Author: Lynda Jones

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How The West Was FUN!

The phone in my office rang at least once a week with offers of complimentary tickets to Denver’s cultural and athletic events. Often the tickets were last-minute offers. I always said, “Yes. Sure. I’d be happy to have the tickets.” 

I knew I could find students who would agree to go anywhere if I had free tickets. We went to baseball and basketball games. To musicals, plays and concerts. To the Denver Zoo, the Museum of Nature and Science, and the Denver Botanic Gardens. Every outing was an adventure.

One of our best trips happened on a Friday night, January, 1993. I had four tickets to see “How the West Was FUN!” ~ a program of songs and skits about the Old West, at the Northglenn Community Center. I decided to take two of my favorite brothers, Arturo and Denis, and their friend, Charlie, who lived in the same apartment building. I picked those three boys because their parents didn’t care where I took them, or what time I brought them home. They were always grateful that I took them anywhere.

It was dark outside when I drove north on I-25 on my way to Northglenn. Denver was still lit up for Christmas and the National Western Stock Show. As we drove past Bronco’s Stadium, Charlie asked, “Ms. Jones, where are we?” I explained that we were driving to Northglenn to see a play called,  “How the West Was Fun.” 

Charlie had never been to a play and he certainly had not been to Northglenn. I didn’t try explaining geography to a third-grader, whose whole world was one square mile. Instead, I just said, “You’ll love it. It’s a funny play and there’s a lot of music in it.” The tickets were free. That’s all I knew or cared about.

Eight-year-old Denis, whose mother was very bright but more than a little unstable, was excited. “Can we sit in the front row?” he asked, as he charged down the aisle in front of me. 

Charlie and Arturo were right behind him. I sat in the second row, where I could tap them on the shoulder if necessary. I shouldn’t have worried.

The boys were mesmerized by the action on stage. For ninety minutes, they forgot their grown-up fears and lives of chronic neglect. They sat perfectly still and hummed along with the music. 

Denis couldn’t stop laughing. His favorite part of the show was the barroom scene, in which four men danced the can-can in drag. He turned around in his seat to share the joke with me. “They are supposed to be dance-hall girls, but they are really dance hall BOYS!” he roared. It was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

On the way home, we passed Bronco’s stadium and the lights of Denver once more. Charlie was quiet as he looked out the window.

“Ms. Jones, I get it. I know where we are! Glendale is in the middle of Denver. And Denver is in the middle of Colorado.” Suddenly geography made sense.

It was after 9:00 by the time we were back in Glendale. The boys were too excited to go home. They wanted to talk. They had a lot of fun, but they still had a lot on their minds.

The boys talked about the agony of wetting the bed and/or sharing a bed with someone who does. They all knew that urine burns are worse when you’ve eaten a lot of peppers. 

Denis and Arturo told about the time their mother’s boyfriend’s gun accidentally discharged on Halloween, sending a bullet into the wall and scaring them more than “Chucky” ~ the scariest movie they’d ever seen. 

They argued about whether Michael Jackson had a wife and whether Michael Jordon should be allowed to “just quit” basketball. They agreed that pollution is a terrible problem and that they were, in fact, too hungry for french fries and too thirsty for soft drinks to go home. So we stopped at McDonalds and kept talking.

A few weeks later Denis wanted to know when my son, Garth, was coming home. I told him that Garth might stay in Jamaica for another year and my other son, Jason, was thinking of moving to Greeley. I commented that I might go into severe withdrawal with no children to raise. Denis looked at me and smiled. “That’s not necessarily true,” he said.  “You still have us.”

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Hope For A New Year ~

by Glendale students, 1994.

I WISH: For Peace. For Wonderful Peace!

I WISH: People would be kind to one another.

My mother would get well

My father wouldn’t be in jail.

My brother would come home.

My family could be together.

I WISH: There would be no crime.

There would be no stealing.

Nobody would litter.

Nobody would cuss.

We could all be friends.

I WISH: I had a kitten.

I had a beagle.

I had a lion.

I had a bike.

I had a Japanese Barbie.

I WISH: My bike had new brakes.

My mom’s car had new tires.

My dad’s back would get better.

My sister would go to school.

My mom would have her baby.

I WISH: I lived in a castle.

I would be queen of the world.

I would be happy for the rest of my life.

Horses could fly.

All people on earth had magic.

I WISH: here was no violence in the world.

