Month: June 2020

Posted on

Sister Kathleen

People ask me where I learned to write. I tell them, “In Sister Kathleen’s classroom at St. Peter School.”

Sister Kathleen, my seventh grade teacher, didn’t just teach me to write. She taught all sixty-six of us to write that year ~ 1955.

We were World War II babies. Not officially Baby Boomers but a huge class, nonetheless. I can still see the classroom. Six rows across, eleven desks deep. The tallest students in the back. The most troublesome ones in the front. My desk was somewhere in the middle.

Sister Kathleen, a tall, skinny, Franciscan nun, was one of the older teachers ~ maybe forty years old ~ and 100% Irish. A lot of the nuns who lived in the convent were Irish. Unlike some of the more dour, German nuns, the Irish nuns were funny and smart, dedicated, creative teachers. They taught us to square dance and do an Irish  jig. They let us play Bingo. They went ice skating on the playground, wearing their habits late a night, when they thought no one could see them. 

St. Patrick’s Day was the biggest holiday of the year at St. Peter School. It was the only day we were allowed to come to school in something other than our uniforms, as long as we were wearing green. There were treats in the cafeteria and a dance after school. 

Looking back, Sister Kathleen was a remarkable teacher. She taught a love of learning, especially history and geography, to all of us. She divided us into reading groups. I was lucky. I was in a group of (mostly girls) who didn’t require much instruction. I’m sure there were groups  (mostly boys) who required all the resources she could muster. 

Like the rest of the Irish nuns, Sister Kathleen was known for her quick temper. Disaster struck whenever Sister Evangelista, the principal, called her into the hallway for a meeting. Sister Kathleen put her finger to her lips as she left the room, admonishing us to be quiet and keep working while she talked with Sister Superior. 

Good behavior lasted less than five minutes. Of course, we didn’t keep working. Of course, we didn’t keep quiet. Soon the classroom was total chaos. The bolder girls flirted with the popular boys, who mostly shouted to each other across the room. The bravest boys got out of their seats and yelled out the windows. We knew what was coming but we didn’t care. For that moment in time, in our seventh-grade minds, it seemed worth it.

In an instant, the classroom door flew open, Sister Kathleen ~ her face bright red, her hands shaking, her veil whooshing behind her. She walked to the front of the class, picked up a piece of chalk and wrote in giant letters: 2000 WORDS ON RESPECT (or obedience, or trustworthiness, or whatever popped into her head) BEFORE YOU GO HOME TONIGHT. ON YOUR KNEES!! WITH PERFECT HANDWRITING AND SPELLING. NO REPEATING!

We scrambled to get notebooks and pencils out of our desks. We dropped to our knees ~ much easier for the boys, after all, because they wore long pants. We girls knelt on bare knees, which only made me more determined to write faster and in my best handwriting.

These “writing lessons” happened at least once a week. My mother got used to me coming home from school late and merely asked, “What did you write about today?”

I know a lot of people have horrible memories of going to Catholic school. I felt sorry for boys who were often in trouble and were physically punished for what they did. 

But for me, a girl who was extremely shy and wanted to avoid the spotlight at all cost, a girl who loved school and who especially loved to read, it was a good experience. I learned to write.

Posted on

Moving to Mexico

I was sixty-two years old, restless and bored.  Rabbits were attacking my garden and a fox jumped the fence at night to eat the rabbits. My water bill was $400/month just to keep the grass green for the rabbits to eat. 

I had been teaching piano lessons for seven years. I was good at it, and yet, none of my students ever prepared for their lessons. None of them!

I scheduled four recitals a year. At Halloween we preformed in costumes. At Christmas we came in our very best clothes. And still no one practiced. My fantasy was that one day I would be ninety years old, still sitting on that damn piano bench, saying, “Let’s try that section one more time, Honey.”

