Month: June 2021

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Welcome to Stone Island

No trip to Mazatlan is complete without a trip to Stone Island. A Gilligan’s Island sort of place with predictable characters, happy catchy music playing in the background, and an underlying premise that people with different personalities and backgrounds need to get along with each other in order to survive.

The first time I met Ernesto, he was selling tours to Stone Island for somewhere between $30 and $80. The price seemed ridiculously negotiable, but I wasn’t interested in going somewhere I’d never heard of, at any price. I told him that I didn’t need a tour. I needed a fountain. And the rest is history.

Shortly after I hired Ernesto to be my handyman, he asked me if I wanted to go to Stone Island with him and Publio the following Sunday.

“Oh, no,” I told him. “That will cost too much money.”

“It won’t cost much at all. We’ll take a panga across to the island. It only costs $1.50 for each of us.”

“What’s a panga?”

“A fishing boat that ferries people across the channel. We can walk to Playa Sur, where they sell the tickets. You’ll like it. It will be fun.”

“What about the cruises you were selling on the beach?”

“Oh, those are only for tourists. You aren’t a tourist any more. You live here. We’ll take a panga across.”

Pangas leave the mainland every five minutes, or so. The boats speed across the channel and arrive in less than ten minutes. People pile in and out of the boats with everything they need to spend a day at the beach. Neto and Publio brought their surfboards. Other people brought beach chairs and coolers of food and drinks. One family even brought a large plastic children’s swimming pool, even though we would be right next to the water. I  just brought my fanny pack with sunscreen and pesos.

Sundays at Stone Island are truly a magical experience, with restaurants serving fresh fish and traditional drinks. (Think lemonade, beer and margaritas.) Neto’s friend, Rudy, worked in a restaurant owned by his sister-in-law, so we always went there. Other ex-pats were loyal followers of other nearby restaurants. Rudy had comfortable chairs and hammocks. His English was perfect and his manner was unfailingly charming. His Mexican lunch of fish with rice and beans was delicious.

One of my favorite parts of a day at Stone Island was talking to the beach vendors, who travel up and down the beach, selling jewelry, clothes, rosaries, and wooden sculptures of palm trees and turtles.

Women pay to get their hair braided, and henna tattoos on their arms and legs Children scream and chase each other across the sand. Some tourists haggle with the beach sellers. I never did. I liked talking to them and usually bought something that caught my eye.

One time, I actually paid to take the cruise to Stone Island. We were in a catamaran, a Mazatlán party boat, filled with tourists from the cruise ships. We circled the rocks where a colony of seals barked at us. The crew was jovial and started pouring beer before we even put on our life jackets. When we disembarked, trucks drove us to the far end of island, where we were served fish with rice and beans that wasn’t nearly as good as Rudy’s.

Victor Hugo (his real name!) traveled between tables, trying to entice people to sign up for time-share presentations. By the time we got back in the truck, and then back on the catamaran, a lot of people were suffering from too much beer and tequila, too much sun, and too little good judgement. Once was enough. From then on, I happily took a panga with Neto, and spent the day with Rudy.

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Identical Uncles ~ Double Trouble

I loved all of my uncles, my mother’s brothers, and especially my twin uncles, Ray and Len Hunt. They were devious tricksters. Always full of mischief and seldom thinking of the consequenses. Everyone said they were “full of the devil.” It was an apt description. They teased my mother and her brother, Bob, unmercifully and my mother adored them. 

Ray and Len were identical, “mirror twins.” It was impossible to tell them apart, without looking to see which hand they used. Uncle Ray was right-handed and Uncle Len was left-handed. They got their names before their hand-dominance was established, but it certainly worked out well for those of us who knew them.

Beginning in first grade, Ray and Len often switched seats in school and the nuns couldn’t tell them apart. They walked the mile and a half to school each day, dreaming up tricks to play on their teacher and their only classmate, a boy they named, “Rabbit Tracks.”

One morning they came to school, excited to  tell their classmate they had captured rabbit tracks in their hands.. Their classmate, naturally, was eager to see such an unusual sight and only after they opened their empty hands did he realize he’d been tricked again.  The poor boy was known as Rabbit Tracks for the rest of his life.

The twins were thirteen years older than my mother. They called her “Dolly,” but treated her more like a rag doll that the china variety.  My grandmother told me she didn’t think my mother would live to be six years old, with those two brothers around. They liked to hold her upside down by the ankles and listen to her scream as the blood ran to her head. They taught Bob to steer a car when he was five years old and my mother, the passenger, was three. 

When they were older, Ray and Len took my mother and Uncle Bob all over the farm with them ~ milking cows, inspecting their traps, delivering eggs and working in the field. They named the cows after their girlfriends. They taught Uncle Bob to drive the hay wagon, pulled by two big draft horses, Duke and Nellie, while they rode alongside in the Model T.