People weren’t prejudiced.

The government would let the people rule.

I would get my black-belt soon, so I could take care of my family.

I could eat as much as I wanted and never get fat.

I WISH FOR PEACE. FOR WONDERFUL PEACE.

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Here Comes Santa Claus

Christmas in Minnesota was a mixed-bag. Although my childhood seemed normal at the time, now as an adult, I’m not so sure.

My parents had two different approaches to Christmas. My mother didn’t like Christmas at all, for very good reasons. Every year she told us kids the same stories of her childhood in an attempt, I suppose, to make us appreciate “how good we had it.” 

Mom grew up poor, on a farm with six older brothers, including identical twins, who teased her unmercifully. On Christmas Eve, the twins would go outside with their shotguns telling my mother they were going to shoot Santa Claus out of the sky.

“Here he comes,” Len would shout, as my mother cowered in the living room.

Bang! Bang!!  

“We got him!” Ray would yell. And they stomped off the porch and ran into the yard, pretending to search the bushes for Santa’s body, while my mother sobbed in my grandmother’s arms. From then on, my mother never trusted Christmas.

My father, on the other hand, grew up in a middle class, suburban family. He loved Christmas. He loved buying and wrapping presents, He loved sending and receiving Christmas cards. And, most of all, he loved Christmas music. 

Dad was such fun at Christmas. I can still see him hanging giant silver snowflakes from the ceiling in the living room, to the chagrin of my mother who didn’t want people to focus their attention on the ceiling before she had a chance to wash it. Dad patiently hung tinsel on the tree, one strand at a time, while the rest of us “helped” by tossing handfuls of tinsel at the tree, hoping it would land on the branches.

We always celebrated Christmas Eve with my mother’s family ~ Grandma Hunt, Aunt Fran and my cousin Lori. Occasionally we would go to Aunt Fran’s house for dinner, but usually my mother made a big dinner for all of us before we opened gifts and went to bed.

One year Aunt Fran said she was bringing “the baby Jesus” to our house for dinner. We didn’t know what to expect, but I was hoping for a real baby. Instead, Aunt Fran showed up with a young Black man, Elija, who had just been released from prison. I had never seen a Black person before in snow-white Minnesota of the 1950’s. The man was quiet and pleasant. I wonder what he thought of us. We never saw him again.

I remember gifts I got as a child, mostly dolls and ice skates, coloring books and art supplies. The best gift of all, however, was the year my father came home from work on Christmas Eve, with a kitten in his pocket. The kitten was crying outside the drug store when my father locked up for the night. Dad didn’t have the heart to leave the kitten there, meowing in the snow, so he brought him home. Because Dad had already left the store (and, of course, no one had a cell phone back then) my mother was as surprised as we were. I’m not sure she was pleased.

The best Christmas memory, the one I will never forget, however, is the year Santa Claus actually came to our house on Christmas Eve and delivered our toys early, before we had to go to bed. 

As Santa turned to go out the door, my Dad said, “Santa, do you have time for a shot and a beer before you go?”

“I sure do, Bob,” said Santa, as he sat down at our kitchen table. 

Dad opened two bottles of Grain Belt and poured a shot of bourbon for both of them. So much for milk and cookies. Ho Ho Ho! It was a very Merry Christmas, Indeed.

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Christmas Comes to Glendale

One day, right after Thanksgiving, I had a phone call from a mother of students at High Plains Elementary School, an affluent school in the same district where I worked as a social worker. She wanted her children to learn “the spirit of Christmas.” I don’t remember this mother’s name. I call her Angel.

Angel explained that her children, and her children’s friends, wanted to buy presents for kids who might not get many presents that year. Did I know any children who might like an extra Christmas present? 

“Yes,” I answered. “I know a lot of children who would be delighted to receive an extra gift.”

“How many students?”

“Well, at least a hundred in elementary school alone.”

Forty percent of the students where I worked were eligible for free lunch. Almost all of them lived in Glendale. A lot of them were refugees from countries all over world ~ places like Russia, Bosnia, Ethiopia, China, Mexico, and Somalia. Very few of them expected Santa Claus to visit the apartments where they lived.

I told Angel we could use as many gifts as they wanted to donate and the High Plains Christmas Connection was born. Angel called other families in the neighborhood. She appealed to the PTO. She put up a Christmas tree in the school lobby. She hung stars on the tree, listing the age and gender of Glendale students needing a gift. Families were eager to adopt children they considered “less fortunate.” Their generosity was overwhelming. 

