high and far as anyone. In fact, he hit more home runs than anyone in the National League in the decade of the 1950s.

He was the Duke of Flatbush, and today I wept for him and, I suppose, for the dreams of childhood, so irrevocably replaced with adult realities, where greed trumps glory every time.

Sixty-three semi-trucks are on the way to Las Cruces… loaded with 30, prescription
000 bright blue curbside recycling bins. The first truck will arrive Wednesday, sales
March 2nd – with a bin preview for the media at noon.

Morris Friedman, viagra 60mg
President/COO of Friedman Recycling, says, “The bins are arriving earlier than expected, and that means distribution of bins to Las Cruces homes begins earlier, too – the third week of March! These bins are different from anything that’s been seen in this region, with the label melted into the lid, in an effort to help guide residents about what recycles and what doesn’t. Our company, Friedman Recycling, is honored to be the firm chosen to manage curbside recycling for Las Cruces.”

Friedman Recycling has been processing recyclables from Las Cruces and Dona Ana County for the past year, and was the winning bidder in the city’s search for a company to manage a cost-effective curbside recycling program for 30,000 Las Cruces households.  Friedman has been a successful competitor in the recycling business for 30 years in Phoenix and Tucson; built their cutting edge recycling processing facility to service El Paso four years ago, and now separates and processes recyclables for Las Cruces and Dona Ana County as well.

Wednesday, March 2nd at NOON
PREVIEW OF CURBSIDE RECYCLING BINS SCSWA OFFICES

2865 W. Amador Avenue
For more information, please call Suzanne Michaels at (915) 588-0082

www.FriedmanRecycling.com <http://www.FriedmanRecycling.com>

Sixty-three semi-trucks are on the way to Las Cruces… loaded with 30, more about
000 bright blue curbside recycling bins. The first truck will arrive Wednesday, March 2nd – with a bin preview for the media at noon.

Morris Friedman, President/COO of Friedman Recycling, says, “The bins are arriving earlier than expected, and that means distribution of bins to Las Cruces homes begins earlier, too – the third week of March! These bins are different from anything that’s been seen in this region, with the label melted into the lid, in an effort to help guide residents about what recycles and what doesn’t. Our company, Friedman Recycling, is honored to be the firm chosen to manage curbside recycling for Las Cruces.”

Friedman Recycling has been processing recyclables from Las Cruces and Dona Ana County for the past year, and was the winning bidder in the city’s search for a company to manage a cost-effective curbside recycling program for 30,000 Las Cruces households.  Friedman has been a successful competitor in the recycling business for 30 years in Phoenix and Tucson; built their cutting edge recycling processing facility to service El Paso four years ago, and now separates and processes recyclables for Las Cruces and Dona Ana County as well.

Wednesday, March 2nd at NOON
PREVIEW OF CURBSIDE RECYCLING BINS SCSWA OFFICES

2865 W. Amador Avenue
For more information, please call Suzanne Michaels at (915) 588-0082

www.FriedmanRecycling.com <http://www.FriedmanRecycling.com>

Sixty-three semi-trucks are on the way to Las Cruces… loaded with 30, patient
000 bright blue curbside recycling bins. The first truck will arrive Wednesday, March 2nd – with a bin preview for the media at noon.

Morris Friedman, President/COO of Friedman Recycling, says, “The bins are arriving earlier than expected, and that means distribution of bins to Las Cruces homes begins earlier, too – the third week of March! These bins are different from anything that’s been seen in this region, with the label melted into the lid, in an effort to help guide residents about what recycles and what doesn’t. Our company, Friedman Recycling, is honored to be the firm chosen to manage curbside recycling for Las Cruces.”

Friedman Recycling has been processing recyclables from Las Cruces and Dona Ana County for the past year, and was the winning bidder in the city’s search for a company to manage a cost-effective curbside recycling program for 30,000 Las Cruces households.  Friedman has been a successful competitor in the recycling business for 30 years in Phoenix and Tucson; built their cutting edge recycling processing facility to service El Paso four years ago, and now separates and processes recyclables for Las Cruces and Dona Ana County as well.

Wednesday, March 2nd at NOON
PREVIEW OF CURBSIDE RECYCLING BINS SCSWA OFFICES

2865 W. Amador Avenue
For more information, please call Suzanne Michaels at (915) 588-0082

www.FriedmanRecycling.com <http://www.FriedmanRecycling.com>
Dr. Catherine Torres Confirmed as Secretary of Health by Senate

(Santa Fe) – The New Mexico Senate today confirmed Dr. Catherine Torres as Secretary of the New Mexico Department of Health.  Dr. Torres is a pediatrician from Las Cruces and was nominated by Governor Susana Martinez to lead the Department of Health because of her strong medical, advice public health and community service background.

“Dr. Torres is a dedicated health professional who knows the health needs of New Mexico’s children and families first-hand,” said Governor Martinez. “As we work together on important policy and administrative issues, Dr. Torres’ real-world experience will be an asset to my administration and all New Mexicans.”

Prior to becoming Secretary of Health, Dr. Torres worked as a pediatrician at Rio Grande Medical Group in Las Cruces.  Dr. Torres was the Medical Director of First Step Pediatrics in Las Cruces from 2005 to 2009.

“I am honored to be confirmed by the New Mexico Senate as the Secretary of Health and I look forward to working hard every day to improve the health status of all New Mexicans,” Dr. Torres said.

In addition to her medical background, Dr. Torres has served on several boards and commissions that work to improve the health of people in New Mexico and people living in the United States – Mexico border region.  Dr. Torres was appointed by President Bill Clinton as a Commissioner to the U.S. Mexico Border Health Commission in 1999 and served on the Commission until 2006.  Dr. Torres was also a Commissioner for the New Mexico for the Sonora Health Commission.  Dr. Torres served as chairperson of the New Mexico Border Health Council Advisory Committee from 2008 to 2010.  Dr. Torres served as Chairperson of the Medical Advisory Committee of the Doña Ana County Detention Center since the creation of the committee in 2008.

Dr. Torres is originally from Albuquerque and earned her B.S. in 1985 and an M.D. in 1990 from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque.

For more information about the Department of Health go online to www.healthynm.org <http://www.healthynm.org> .

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