Month: September 2021

Posted on

Not All Sun and Fun

After two years of telling you all the wonderful things about living in Mazatlan, I need to tell you about a truly horrible experience. A nightmare. A lesson for all of us.

The year was 2009. I decided to sell my home in Mazatlan, but I wanted to come back to Colorado for the summer. I thought I could live in Mexico all year, and quickly learned that the heat was more than I could bear. Even me ~ who can tolerate more heat than most people and who is known to never sweat ~ had to come home to the deliciously cool Colorado air.

But first, I needed someone to watch my house for the summer. Neto was out of the running because the previous summer was a disaster. His sister, Alma, moved in. So did a whole downtown full of party-goers. And four harpies from Finland. In 2008, I returned to Mazatlan, fresh from a horrific cancer treatment, to find my house dirty and torn apart.

In April I told Neto the news. I was going to find a different house-sitter. Someone who would sweep up mountains of mango leaves from the patio every morning. Someone who would make sure I returned to a clean house with no scandal. I should have known better. 

Two previous guests recommended someone they met at church. A pious, elderly man about seven years older than me. who needed a place to stay. Because this man is still alive, I will call him by his initials ~ M.W.  

I felt there was something fishy about M.W. from the beginning. He never picked up a broom. He had a tantrum when I told him that the private wing of the house was off-limits, including my office with the only telephone. However, he was all I had. I met with him in early May and turned over the keys.

By the end of May I was getting emails from friends with reports of behavior much worse than a few wild parties and dirty bathrooms. The courtyard was knee deep in mango leaves. M.W. was seen urinating on the front door one night, after getting out of a cab. My neighbor had seen him walking around the courtyard naked. The neighbor’s grandchildren had seen him, too.

I called Neto. I told him I was flying to Mazatlán the first week in June. Neto agreed we needed to evict M.W. immediately. But first Neto reminded me that I should have allowed him be the house-sitter and not taken a chance on someone I didn’t know. He was right. Neto is almost always right.

M.W. was not home when we opened the door. The first thing I noticed, besides the pile of dead leaves, was that the door to my private living quarters was open. M.W. arrived a little later and was horrified to see us. 

I told him he had to leave. He refused. When my back was turned, he followed me into my office, screaming like a banshee. He snatched the telephone from the wall. Suddenly he whirled around and threw the telephone at me, leaving a huge bruise on my arm.

Neto’s nickname is “Chanfles” because of the wickedly fast left kick he perfected as a soccer player. He reacted immediately. Bam! Neto’s left foot pounded M.W.’s testicles. M.W. was on the ground, grabbing his crotch and screaming like a baby. He limped back to his room. I knew getting rid of him wasn’t going to be easy. 

“We’re going to need an attorney to call the police,” Neto declared.

M.W. stayed home while we went to find an attorney who knew Neto and worked with Neto’s brother. The man had a terrible reputation but I wasn’t about to be choosy. The attorney called the police and told his assistant to meet us back at the house.

We arrived home accompanied by a squad car, driven by a heavy-set policeman, and six young policemen with assault weapons riding in the back of a truck. The policemen told M.W. they were taking him to see a judge, and ordered him into the squad car. 

Neto and I followed in our own vehicle. When we arrived at the courthouse, M.W. sat in a chair in the corner, playing the “wounded old man” card, whimpering about his sore testicles. The judge pointed at Neto and assumed he was the guilty party.

“What has this man done?” the judge asked, pointing at Neto.

“Nothing. The crazy old white man in the corner is the criminal.”  

The judge ordered M.W. to leave my house immediately. We all went back home ~ M.W. in the police car, the attorney in a fancy black SUV, Neto and I in our vehicle, and the truck full of policemen and their AK-47s. 

It took M.W. two hours to pack up his meager belongings, while we all waited in the courtyard. Finally, the attorney and the police agreed it was time to usher him out. The policeman put him in the squad car, while Neto and I went to check the room. There we found every sharp knife from the kitchen, hidden in a desk drawer. A set of lock-picks was on the window sill. 

One young policeman stayed back to ask me if he and his girlfriend could move into my house for the summer. They said they would take good care of it.

“No, I’m sorry,” I told him. “Neto is coming back. He’s staying here now. He’s my house sitter.”

Posted on

An Artist, A Writer, and A Businesswoman

I first met Tyler when she was five years old. My son was dating her mother and they brought Tyler and her sister, Devon, to meet me.

“What darling, sweet, smart girls,” I said to myself. “I hope they are here to stay.”

And they were. My son and Kortnee were married, and Tyler and Devon became my first grandchildren. My only grand-daughters.

On that first day, I asked Tyler my usual dumb question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” 

“I’m going to be a writer and an artist,” was Tyler’s answer. She could have added, “and a businesswoman.”