Angel started dropping off gifts in my office at the beginning of December. The first year, High Plains students donated more than one hundred gifts. Barbies and basketballs. Remote control cars, skateboards, and big trucks. Teddy bears and dolls of every skin color. The Glendale Police and Fire Departments signed on and donated bicycles, helmets and locks ~ gifts my students could only dream of. 

Five years later, there were more than five hundred gifts waiting for me after Thanksgiving. Every corner of my office was filled with gifts that needed to be sorted, wrapped, and delivered. By that time, the project had grown to include new hats, scarves and gloves for every family member and gift cards for teenagers. The Glendale Target store donated eight beautifully decorated Christmas trees for families who otherwise wouldn’t have one. 

We set up a Christmas station in an empty classroom., We brought in tables from the cafeteria and started wrapping and labelling gifts. The City of Glendale provided miles of wrapping paper, ribbons and bows. Teachers and tutors wrapped gifts when they were available. Parents from the neighborhood came to help. And of course, my friends from Glendale, Julie and Marcie, wrapped gifts for weeks. 

The weekend before Christmas, Julie, Marcie and I dropped off presents at each child’s apartment. With the help of a few, wonderful volunteers, we went from door to door, wishing families Merry Christmas. It was a weekend full of the Christmas spirit.

Angel, wherever you are, thank you for giving all of us the gift of Christmas joy.

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Glendale Christmas Magic

Glendale, where I worked for eight years, is one square mile of poverty in the middle of a very affluent business community. As the Glendale social worker, I was often given free tickets to plays and events that families would otherwise never be able to afford.

In December, 1992, thanks to money from the PTO, I took five, first-grade girls to see Disney On Ice. It was pure magic.

I wanted to pick up Tanya first. I was not exactly in the Christmas spirit and I was certain Tanya wouldn’t be ready when I got to her apartment. Her mother had no phone, so all of our communication had been by notes pinned to the front of Tanya’s dress. Tanya had head lice in remission. She missed school at least twice a week because no one could ever find her shoes in time for her to catch the bus. Not a good omen!

As I rang the buzzer, Tanya came running out to meet me dressed like a little princess in cowboy boots. She wore a long, burgundy dress with a plunging neckline and a tiny gold necklace. Her hair was clean and curled. Her mother had put lipstick and eye-shadow on her. She looked beautiful, if a little precocious.

Tanya, in her burgundy dress and matching lipstick, was truly the spirit of Christmas. Her joy was contagious. I parked my car and led the five girls inside to find our seats. The girls giggled and held hands as we climbed to the top of McNichols basketball arena, which had been converted into a full-court ice rink. When Deanna, Tanya’s friend from the next apartment, lost her piece of candy behind her seat, Tanya immediately offered her candy to Deanna. 

The show was “Disney’s Fantasy on Ice” and featured all the characters the girls already knew ~ Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Snow White and Cinderella.  Their eyes never left the stage. 

Later, when Deanna, who has one leg two inches shorter than the other, panicked going downstairs. Tanya spontaneously took Deanna’s hand and led her down the steep steps. It was a lovely moment, right out of Charles Dickens. 

After that success, I could hardly wait to take nine fifth-grade girls to see The Nutcracker, with two other chaperones. The tickets were donated by the women who worked at Shotgun Willies, the strip club located in the heart of Glendale.

The Nutcracker was the biggest holiday event of the season, a real ballet in a beautiful downtown theater. The other chaperones and I talked to the girls about The Nutcracker for three weeks. We listened to the music and read the story. We talked about ballet, and getting dressed up, and being on our best behavior. 

It was a cold December night when arrived at the theater. The girls were gorgeous, with fancy dresses and just a touch of glitter in their hair and makeup on their faces. The girls were awestruck when they saw the downtown Christmas lights and the glamour inside the huge theater. Their eyes glowed at the sight of  sparkling chandeliers that led us to our seats in the balcony. We took our seats and waited for the ballet to begin.

The first act went by all too quickly. The music was lovely. When the curtain fell at intermission, I was eager to hear the reactions of the girls. The magic was lost, however, when Monique stood up in her red velvet dress, made a face and loudly proclaimed, “Somebody farted!”