On one terrifying occasion, Bob was driving the team of horses, when he lost his grip on the reins and fell between the two horses. My mother hung onto the side of the wagon, screaming, while Bob wrapped his arms and legs around the single tree between the two horses. The twins saw what happened and turned the Model T around in time to stop the horses. Of course, my grandparents never knew about any of those antics. My mother and her brother were threatened and bribed, and never said a word.

By the time I was old enough to recognize my uncles, Uncle Len had a son, Dick Hunt, who was as mischievous as Ray and Len. For a long time I thought they were triplets. Dick died young, but before he died, he helped the twins carry out one last mad caper. 

Uncle Ray had knee surgery and was recovering in the hospital. Len and Dick went to visit him. They wheeled Ray into the bathroom and undressed him down to his underwear. Len put on Ray’s hospital gown, and climbed into the bed, leaving Ray sitting in the bathroom. Dick went to fetch the head nurse and insisted she come to see the surgery, 

“I’ve always heard that the surgeon was a miracle-worker, but you have to see this. That doctor didn’t even leave a scar,” Dick told her.

When the nurse pulled back the sheet to inspect Ray’s surgery, she saw Len’s knee with no stitches or any sign of surgery whatsoever. Only after she went back to the nurse’s station, did the two brothers and my cousin, Dick, find her and explain how they had tricked her. 

By the time they died, Ray had lost his wife, Betty, and a daughter, Joan. Len lost his wife, Mary, and his son, Dick. But my uncles, Ray and Len, never lost their sense of humor or their playful spirit. 

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My Grandmother, Julia Schmitz Hunt

My family lived with Grandma and Grandpa Hunt from the time I was one year old until I was eight. After Dad returned home from the Navy, we lived on the farm with my grandparents. When Grandpa sold the farm, we moved to a duplex on Sixteenth Avenue, across the street from St. Peter’s Catholic Church. Grandma and Grandpa lived in a one bedroom apartment upstairs and we lived in a two bedroom apartment on the lower floor. There was an indoor toilet, but no bathtub and no hot water. The stove was an “old fashioned wood stove” in the kitchen which, of course, wasn’t considered old fashioned back then. It was considered normal. 

Grandpa Hunt was a big, imposing man who seldom smiled. I avoided him whenever I could. But I loved living downstairs from Grandma. She was a small woman with a soft, billowy chest and huge arms, the result of baking bread every day on the farm, where she raised eight children ~ six big boys, my Aunt Fran (second oldest child) and my mother (the youngest child.) Snuggling with Grandma was the most comforting moment of the day.

Our neighbors on Sixteenth Avenue were Old Man Grunke and the Courneyour family. Grandma was a friend of Mrs. Grunke, but Old Man Grunke was a skinny snake of a man, who hated kids. He especially hated my brother Bob and I because we used to swing on the chain he stretched across his yard, dividing our property from his. He told us to stop swinging on his chain but, naturally, we didn’t. One day he coated the chain with motor oil. Bob and I went home covered in slimy oil. My mother was furious at Old Man Grunke, but he really didn’t care. The war between our families went on for years.

On the other side of us lived the Cournoyer family. They had a garage in their backyard, built over an open pit. They threw all their garbage in the pit, including tin cans and broken bottles, which attracted rats. Huge rats. Some of them as big as small cats. One day, Grandma Hunt was hanging wash on the line when one of the rats ran across her foot. She swore in German, grabbed the pole she used to prop up the clothesline and beat the rat into a bloody mass, swearing at the rat the whole time. Grandma was small, but she was fearless. As I stood there, staring at the dead, bloody pulp that used to be a rat, Grandma turned to me and told me to get the shovel out of our shed and throw the dead rat into the alley. She quietly went back to hanging her freshly washed clothes on the line.

Eventually my family moved to a different house, two blocks away. My grandfather had a stroke and went to live with my Uncle Bill, who was big  and strong enough to take care of him. My grandmother continued to live in the house on Sixteenth Avenue and my Aunt Fran moved in with her. I often walked to Grandma’s house, especially in the quiet hours after dinner. I loved sitting at the table as Grandma finished her coffee, slathering a piece of bread with butter and jelly for dessert. She would tell me stories of her life on the farm. I still have two of Grandma’s coffee cups. I warm my hands around them, as she did so many years ago, and I smile.

My last memory of Grandma Hunt was at the nursing home, where she spent her final days. I had moved to Denver to go to school, and went to see her when I came home on vacation. By that time, Grandma had wasted away.  She weighed less than eighty pounds. Most of her marbles were gone, but she recognized me as I walked into the room. She grabbed my hand, with tears in her eyes, and pleaded with me to go to the kitchen and take her name “off the list.” 

Grandma was convinced that even as she lay dying, there was work to do. She believed that she was “on the list” of people who had to report for duty to prepare the next meal and then wash the dishes.

“Of course, Grandma. I’ll take care of it.”

I didn’t try to tell Grandma that there was no such list. Instead, I walked out of the room and came back a few minutes later. I told her that I scratched her name off the list and told the cook to never put Grandma’s name on the list again. I told Grandma she never had to prepare another meal or wash another dish again. Grandma was happy. It was the least I could do.

