Author: Lynda Jones

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No Skeletons Celebrating This Year

2020 has been an absolutely horrible year! As proof, this is the first time in more than fifty years that I didn’t buy any Halloween candy. 

When I was raising my children, and later when I worked in public schools, the question of the season was “What are you going to be for Halloween?” I miss the excitement that marked the end of fall and the beginning of winter. I miss helping children choose their costumes. I miss hearing them scream and laugh as they run from house to house in the cold night air.

Because of the pandemic, there won’t be any children trick-or-treating in my neighborhood this year. Condos in my complex aren’t decorated with flashing orange lights or carved pumpkins. As we have for the past eight months, we are all staying home behind locked doors, keeping busy until it is time to turn out the lights and go to bed.

It hasn’t always been this way. In Mexico, my house was right in front of the city’s Dia de Los Muertos celebration. Musicians played loud, off-key music as they marched up and down the street, signaling that  it was time to open my door and join the Day of the Dead party. Skeletons, acrobats, and women dressed as in fancy clothes and feathered hats mingled outside. We waited together on the street for the beer wagon, drawn by a single sleepy burro, to arrive. Beer was free. The party lasted all night. The music went on until morning.

My favorite Halloween was 2013. I had moved back to Colorado and bought a condo near Buckley Air Force Base. I have always loved Aurora, one of the most diverse cities in the United States. Because housing prices are low, it is home to immigrants from all over the world, including many people from Mexico. I feel at home here.

As usual, the weather that Halloween was cold. But that didn’t stop children coming to my door. Children who didn’t celebrate Halloween in their previous countries, but who were eager to dress up and ask for candy now. I lived on a busy street, across from a park, so my home was the first stop for many of the children. That year, I had more than 200 trick-or-treaters. I couldn’t have been happier!

My first visitor was a little skeleton from Mexico. He was about five years old. When he saw that I was giving out Butterfingers, he was thrilled.

“I know, Butterfingers are the best,” I said, as I gave him an extra one to put in his pillow case.

“No, YOU are the best!” he replied. And he gave me a hug. Mexican charm starts early.

Then his little princess-sister, who didn’t know what to do, gave me a hug, too. It was Halloween magic on the streets of Aurora.

My absolutely favorite Halloween character from 2013, however, was an elderly woman from Korea, who was trick-or-treating alongside everyone else. I thought she was a chaperone but she didn’t have any children with her. I answered the door, expecting to see a giggling group of children but Mama was there alone, smiling a big toothless grin and showing me her orange plastic pumpkin. She wasn’t wearing a costume. I gave her two Butterfingers. Halloween was for everyone. 

I pray that someday it will be again.

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Clowns, Ninjas, and Dance Hall Girls

As a piano teacher, I was determined to find a way to get my students to practice. I pleaded to their better natures. I bribed them with candy bars. And then… Eureka! I had the answer. Recitals! My students didn’t like to practice, but they did like to perform. 

Students recitals were a tradition back when I was taking lessons from Sister Aimee. We hated recitals but Sister Aimee was determined. Our music had to be memorized. It had to be difficult. Often, it had to be boring. 

Because Sister Aimee produced the annual Christmas pageant, an over-the-top extravaganza of angels and shepherds, we were spared the ritual of a Christmas recital. But nothing could deter Sister Aimee from having us perform in May. 

My memories of being in a recital included stomach pains and anxiety attacks. Students threatening to throw up or worse. A third grade classmate actually wet her pants onstage ~ a fact that she probably hasn’t lived down to this day.

That’s not the kind of piano recital I wanted. No, I just wanted the kind that would motivate my students to actually open their books and practice their lesson. That meant having recitals not once, but four times a year. Every eight weeks my students were on stage. There was always a reception afterward, with cookies and punch, and the opportunity to bask in their parents’ proud faces.

I kept the tradition of having an end-of-the-year recital in May. Girls were happy to dress up in fancy dresses. The boys reluctantly wore something besides jeans. I let the students choose their favorite songs. I often accompanied them and together we dazzled the audience.