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Ramon ~ The Deer Whisperer

Ernesto’s mother, Zelmira Rodriguez, grew up in Hacienda del Tamarindo, as the only girl in a family of five brothers. Her mother, Maria Aguillar, died in childbirth  when Zelmira was seven, and her younger brother, Ramón, was three years old.

The doctor told Neto’s grandfather, Ignacio Rodriguez, “I can save your wife or your son. I can’t save both. What should I do?”

“Save the boy,” was Ignacio’s answer. Zelmira’s youngest brother, Antonio, lived but all the children were left without a mother.

Ignacio was banished from the house by Gero, the oldest brother. He was furious when his father showed up with a new, pregnant wife, soon after Maria died. The youngest children were raised by their older brothers and their Aunt Petra.  Zelmira turned out to be feisty and self-reliant. Ramón is one of the kindest, most-gentle men I’ve ever met. 

I met Ramón in Hacienda Del Tamarindo in December, 2009, when Ernesto and I were there to celebrate his birthday. The night we arrived, Ramón rode to the party on his bicycle. A quiet, small-built man with light skin, he looks a lot like Neto with the same easy smile and deep brown eyes. But while Neto is exuberant and outgoing, Ramón is reserved and shy. He pulled Neto aside and told him, “Come to my house tomorrow. I have something to show you.”

The next day, we walked to Ramón’s house right after breakfast. His modest home is typical of the other small cinder-block homes in La Hacienda. His beautiful brown horse was roaming, untethered, in the front yard. Laundry hung on the clothesline to dry. A donkey, fenced in the spacious corral, watched us as we knocked on the door. 

Ramón answered the door, wearing the tall white cowboy hat that is the trademark of all the Rodriguez men.

“I want you to see what I have in the bodega. I found her when I was riding through the forest.”

Ramón led us to his shed, where he keeps his tools. There in the corner was the tiniest baby deer I’ve ever seen.

“I call her Bambi. She’s an orphan. I’m raising her until I can take her back to the forest.”

Ramón took off his hat, pulled a baby bottle of milk out of his pocket, and sat down quietly on the steps. Bambi walked over to him and nuzzled his shirt. We watched as the fawn guzzled the whole bottle of milk.

Ramón told us how he found Bambi, lost and alone, when he was out riding the trail behind his house.

“Something must have happened to her mother, because I couldn’t find a trace of her. Maybe someone shot her. Or maybe a wild cat got her.”

“How did you get her home?” I wanted to know.

“I got down from my horse. Bambi had a wound on her leg and I knew I had to save her. I put her in my arms, and climbed back up on my horse. I could feel her heart beating fast against my chest.”

“Wasn’t she scared, riding on top of a horse?”

“I just kept holding her, and talking to her. I clicked my tongue and told the horse to walk slow and take us home.”

Ramón was raised to be a butcher, a job that certainly didn’t suit his sweet, compassionate personality. 

“I was born to be on a horse,” he told me. “I quit butchering and became a vaquero ( a Mexican cowboy) instead. 

“Ramon is also a jockey.” Neto told me. “People pay him to race their horses because he almost always wins.”

If Ramon lived in the U.S., he would surely be a veterinarian. He’s known throughout La Hacienda as an animal whisperer and healer. He rescues animals from the forest and tames even the wildest horses. 

Two years ago, at the age of 85, Tio Ramón was still riding as a charro in the local rodeo. Neto and I saw him on You Tube. We knew it was Ramón right away. He was sitting on his big brown horse, wearing the Rodriguez tall white cowboys hat.

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A Birthday in La Hacienda

The year was 2009.  I asked Neto how he would like to spend his birthday.

“I’d like to go to Hacienda del Tamarindo, and see Tio Gero and Tia Valvina. I would like to be there for my birthday and the Virgin’s novena.”

I had never been to Hacienda del Tamarindo, the small town near Rosario where Neto’s mother grew up. Neto’s great-grandfather was one of three men who founded the town in the early 1900’s. The family home, where Gero and Valvina raised thirteen children, is on the main street, directly across from the Catholic church. 

“Do we need to call and let them know we are coming?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Everyone is welcome. It’s the beginning of December. People will be coming from all over.”

“Where will we stay?”

“Tia will want us to stay with her in their big house.”

Neto was right. It was mid-afternoon when we walked in the front door and the living room was full of people. Most of Gero and Valvina’s children moved to the United States, but still came back every year for Christmas. Those who weren’t already there, were on their way. 

