Month: April 2021

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Subversive To The End

I’ve written before about some of the more colorful branches on my family tree. Probably my most famous relative is Jeanne Audrey Powers, the first woman ordained an elder in the United Methodist church. 

Unlike my wild Irish uncles, Jeanne Audrey will be remembered for her many good deeds. Unlike my Irish uncles, she never went to jail, was never chased by the FBI, and was, frankly, not nearly as interesting.

Born in 1932 in Mankato, Minnesota, Jeanne Audrey was eleven years older than I was. We have the same great-grandfather, Evan David Jones, who immigrated from Wales. Our grandfathers were brothers. Her mother and my father were first cousins, but they didn’t see each other very often.

Jeanne Audrey lived with her mother, Florence Powers, her two unmarried aunts, Edna and Grace Jones, and her grandmother, Lizzie Jones, in a big house in Mankato, MN. I don’t know what happened to her father. Now, with a renewed interest in genealogy, I might try to find out.

One of my only memories of Jeanne Audrey was at the wedding of my Aunt Shirley. My brother, Bob, and I were part of the wedding. I was six years old and Bob was almost five. It was a large, beautiful wedding. Shirley carried  a huge bouquet of peonies as she walked down the aisle ~ flowers picked from my grandfather’s huge peony garden. Bob and I were both dressed in white and looked cute, except for the black eye on my brother’s face, the result of me slamming the front door on him the day before the wedding. 

The wedding reception was at my grandparent’s home. Bob and I were playing in the back yard, swinging on a big four-person swing that went back and forth, faster and faster, higher and higher, until Jeanne Audrey came to tell us that we needed to stop. She reprimanded us for misbehaving at a wedding. And, to make matters worse, we were having fun all dressed up in wedding clothes. 

Jeanne Audrey must have been wicked smart. After getting her bachelor of science degree at Mankato State University in 1954, she studied theology at Princeton and the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. She also took graduate courses in England, Switzerland and Boston University School of Theology.

I didn’t follow Jeanne Audrey’s career. My family didn’t talk about her very much, although she lived nearby in Minneapolis. I recently read that she was nominated to be a bishop in the Methodist church in 1972 and 1976. Although it was considered an extremely rare honor for a woman to be ordained a bishop, Jeanne Audrey declined both times. She didn’t want people to scrutinize her private life.  

Rev. Jeanne Audrey was a volunteer with The United Methodist Commission on the Status and Role of Women. Throughout her life, she was committed to feminist issues and was a champion for LGBTQ rights. She was well-known for insisting that all language be gender-neutral. She relished the idea of being a “she-ro.”

Jeanne Audrey was a driving force in the Reconciling Ministries Movement. In her final sermon at its national gathering in New York City in 1995, she declared that she was lesbian. The church elders were horrified and Jeanne Audrey was immediately ex-communicated. 

According to a 2018 article, “Wrestling With The Angel of Death” in Sojourners magazine, Cathy Lynn Grosssman wrote, “Jeanne Audrey Powers, 85 years and counting, wanted to stop counting. She felt herself growing more frail, less clear-header. She was losing her sight. Worst of all, the woman who once spoke on international podiums was losing her words.”  

Jeanne Audrey was technically not terminally ill, in spite of a series of mini-strokes. She was not a candidate for hospice but “she was dying to herself, as she knew herself to be.” 

Jeanne Audrey knew that the doctrines of the United Methodist Church included one against suicide, just as it included a doctrine against homosexuality in 1995.  And yet, she bought herself a one-way ticket to Switzerland and died, according to her friends, “at peace with her decision.” in a euthanasia facility. Her final wish was that these words would be etched on her tombstone: Subversive to the End.

Jeanne Audrey declared in her obituary, that her death ended the lineage of the Jones and Powers families. I beg to differ. My grandparents had nineteen grandchildren. We are all still here. 

Rest in Peace, Jeanne Audrey. I’m sorry I never knew you.

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No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I met Marisol Segundo in La Cruz de Huanacastle in 2010.  She had a taco stand with four tables on a corner near our condo. Her tacos were heavenly! Originally from Mexico City, Marisol had the prettiest smile I’d ever seen. Neto and I went to see her every day for lunch.

The following year, when we were back in La Cruz again, Marisol confided that her dream was to create a small restaurant in that same space, a corner owned by her father. We wished her well.

In 2012, Neto and I were staying in Bucerias, but took a bus one day to check on Marisol and her restaurant. The restaurant was only halfway finished and Marisol was still serving lunch on the patio. All the city workers had discovered, like we did, that Marisol’s cooking was fantastic. She served comida corrida, a daily special with a main course, rice and beans. Her specialties were chicken enchiladas, marlin burritos and tortas cubanas. The cost was usually $3.50 (U.S.)

Before we left the restaurant, Marisol asked if she could talk to me. She explained that the restaurant was costing her more than she had counted on. She needed to apply for additional “permits” (bribes) and didn’t have enough money to finish the bathroom. Marisol wanted to know if I would lend her some money and assured me that she would pay me back.

I agreed to lend Marisol the money to finish her restaurant. I came back a week later and told Marisol that she didn’t need to replay me. The money was un regalo, a gift. I felt like Oprah, except that Oprah gives away cars and I gave away a toilet.

That was the beginning of a lovely friendship. Marisol opened her restaurant, The Little Hot Grill, and got great reviews on Trip Advisor. For the next few years, whenever Neto and I vacationed in La Cruz, we hired Marisol to be our personal chef. I gave her an envelope of cash at the beginning of the week and she cooked for us. 