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Remembering The Boys Of Summer

When I was growing up in the 1950’s, we lived across the street from St. Peter’s Catholic School and playground. There were a lot of boys around my age who liked to play baseball and by late morning, we usually had six or eight kids ready to play ball. 

Leo Fortier was not available until after 11:00. Leo’s dad worked for the post office and had to get up at 4:30 in the morning. Leo’s mother, on the other hand, was a night owl. She made Leo stay up every night until midnight, watching the Jack Parr show. Leo would tell us the next day everything that Hermione Gingold or Charlie Weaver said. We couldn’t have cared less.

Since we only had three or four kids on a side, we had local rules to make the games competitive. Any hits to right field was an out. Each team had a pitcher, a shortstop and a left fielder. Since there was no first baseman, if a fielder threw the ball to the pitcher before the runner got to first base, the hitter was out. This was known as “Pitcher’s Hand Out.”

The batting team supplied the catcher and also the back-up catcher. The playground was higher than the street, and if the catcher missed the ball it would roll down the hill about a quarter of a block.

There was always a lot of arguing about balls and strikes, and if the pitcher caught the ball before the batter got to first. Did the catcher drop the ball on purpose when there was a play at home plate? The arguments were endless.

St. Peter’s had a baseball team and it was usually pretty good. Tryouts were during Holy Week (Easter vacation) and in 1956, I tried out for the outfield. Since I was a short, skinny sixth grader, a slow runner with a weak throwing arm, and seldom caught a fly ball that was right to me, I didn’t make the team that year.

The next year, 1957, I tried out again. I was still short and skinny, slow with a weak arm, but now I could catch most of the fly balls that were hit right to me. That was not enough. I didn’t make the team that year, either.

North St. Paul had a summer league. The St. Peter’s team was the Dodgers. The local American Legion Club sponsored the Braves, and I decided to try out for the Braves. I didn’t make that team, either, because my father was not a member of the American Legion.

Hy Ettle was the Braves coach. He told us kids who didn’t make the team that we should come to all the practices and if someone quit, we could get his uniform and be on the team. Hy was a local realtor so he was able to call practices during the day. These were usually on Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, at 1:00.

We would all ride our bikes down to the field behind Main Street and be waiting for Hy at 1:00. Hy never showed up for these practices, so we would then jump back on our bikes and ride up the alley to the American Legion Hall. We went in the back door and there was Hy, sitting at the bar with a shot and a beer in front of him.

“Oh,” he said. “Is it 1:00 already? The gear is in the trunk of my Cadillac. Take it to the field. I’ll be down in a half hour. If I don’t get there, just leave everything and I’ll pick it up on my way home.”

After the third game of season, Craig Longfellow didn’t show up. Hy said to me, “Do you know where Longfellow lives?”

“Sure,”  I said.

“Looks like he quit. Go over there and pick up his uniform. You’re on the team.”

Our pitcher that year was Don Arlich. He was a big left-hander who could throw the ball harder than anyone in town. He had a curve ball that no one could hit, and he hit the ball a mile. We won every game until he left for New York and the Boy Scout Jamboree. Mike O’Reilly was the catcher and he went to New York, too.

That left my friend, Leo Fortier, as the catcher, and I was the defensive replacement in right field in the last innings. Hy Ettle had a rule that if one of your parents came to the game, you would get to play.

Leo was short like me. He was fat, while I was skinny, but he could still run faster and throw the ball farther than I could. But he still couldn’t throw the ball from home to second base if a runner was stealing the base. The plan was for him to throw the ball back to the pitcher, who would then turn and throw to the short-stop for the out. It never worked. The runner was always safe.

In one of our games, there was a pop-up behind home plate. Leo flipped his mask off and started running to catch the ball. Unfortunately, he stepped  into his mask and fell flat on his face.

Hy told Leo, “ Next time this happens, stand up and find where the ball is, then throw your mask the other way and go catch the ball.”

Luckily, Leo had another chance in the next game. He stood up, saw the ball, but in his haste he threw off his glove and stood there with his mask on.

We didn’t win a single game when Don Arlich was gone. When he came back for the last few games of the season. Mike O’Reilly had quit and another kid got his uniform. Leo was a permanent replacement as catcher. He came back to the bench after every inning with tears streaming down his cheeks, his left hand all red and swollen from catching Don’s fastball and curve.

In 1958, now in the eighth grade, I finally made the St. Peter’s baseball team. Leo Fortier never played baseball after seventh grade. He concentrated on golf and tennis. I haven’t seen him for over fifty years, but I understand that he is realtor, much like our coach, Hy Ettle.                                                         ~Bob Jones

Bob Jones is a retired dentist. He still plays softball in the Roseville Senior Softball League. He has played on a team every year since 1962. Bob is still short, but not skinny any more. He still roams in right field. He’s still a slow runner with a bad arm, but he catches most of the fly balls that are hit right to him.