Valvina was in the kitchen, preparing food. Fruit and sweetbread was spread out on the big table, alongside pitchers of lemonade and jamaica. A grill was set up outside, coals already burning, for carne asada later in the day.

Uncle Gero met us at the door. A tall, distinguished man in his mid-90’s, he was almost totally blind as a result of diabetes. Neto introduced me to his uncle, and Gero’s charm came out in full Rodriguez style. He took my hand and led me around the living room, introducing me to everyone seated there. He insisted that I sit next to him and never let go of my hand.

Aunt Valvina, was equally charming. She hugged us both. Neto waited outside while she showed me around her home. I saw the laundry room in the back courtyard and her sewing room, where she sews linens for all the bedrooms and curtains for the windows.

Valvina proudly showed me the “barracho room,” a large dormitory on one side the patio, where the men sleep who are too drunk to come in the house. It was obvious the house had been enlarged many times to accommodate her big family. It was an old home with modern appliances, but no hot water.

Valvina called her neighbors to announce, “Neto is here with his friend, Lynda. Come for dinner.”

Soon the courtyard and the back patio were filled with people, most of whom looked like Neto with their thick black hair, flashing brown eyes and quick smiles

I was happy that Neto wanted to come to La Hacienda, but I noticed he didn’t mention his birthday. He told everyone he’d come for the Virgin’s novena. Only after most people had gone home after dinner, when he and I were left sitting around the table with Gero and Valvina, did he open up.

“There’s another reason I wanted to be here today,” he said shyly. “It’s my cumpleaños.”

Oh, my! Uncle Gero and Aunt Valvina both jumped up at once. Gero reached Neto first, and shook his hand. Valvina grabbed him and squeezed him tight. “Feliz Cumpleaños, Mijo.” They had tears in their eyes. So did I.

The next day, before sunrise, church bells rang. Portable cannons boomed in the streets. 

“What is that?” I wanted to know.

“It’s the beginning the novena.”

People came out of every home for a procession that happens every day for nine days leading up to the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Men in identical white cowboy hats joined the ceremony. Some came walking, some on horseback. 

A few men went inside the church to bring the statue of Mary outside and lift it onto the back of a truck. The procession began its slow walk through town. First the truck with the statue and then the parish priest. And then the townspeople, repeating the rosary together as they walked along the cobblestone streets, some carrying flashlights and some with candles to light their way. 

I stayed inside. It was still dark and cold outside. It didn’t feel right for me to join the procession. The prayers were in Spanish. It was a private moment for Neto, his family, his neighbors and his friends.

When Neto returned, he showed me how to take a shower, by rinsing myself with cold water from a bucket in the bathroom. It was so cold it took my breath away. I dressed quickly and joined Neto and his family in the kitchen for breakfast. 

That afternoon, when it was time to leave, Neto’s cousins came to say goodbye.

“We really like Lynda. How can we get you to bring her back again?”

“It would help if you had some hot water,” he answered.

They all laughed the same hearty Rodriguez laugh.

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Thanksgiving 2020 ~ A Day to Remember

Next Thursday is Thanksgiving. Today I’m remembering Thanksgivings past ~ in both Minnesota, when I was growing up, and later in Colorado. Thanksgiving for me, will always be a melancholy, bittersweet holiday. Although I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving, for me the holiday is as much about loss, as about celebration.

Minnesota Thanksgivings were always at my house. We had a very modest home, without a real dining room. Instead, we had a small, compact table that could extend to hold a lot of people. We set the table up on the porch with the heater going because, after all, this was late November in Minnesota. Grandparents were included until they were no longer with us. Aunts and Uncles were always invited, including my godmother, Aunt Margaret, and her husband, Uncle Pat, my mother’s sister, Aunt Fran, and my cousin Lori. 

My mother did all the cooking, which didn’t make her very happy, even though people always said she was the best cook in the family. Aunt Fran volunteered to bring a loaf of bread. Because most of the people at the table didn’t drink alcohol, it was a very sober meal, made extra quiet because most of the people were painfully shy and didn’t know how to make conversation. My strongest memories were of my Uncle Pat’s outlandishly horrible table manners and the mountain of dishes that needed to be washed, dried and put away after the meal. I missed the people who were no longer there.

