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Taos County Republican Party

Taos County Republican Party

TCRP supports lower taxes, free-market capitalism, a strong national defense, gun rights, pro-life, deregulation and restrictions on labor unions.


Despite Republican Calls to Address New Mexico’s most pressing issues, Democrats refuse to take meaningful action. The Not-So-Special Session begins today. #nmpol

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Something to think about...Forty years behind the wheel, thousands of miles of asphalt under my tires—and yet the loneliest night of my life didn’t happen in some far-off desert or a snowstorm in the Rockies. It happened in Nebraska, parked at a half-forgotten truck stop where the wind felt like it could strip the paint off a man’s soul.My name’s Frank Miller. I’m sixty-seven. I’ve been driving freight since I was twenty-five, long enough to watch highways change, towns fade, and my own hands turn from calloused youth to wrinkled old. I’ve seen the sun rise over the Arizona desert like a fire spilling across the sand. I’ve driven through Wyoming blizzards where you can’t tell the road from the sky. I’ve crossed the flat Iowa cornfields that stretch out forever, broken only by grain silos and fence posts.For years, my wife Diane was my anchor. She used to pack me sandwiches before I left home, always slipping a note into the bag: Drive safe, old bear. Five years ago, cancer took her. My kids are scattered now—one in Atlanta teaching, the other overseas serving his country. They call when they can, but phone lines and long miles don’t fill the empty seat beside me. These days, it’s just me, the hum of the engine, and whatever static happens to come over the radio.Last winter, in the dead of night, the transmission on my rig gave up. Limped me into a broken-down truck stop clinging to the edge of a ghost town. Neon lights flickered like dying fireflies. The lot was empty, the gas station buzzing with that lonely hum of fluorescent bulbs. I had forty bucks in my wallet—barely enough for fuel, let alone a repair.I sat in my cab, wrapped in an old coat, chewing a piece of stale bread, watching frost creep across the inside of the windshield. For the first time in four decades of driving, I thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe the road doesn’t need me anymore.I didn’t call my kids. Didn’t call anyone. Old truckers don’t ask for help—we just keep rolling, or we stop alone. That’s how I thought it went.Then came the knock.A young woman stood outside, the night cashier from the station. Hoodie too thin for the cold, hair pulled back. She held out a Styrofoam cup, steam curling into the freezing air.“Hot cocoa,” she said. “On the house.”I swear, I almost broke down right there.Minutes later, another set of headlights pulled in. An old tow truck, beat up but steady, rolled to a stop. Out climbed a Vietnam vet named Carl. He’d heard my situation over the CB. “Heard you were stranded,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Figured I’d take a look.” He slid under my rig with bare hands in that cutting wind. Never asked for a dollar.And then, like a chain reaction, more came.A teenager from town brought a blanket. The cashier called her cousin, who knew his way around an engine. A teacher showed up with two of his students, saying, “You mind telling them what trucking life is really like?” Someone else appeared carrying burgers wrapped in foil, the smell of onions filling the cold night. A boy strummed a guitar on the hood of a car. My truck wasn’t running yet, but something else was being patched up—me.By morning, word had spread. That’s what small towns do. Neighbors show up. A mechanic donated parts. Another covered the labor. One stranger pressed a fifty into my hand with only two words: Pay it forward.Three days later, my rig roared back to life. But what stuck wasn’t the sound of the engine—it was the reminder that America isn’t as broken as the news makes it seem. Strangers still notice. Kids still care. Communities still open doors when someone’s sitting alone in the dark.I drove away carrying more than a repaired transmission. I carried proof. Proof that kindness runs through this country like an underground river. You don’t always see it, but when you break down long enough, someone will bring you cocoa. Someone will crawl under your truck in the cold. Someone will refuse to just keep driving by.That’s how this country was built—not by giants, but by ordinary people who decide not to leave each other stranded.So here’s what I know, from one tired trucker to anyone still listening:We can live without plenty of things. But nobody makes it without someone stopping.If you want to keep this country strong, don’t just pass by. Pull over. Offer cocoa. Offer a blanket. Offer time.Because a nation isn’t measured by the length of its highways or the size of its banks. It’s measured by how many of us make sure no one rides alone.

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Some say you have to be a Democrat to win in Colorado. I just don't think so. I think Colorado is ready for a new direction! Even the Denver Post agrees, "With Republicans fielding the best candidate for governor they’ve had in a decade – Sen. Barbara Kirkmeyer – liberal…

BANNON: The escalator stops exactly when Trump steps on it, come on. The teleprompter doesn’t work, but Lula’s worked fine. They’re messing with him. The UN thinks they’re cute. Pull every penny. Shut it down.

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