When Tyler was six, she went around the neighborhood, selling writing and artwork to her neighbors. She passed out the following flyer, which I discovered as I was going through my Tyler file:

“Hello! I’m Tyler Conway. I’ve been a great writer sense 1996. (Note: She was born in 1992.) And I’m also a great artist. These are my favorite things to do. Trust me, you will love my pictures. So I’m having a writing and art sale. The pictures and writing cost 1.00$. If your just like me, you can join the job. The phone number is 303-368-1311. Its called the good kids work. The ages are 4-14. Heres where you will find it. Dam East Townhomes, 2854 So. Vaughn Way.”

Tyler was seven years old when Jason and Kortnee decided to get married, and she was excited.. She drew a poster and presented it to her parents.

“Congratulations on your engagement. You must be really excited! I’ve always been impressed by the mutual respect and understanding you have for each other, so I’m so happy to hear that you are taking your relationship to the next level of commitment. I’m already looking forward to the wedding. Love, Tyler”

Tyler is a sweet, quiet, young woman. She’s always been that way. She attended Challenge School, a magnet school for gifted kids, through eighth grade,  and then Overland High School, a rough and tumble high school that was a total shock.

Tyler was a leader on her school newspaper staff during all four years at Overland. In her typical fashion, she never missed a deadline. For the final issue of the newspaper before graduation, Tyler wrote the following description of her first day of school:

“Coming from Challenge school, I had never seen a fight, had a ton of friends, had never seen a person ditch class, and was used to everyone following the rules and keeping out of trouble. And that was the way I wanted it.

“So coming to Overland wasn’t exactly a dream coming true. At Overland, on the first day of school, I witnessed a fight, saw people ditching class and smoking, and was laughed at for my overly preppy dress.”

As she reflected, “I had only three goals for high school: To make the best of it, to get into a fantastic college, and to look back with no regrets. Done, done, and done.”

Tyler attended Cornell University and now works in AT&T’s corporate office in Dallas, writing and producing beautiful digital media for the marketing department. She plans events and training sessions. In her spare time (just kidding ~ she has no spare time) Tyler was my chief party planner this summer. She designed the invitations and the People Bingo game. She made my bookmarks and gave me the best possible advice, including: “You have to have balloons…and gift bags … and ice breakers.”  I couldn’t have had a great launch party without her. Tyler is a young woman who makes things happen. 

Happy Birthday, Tyler. You are an awesome artist, writer and businesswoman.  Done, done, and done!

Posted on

Independence Day

Dia de Independencia (Independence Day) was my introduction to over-the-top holiday celebrations in Mexico. I had just moved to Mazatlán and my furniture hadn’t arrived yet. I brought a sauce pan, a frying pan and a few plastic dishes in my luggage. I bought a small bed, a tiny outdoor table and two plastic chairs at Sam’s Club. I went to the used appliance store and bought a stove and a refrigerator. I had enough to survive but I wanted my stuff.

My moving truck was stalled at the border because the inspector found a package of new sheets in one of my 250 boxes. Because I couldn’t prove that I paid tax for the sheets in the U.S., I had to pay the inspector $100.00 to approve my move. 

I know it was a bribe. I know the bribe cost more than the sheets were worth. I was lucky. He didn’t open the box that contained the digital grand piano. That didn’t have a receipt either. 

Truly, I felt trapped that day ~ September 16, 2005 ~ as I watched Neto and his friends install a fountain in my courtyard. There was nothing I could do until the moving truck arrived. And then I heard the parade. The most wonderful parade I’d ever seen.

To the beat of drums and music blaring from huge speakers on top of cars, little children came walking down my street, holding hands, dressed as guerrilla warriors from 1810. Preschool boys and girls, with bullet belts and long skirts, walking with their teachers. Unbelievably cute! 

That’s when I knew I had made the right decision. My home was right on the parade route. For the next five years, I watched every parade, (and there are a lot of them!) from my plastic chair placed right in front of my door.

Día de la Independencia marks the moment when Father Miguel Hidalgo, a Catholic priest, made his cry for independence. His chant, ¡Viva Mexico! and ¡Viva Independencia¡ encouraged rebellion. He called for an end to Spanish rule in Mexico.

The Spanish regime was largely unprepared for the suddenness, size, and violence of the rebellion. From a small gathering at Father Hidalgo’s church in Delores, the army swelled to include workers on local estates, prisoners liberated from jail, and a few soldiers who revolted from the Spanish army. Farmers used agricultural tools to fight. Rebel soldiers had guns and bullets. Indians, armed with bows and arrow, joined the cause. The revolution rapidly moved beyond the village of Dolores to towns throughout Mexico.

Father Hidalgo was captured and executed on July 30, 1811. Father José Maria Morelos, a seminary student of Father Hidalgo, took charge. The movement’s banner with image of the Virgin of Guadalupe was symbolically important. She was seen as a protector and liberator  of dark-skinned Mexicans. Many men in Hidalgo’s forces went into battle wearing the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe on their hats. The War of Independence was finally won on September 27, 1821.