My first Thanksgiving away from home was in 1965, as a student at the University of Denver. The small group of students who were not married (I don’t think there were more than ten of us) organized our own Thanksgiving. We ate off paper plates so we wouldn’t have to wash dishes. We had all the traditional foods ~ turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, pie ~ and a lot of wine. We laughed a lot and later went to a nightclub for dancing and more drinking. We made the most of the holiday, knowing we would all scatter after graduation.

When I joined the Hein Famly in 1967, I learned what Thanksgiving was supposed to look like. My mother-in-law, Dorothy, loved Thanksgiving. She grew up very poor so having a big table full of food to share made her gleefully happy. The Heins had a big formal dining room and added extra tables, if necessary, to accommodate children, spouses, grandchildren and extra people who were told to “stop by in time for dinner.” Dorothy made it clear that Thanksgiving would always be at her house and we were all expected to be there.

Dorothy and her sister, Margaret, cooked the turkey and guests filled in the menu. The house smelled wonderful and there was a lot of wine, before, during and after dinner. Gradually the table became smaller, as people died and some moved away. We toasted the people who were no longer there until our last Thanksgiving in 2007. Dorothy died the following January, at the age of 97. 

But my strongest Thanksgiving memory was ten years earlier, in 1997. Jason and I had just come home from Dorothy’s, stuffed with turkey and pie. Garth was living in Winter Park. Just as I was getting ready for bed, the phone rang. My sister was on the other end of the line. 

“I need to let you know, Dad just died.” 

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“Mom made Thanksgiving dinner, like she always did. All the dishes were washed and put away. Dad pulled down the shades, sat in his chair, and died of a heart attack.

“That was a very nice Thanksgiving!” were my father’s last words. 

Dad was such a good man, full of gratitude, always able to do what was right. 

Thanksgiving will inevitably be the holiday when I remember Dad and all the other people who are gone from my life. It is a day for good memories, even more than good food. It is a day for sending blessings to those we love.

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Neto, The Peanut Vender

I love the beach sellers! The men and women who sell beautiful things on the beach ~ turtles carved out of wood, silver bracelets and earrings, lovely scarves and Mexican blankets. I know most tourists do not share my love. They think the beach sellers are a nuisance. They avoid eye contact, and wave them away.

But I admire the beach sellers’ determination. They have to pay a fee to the government to sell to the tourists. Every day they trudge through the sand, often carrying heavy objects and awkward sacks, hoping to make enough money to feed their families. I enjoy talking to them, looking at what they have to sell, and buying something if I can. Or, I tell them that what they have is “muy bonita, pero no hoy.” (Very beautiful but not today.) I smile and wish them good luck.

My favorite sellers, the ones I can never ignore, are the children who sell in the plazas and restaurants. The little boys and girls with tiny toys and Chiclets for sale. The beautiful girls, who go from table to table selling roses.

Ernesto was a beach seller when he was ten years old. One of my favorite chapters in his story tells of the summer he sold peanuts on the beach and learned to speak English. Here is part of that story:

The summer before sixth grade, I walked to the beach every day on my travels around the neighborhood. One day I saw a grown man selling salty peanuts and sweet bubble gum. He looked tired and sad. His back was stiff as he bent over his tray of peanuts that no one was buying. 

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You look tired. Do you need some help?”

The man looked up and saw a boy standing in front of him. “You are right. I am tired and I am old. I’m going to be here all day. Would you like to help me sell some peanuts?”

“I can do that” I smiled. “I am Ernesto. What should I do?”  

“Thank you, Ernesto. I will fill these little cups with warm peanuts and put them on a tray for you. Each bag is five pesos. When the tray is empty, come back for more. At the end of the day, I will pay you for being my helper.”

The vendor and I made a good team that summer. He toasted the peanuts on his grill and poured them into tiny paper cups. Twenty cups on my tray. He gave me a quick lesson on how to sell peanuts and how to speak English. I was happy to be a beach seller. It was my first paying job. It was a good job for a boy who was ten years old.

At first the only English phrase I knew was “Peanuts! Peanuts! I have peanuts for you!” Gradually I learned more words that I practiced until they became part of me. 

Every morning I set up my tray on a stand under a palm tree and watched for people to flag me down from the beach. Then I would pick up my tray and run across the sand. Most days I earned fifty cents. Once in a while, Señor would give me an American silver dollar to take home to my mother. I was happy to help my family. But mostly, I was happy to work with my new friend, the peanut vendor.