There was a fierce thunderstorm one afternoon while I was teaching. I sat at the piano, trying to be patient as yet another student stumbled from note to note. My mind wandered and I looked out the window to watch the storm. 

Suddenly CRASH!! Lightning hit a huge tree in my yard, slicing it right down the middle, taking out my neighbor’s fence and blowing bark halfway across the street. My lights went out and piano lessons were over for the day. I took it as a sign.

The next day I was having lunch with a friend.

“What’s new,” I asked.

“You won’t believe what I’m doing? I’ve probably lost my mind.”

“Tell me.”

“My husband and I are buying an old house in Mazatlán. We’re moving to Mexico at the end of the year.”

I wished her well, went home, and called her that same night.

“‘I’m going with you,” I announced.

“Where?”

“To Mexico.”

And just like that, I made up my mind. I had never been to Mexico. I didn’t know how to speak Spanish. I couldn’t find Mazatlán on a map. But I was ready for something new.

We flew to Mazatlán together two months later. My friend was closing the deal on her house and I was along for the trip. We stepped off the plane, greeted by hot, humid September weather. 

It was five days of pure magic. The food was delicious. The Mexican people, gracious and kind. We rode through the city in open-air pulmonias ~ golf-cart/taxis with music blaring in the streets. The ocean was exciting and beautiful. And the sunsets over the water every night? Simply breathtaking. I was hooked.

I asked a realtor to show me some property. We looked at a few small homes in the downtown section of the city. They were nice. They would have been ok.  “But do you have anything else?” I wanted to know..

“I have one more place. A large, single-story home that’s been empty for a while.”

 “It needs a lot of work,” he warned as he put his key in the lock.

The home was two blocks from the ocean. Built hacienda style, with rooms on three sides of the courtyard, the house took up half a block. The entire home was surrounded by a concrete wall that desperately needed paint and patching. A battered, wooden front door opened onto the street.

When the door creaked open, I gasped. I didn’t see a house that needed a lot of work. I saw two big mango trees on the side of a huge courtyard. And room for a fountain with water splashing and birds singing right in the middle of the patio. There were five bedrooms and six bathrooms and a kitchen that spanned the entire backside of the house. A banana tree on the back patio provided shade and fresh bananas. I was completely enchanted.

My home in Aurora ~ the one that the rabbits and fox fought over, with a tree split down the middle by lightning ~ was valued at $210K. This new home, close enough to the ocean to walk to sunset every night, was $130K. It was an easy decision.

My new life had begun.

Posted on

Mangoes, Mangoes Everywhere!

Two huge mango trees in my Mazalán courtyard. A source of welcome shade throughout the year and wonderful fragrant blossoms beginning in January. By spring the trees were heavy with delicious sweet mangoes. Thousands and thousands of mangoes! More mangoes than one person could eat or even dispose of without a plan.

But Neto had a plan. He hung a sign on the door that said, “Free Mangoes!” and invited anyone walking down the street to ring the doorbell, come inside and help themselves. I didn’t realize that Lola and Julio, my next door neighbors, wouldn’t like what I was doing.

First Lola pleaded with me to ban the neighborhood children from coming into the courtyard. She wanted me to put mangoes in bags and hand them out the door, as if it were Halloween. 

That way, she reasoned, no one would know what my courtyard looked like. Her exact words were, “You don’t know what you are doing. These kids are bad. They are surfers!”

Lola told me that even the police were angry with me for opening my courtyard to children coming from the beach. When I told her that I would be careful but I intended to continue to give away free mangoes, I thought she would explode.

Later that day, Neto and Publio were up on the rooftop picking mangoes when Julio came to the open window that overlooked my house. He started screaming at them. 

“You are looking in my window! Stop looking and me! Stop looking at me”

Julio picked up a fallen mango and pitched it right at Publio’s head so hard it could have killed him. Luckily, Julio, drunk as usual, missed. Publio, who is generally very passive, said that if he’d gotten hit he would have just started pitching mangoes right back at the old fool. And by that time, Publio had an arsenal of more than sixty mangoes at his disposal.