Much like the Fourth of July in the U.S., Mexicans celebrate their country’s Independence Day with fireworks, parties, food, dance and music. Flags, flowers and decorations in the colors of the Mexican flag – red, white and green – are seen everywhere in cities and towns throughout Mexico.

Whistles and horns are blown and confetti is thrown to celebrate this festive occasion. Chants of “Viva Mexico” are shouted throughout the crowds. And school children, dressed in Mexican themes, march through the streets of their neighborhood. 

The following day, on September 17,  a moving truck with all of the belongings pulled up in front of my house. Out jumped six handsome Mexican men, ready to unload everything. Boxes containing everything I thought I would need and some things, like Christmas decorations and recipe books, I wasn’t yet ready to part with. And my piano! 

¡Viva Mexico!

Posted on

Rain, Rain Go Away

While I was watching Hurricane Ida, I was also in touch with Ernesto, who was dealing with a major tropical storm in Mazatlán. His boss told him not to come to work because it looked like the storm would be serious. Neto didn’t need to man the guard shack. All of the residents were hunkered down in their houses, waiting out the storm.

The next day, Neto described the destruction throughout his neighborhood. Gutters were clogged and overflowing, flooding the streets. He was awake most of the night, sweeping water out the door. Shutters and doors were banging in the wind, allowing even more water to come inside.

Because Neto spent a lot of time this summer waterproofing his roof, his was one of the few homes that didn’t have water pouring down inside. Now he’s getting phone calls from friends and neighbors, asking him to help them deal with the aftermath of the storm. But it’s too late. Everything is too wet. Paint is peeling off the walls and the ceilings are dripping water, leaking from the roofs.

When Neto told me of the destruction from this tropical storm, I was reminded of my first week in Mazatlán. As we listened to news of Hurricane Katrina, Neto pointed to my roof.

“Your roof is a mess. A serious mess. See this paint bubbling off the walls? That’s proof.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes, but not until October 15th.”

“Why October 15th?”

“Because that’s the day the rain stops.”

When I told my new friends about this conversation, they laughed. They said that Neto was making up a date because he didn’t want to work. They said that no one could predict the date of the last rain of the season.

On October 12th, there was a huge thunderstorm in Mazatlan. The flat roof on one wing of my new home leaked black water into every bedroom. Lightning and thunder crashed all around us. Water bubbled up out of the sewer. Tile blew off the roof of the hospital across the street. 

“Why is this water black?” I wanted to know.

“Because the pendejos who lived here before tried to fix the roof with tar paper. That black stuff is tar. That’s why we need to fix the roof.”

On October 15th, Neto arrived at 8:00 a.m. with his crew: Publio and Pepe, the same guys who helped him build the fountain in my courtyard. The weather was hot and steamy. The rainy season was over and they were ready to get to work.

First, Neto set up the ladder, of sorts. It consisted of a scaffold with a long board attached diagonally on one side. Small sections of 2×4’s  were hammered onto the board, to create crude steps up the slope.

The men ran up and down the board, as agile as cats. The wood bounced with every step they took. It was terrifying to watch.

Then he asked if he could use my big beach umbrella, the one that looked like a giant watermelon. He took it to the top of the roof, along with a bucket a sand Next he asked if he could borrow my CD player. He plopped the umbrella in the bucket of sand, so the guys could work under the shade of the umbrella, turned the music up loud, and they got to work.  

For a week the guys were on their knees, scraping old disgusting, wet tarpaper off the roof, using metal spatulas. I’m sure it was toxic. They didn’t wear masks. 

They scraped without taking a break. They piled the rubble into buckets, attached to a pulley system and lowered the trash to the ground. Full buckets were emptied into the bed of a borrowed short-bed truck and returned to the top of the roof. 

At the end of the day, Neto drove the truck to dump the trash, and came back to collect everyone’s wages. As the boss of the job, Neto paid everyone $20/day and they gladly tipped $2.00 back to him, to show him they were grateful to have a job.

Pretty soon two more guys showed up: Francisco and Vera Cruz. They heard there was work going on at my house.

“Do you need two more men?” they asked Neto.

“Only if you do what I tell you. It’s hard work, but you get paid every day. The boss gives us lunch.”

That’s right. I provided lunch for my workers every day. As a special reward for showing up on Mondays, I took orders and bought tortas from Tortas Kuwait, the sandwich shop down the street. The rest of the week I cooked. I bought a Mexican cookbook and worked my way through the pages. Tortilla soup, flautas, tacos, quesadillas, rice and beans, Kraft macaroni and cheese with marlin, whatever I could dream up. The only worker who was fussy was my housekeeper,  Christina, who told me early on that people in Mazatlan never eat black beans. “That’s for the poor people from the South.”

Most days work continued until 6:00. After a week, all the old tarpaper was gone and the original concrete roof was shiny and clean. The next week the guys carefully applied a mixture of white cement and sealer to the roof and let the sun bake it in.

Voila!! Problem solved. Five men. Countless buckets of debris. A watermelon umbrella in a bucket of sand. And music turned up loud. I had arrived in Mexico.