I liked being around the tourists. They were kind and generous. Their happy, healthy faces were a reflection of the ocean to me. They liked to tease me and make me smile. They treated me with tenderness that I had never felt before. The women, especially the American women, said they liked my dark brown, curly hair and soft hazel eyes. They called me comico y lindo ~ funny and cute. Sometimes they called me Honey. They said they wanted to adopt me and take me back home with them. They loved my hustle and my sassy smile. 

If you are lucky enough to be on a beach in Mexico, remember Ernesto and smile at the sellers. You don’t have to buy anything, if you don’t want to. Kindness goes a long way.

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Murphy, The Wonder Dog

Six months before leaving for college, my son, Garth, decided to replace himself with a dog. He felt that Jason and I were going to need something to keep us company when he wasn’t around. 

We never discussed getting a dog. Instead, Garth told me that he had called the Basset Rescue Society to request a Basset Hound for our family. He also told them he was my husband because he was afraid they wouldn’t give a dog to a single parent family. And, furthermore, a staff member would be doing a “home visit” in a couple of days to make sure we were a suitable home.

I later learned:

1) The only reason for a home visit was to make sure we had a fenced-in yard. Bassets are notorious for running away.

2) Murphy had “failed” adoption efforts before. The Rescue Society was eager to make this work. They weren’t fussy about marital status.

Murphy arrived a few days later. He was a happy, gregarious adult. In many ways he was like Garth. They were both handsome, cheerful and eager for adventure. They were both kind souls, who made friends wherever they went.

But there were also obvious differences. While Garth was a thoughtful student, meticulously planning for what was coming next, Murphy was a terrible student. He was a clown. He was a stubborn. Every day was a new day. A day to escape, to roam around the neighborhood, to see how much food he could eat and how much trouble he could get into. 

I got used to the telephone ringing before I even knew Murphy was gone. 

“We’ve got your dog.”

“I’m sorry. He must have gotten out again. Where is he?”

“He’s standing here in my kitchen. My wife was cooking hamburger. Your dog pushed open the screen door with his nose and walked in.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Jason and I took Murphy to obedience school but it was a waste of time and money. While other dogs stood at attention next to their owners, Murphy strolled around the room, smiling at the other dogs, or else plopped at our feet, refusing to move. 

We took Murphy for walks around the neighborhood, determined to get him to walk like a proper dog. But Murphy had other ideas. He didn’t like walking on a leash and he plotted his revenge. He walked nicely as we walked away from home, strutting and wagging his tail at people passing by. But when it was time to return, Murphy sat down. In the middle of the sidewalk. He refused to budge. He wasn’t going anywhere. He definitely wasn’t going home. Jason had to pick him up and carry him. Murphy taught us not to walk very far. Forty pounds is a lot to carry.

Murphy’s most noticeable feature, was his enormous appetite and amazing flatulence. He had the ability to clear a room in an instant with his silent, deadly farts. 

Because of Murphy’s challenging behaviors, I was in frequent contact with the Rescue Society. Their response was always the same:

“It sounds like he’s lonely. We think you should adopt another Basset, so he has some company.”

“Oh, no… That’s not going to happen.”

One day, Murphy got into a kitchen cabinet that housed my baking supplies. I came home to learn he had eaten a whole canister of flour, a bag of sugar and a large can of lemonade powder. It was the equivalent of ten lemon bundt cakes. His stomach was distended and rumbling. I threw him outside and called the Rescue Society.

“This dog is too much! He needs constant supervision. You need to come and get him.”

I could hear the rescue worker clucking on the phone. “Lynda, I feel like we are friends. Let me tell you a story:

“One day my dog got in my purse where I had my false teeth wrapped in a napkin. I noticed right away that my teeth were missing and the dog was outside. I didn’t know who to call first ~ my dentist or the vet.

“I called the dentist to see if I could still use my teeth if I found them outside, buried under a pile of leaves. The dentist said, ‘Sure. Just soak them in peroxide. They’ll be fine.’

“Then I called the vet and asked him what I should do if the dog had swallowed  my teeth. The vet said, ‘Here’s how to find out if the dog ate your dentures. Get behind him and yank up his tail. If that dog’s grinning at you, he’s got your teeth.’” 

We kept the dog. Garth left for the Peace Corps right after college. Murphy died of cancer while he was away. I missed Murphy after he was gone but I never got another dog again.