I was proud of Marisol. As an unmarried woman, she worked hard and learned to speak English. She provided for her entire family with the money she earned. She hired her niece to help her in the kitchen. But I could see that, while Marisol was still the best cook in La Cruz, she wasn’t happy. She was working too many hours. Her family was always asking for more money. She couldn’t find anyone to help her run the restaurant.

One day, Marisol called me in Denver. 

“I have good news,” she told me. “I’m getting married.”

“Who is he?” I asked. 

“An older man who lives near the restaurant. He wants me to move in with him, but I can’t do that unless we are married.”

“How long have you known him?” I wanted to know.

“Just a couple of months. But he says he has a lot of money and he will take good care of me.”

Marisol asked me to come to La Cruz in the middle of July for her wedding. She wanted me to be her madrina ~ the godmother. I told Marisol that I was sorry, but I couldn’t come to Mexico in the middle of July. The weather in July is simply too hot. 

I also told Marisol that couldn’t be her madrina. It’s considered an honor to be asked to be a madrina. As a Mexican friend told me, “People are chosen to be the madrina because they are the wealthiest person in the neighborhood.” 

I’ve been asked to be madrina in other situations and I’ve always said no. It’s a custom that doesn’t translate well for me. Madrinas are expected to buy big fancy cakes. Madrinas are suppose to pay for a dinner for 100 people. 

I told Marisol that I appreciated being asked. “I understand that it’s an honor, but I’m not a wealthy woman.” I said.

I tried to explain that I was happy to help her with her restaurant, but I couldn’t pay for a wedding. I certainly couldn’t pay for a wedding to a man I never met. A man who I wasn’t sure would be a good husband. 

Marisol got married without me. When Neto and I went back to La Cruz the following November, we once again gave her an envelope of money and asked her to be our personal chef.  She agreed and, once again, we often ate at the Little Hot Grill. 

But Marisol didn’t seem happy. I noticed that while we were eating, an older man stood in the doorway, watching Neto and I eat. 

When Neto stepped outside to smoke a cigarette I asked Marisol, “Who is that man?”

“That’s my husband. He’s jealous of my customers. He wants to make sure I’m not flirting with any of the men.”

Neto and I didn’t go to the restaurant very often after that. The day before we were scheduled to leave, Neto went alone to pick up our dinner. He told Marisol that I would come by in the morning to say goodby. 

As Neto was leaving with our food, Marisol stopped him and said, “Aren’t you going to pay for your dinner?” 

Neto was embarrassed. His Mexican pride was hurt. He didn’t bring extra money with him because we had  already paid for more than a week’s worth of food when we arrived.

When Neto came home and told me what happened, I gave him additional money to take back to the restaurant. We decided that we’d helped Marisol as much as we could.

Marisol called me in Denver after Christmas. She wanted to know if I could send her some money because she didn’t have very many customers. I told her no. 

I will always think of Marisol with great fondness. But I know I won’t eat at the Little Hot Grill again. 

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Clean-Up Week At Punta Burros

Selling my home in Mazatlán allowed Neto and me to explore other parts of Mexico ~ Ensanada, Cuernavaca, Guadalajara, Puerto Vallarta, and my favorite place, La Cruz de Huanacastle, a beautiful, small fishing village known for its friendly local residents and marina full of fancy yachts belonging to rich tourists.

In March, 2010, we rented an elegant apartment in the La Jolla condominiums. The cost was so reasonable, we stayed there for six weeks, often walking to the marina to buy fresh fish or to the shore at night to breathe fresh, salt-water air. We went to yoga class in the morning and swam every day in a gorgeous on-site swimming pool, built with an island of palm trees in the middle. We felt like movie stars!

Neto met me at the airport in Puerto Vallarta in his truck ~ a bright blue Ford Ranger with big tires ~ that he drove from Mazatlán. One of the first things Neto wanted to do was to find a nearby surfing spot, Punta Burros, known for its high waves and secluded access. I went along to check it out.

We parked the truck near the entrance to the Grand Palladium Resort, on the highway to Punta Mita. From there, we walked through the jungle until we reached Punta Burros. Neto walked, carrying his board, as sure-footed as a cat. I lurched and stumbled over fallen trees and muddy streams. The hike took twenty minutes. It felt like an hour. 

The beach was indeed deserted. We set up our blanket and towels by a pile of rocks, away from the shore. Only a few other surfers and paddle-boarders were in the water. The waves were enormous. Neto was in heaven. Again, he was the best surfer in the water. He took ride after ride, for about thirty minutes, before coming in to rest.

That was the first time Neto saw what I had seen from the beginning. The beach was disgusting! The water was pristine. The beach was horribly polluted from years of neglect. A beaten-up trash barrel was tipped on its side, spilling its contents on the sand. Bottles and cans, food and wrappers, dirty diapers and abandoned clothes were everywhere, as far as we could see. Seagulls screeched overhead, dove to the sand and gleefully picked through the garbage. 

Neto turned to me and said, “We’ve got to do something about this.” He was right. He loves the ocean. It is his home. It’s where he belongs. 

On the way back to La Jolla in the blue truck, Neto noticed a jeep trail going toward the ocean. We followed it and found a private entrance to Punta Burros. We made a pact to come back the next day and begin the clean-up.

And that’s what we did. We came back the next day, and every day for a week. We brought big canvas bags, the kind made for hauling discarded chunks of cement, and garden gloves. We filled bags, about four bags each day, tied them shut, and loaded them into the truck. At night we surreptitiously put the bags out in the street, where the trash man would find them and haul them away.

By day three, the beach was beginning to look more like a beach and less like the city dump. Other surfers jumped in. A few guests from the Grand Palladium hiked along the shore from their hotel and joined the efforts. By the end of the week, we had hauled away twenty large bags of garbage. The shore was beautiful. This is the way it was supposed to look ~ like someone’s home.