I wish I had used that opportunity to tell those two busybodies to close up their windows and they wouldn’t have to worry about people looking in or climbing through the windows to rob them. Of course, then they couldn’t watch what I was doing, either.

Soon whole families were at my door, holding plastic bags. Word spread throughout the neighborhood about our ripe, juicy, free mangoes. We brought the families inside and turned on the music. There was dancing and laughter in the courtyard. There was a party goin’ on! 

One Saturday, after a week-long Mango Fiesta, my doorbell rang about 2:00 in the afternoon. I opened the door to find two uniformed policemen standing there. I remembered what Lola said and figured they were there to arrest me or, at least, warn me about the dangers of opening my door to children. 

Before I could say anything, one of the policemen pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and asked, “Are you still giving away free mangoes?”

“Por supuesto! Of course!” I said. “Here, use this ladder to get on the roof and pick all the mangoes you’d like.”

“And,” I added with a smile, “Come back any time.”

Posted on

A Mexican Graduation

Christina invited me to come to her son’s graduation from primaria (elementary school). Eduardo is the last of Christina and Antonio’s five sons. All their boys graduated from primaria and Eduardo did it in record time. He was only twelve years old and had not failed a single grade.

Christina had every reason to be proud. I saw some of Eduardo’s writing and art work and it was, indeed, exceptional. He was always a sweet boy, eager to help and especially protective of his mother. 

Eduardo would begin secondaria (middle school) in the fall. Christina hoped that Eduardo would be like his brother, Jesús, and eventually finish secondaria and go on to even higher education. I was honored to be invited to the graduation ceremony.

Eduardo’s graduating class was small ~ about ten boys and ten girls. When I told Christina that some of the students looked especially handsome, she let me know, “Some of them are fifteen years old!”

It is customary, as part of the graduation ceremony, for the class to perform a very formal, tightly choreographed dance that looked like a French Minuet. I asked Christina about the significance of the dance. She explained that it was a demonstration of restraint and respect for the opposite sex. It might have been introduced by the Jesuits a long time ago. 

Eduardo’s class worked all year on the dance presentation for their parents and guests. From the looks on their faces, I think they would have preferred something more modern. 

Each class chooses a class color for their graduation ceremony. Eduardo’s class chose lavender. Even though the school is located in a very poor neighborhood, all the boys were dressed in new shoes, new suits and handsome lavender shirts. The girls wore matching lavender dresses that laced up the back, showing off their lovely brown skin and gorgeous black hair.

Christina invited me and another friend to come to lunch at her house before the graduation ceremony. It was the first time I had been to her house. It was an experience I will never forget.

We ate carne asada (grilled meat), flautas, beans and fresh corn tortillas. Eduardo had a special cake, bought from a local bakery, with his name on it. Christina was an excellent cook and the meal was delicious.

On Eduardo’s graduation day, I realized that seven people lived in Christina’s tiny, two room house on top of a very high hill. When I entered the house, I saw that the house had electricity and a gas stove but no indoor plumbing. There was no warm water. There was a makeshift shower outside, near the outhouse. The only water came from a hose attached to an outdoor faucet. 

There was a single bed in the kitchen. The bedroom had a double bed for Christina and Antonio, plus another double bed and a single bed for the boys. A small TV sat on top of the only dresser. There was a window with a view of the ocean below, but no room to move in that small bedroom.

Outside, a hammock attached to two trees was also for sleeping. I could imagine people vying for a chance to sleep outside in the fresh air. A rooster, a hen and six baby chicks pecked the dirt yard, looking for insects. An old dog slept in the sun. 

It made me sad to think of Christina walking up that high hill every night after she had finished cleaning my big house , with its huge courtyard, five bedrooms, and six bathrooms, and then making dinner for her husband and five sons.