Of course there was a Christmas recital, with beautiful familiar Christmas songs. And again, girls in fancy dresses and boys in shirts with collars. Wonderful, sing-along music and proud parental faces. 

That left two more recitals to schedule, one in the fall and one in the spring. I had to be creative with the spring recital. One year we had a Teddy Bear’s Picnic. Students brought their favorite stuffed animal to sit on the bench with them. One year we had a Celebration of Spring ~ with songs about flowers and kites. 

The best recital of all, however, was the first recital of the year. The Halloween Recital. Just think about it. We all came in costumes. Teacher included. Ghosts and vampires, clowns and ninjas trooped into the piano store, up to the large performance stage at the top of the stairs. Parents smiled as they were seated, ready with their cameras. Students were giddy with excitement. Best of all, no one threw up or wet their pants.

I taught piano lessons for seven years. I had a lot of students and I was more or less successful. By the end of that time, however, I realized I was ready for something else.

“I’m going to be ninety years old, someday, still sitting on this piano bench trying to get these students to practice their lesson,” I thought one rainy day. I looked outside, just as lightning hit a tree in my backyard, knocking out my power, and ending lessons for that day.

The next day, I met a friend for lunch. 

“What’s new?” I asked her.

“I’m doing the craziest thing,” she announced.

“What?”

“I’m moving to Mexico.”

“Really?” A lightbulb went off in my head. “I’m coming with you,” I declared. 

I moved to Mexico. Some say I did it on a whim. Maybe the lightning strike was a sign that I needed to shake up my life. Or maybe, I had just run out of Halloween costumes.

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Here Comes The Bride!

Twenty years ago today, my son, Jason, married his sweetheart, Kortnee Conway, in a chapel on the campus of Loretto Heights College. It was a lovely Colorado Fall day, much like today.

All brides are beautiful, but none more so than Kortnee. Jason was handsome, of course. Their girls, Devon and Tyler, were lovely ~ Devon, as a bridesmaid in a stunning, dark maroon dress, and Tyler, a junior bridesmaid, dressed all in white with a string of pearls around her neck.

Jason’s brother, Garth. was his best man. The bridal party, friends of the bride and groom, were young and carefree, eager to celebrate and wish Jason and Kortnee a long, happy life together.

People came from far away for the wedding. Both of Jason’s grandmothers were there. Kortnee’s family came in a caravan from Missouri. Jim’s family and my friends were there, too. We all stood outside the church before the ceremony, waiting to cheer Kortnee and the bridesmaids as they arrived in a white limousine. 

I would like to tell you that the wedding went off without a hitch. That wouldn’t actually be true. It was my fault. 

It was my responsibility to arrange for the music at the church. Jim hired Stacy, an extremely talented soloist from his church, to sing. She was awesome. 

I hired a pianist I didn’t know. He came highly recommended but he was fussy about what he would and wouldn’t play. Under no circumstances was he going to play “Here Comes The Bride.”

In the hustle and bustle before the wedding, I forgot to clear that with Kortnee. She had her heart set on “Here Comes The Bride.” I remembered there was a problem when the pianist started to play. No one knew the song he was playing but the bridesmaids came up the aisle and took their places anyway.

Meanwhile, Kortnee’s father was in the back of the chapel, waiting for Kortnee to appear. But there was no Kortnee. She was behind a door, waiting for her cue. She wasn’t coming out until she heard “Here Comes The Bride.” 

At the last minute, Stacy realized what the problem was. An experienced musician, she always carried a copy of “Here Come the Bride” in her briefcase, for moments like this. She grabbed the music, plopped it down in front of the pianist and hissed, “You’ve got to play this. Now!”

Mr. Pianist played beautifully, if somewhat reluctantly. Kortnee came into the hallway, met her father, and walked radiantly down the aisle. I took a deep breath and knew that everything was going to be ok.

After the wedding ceremony, Jason and Kortnee, Devon and Tyler, got back in the limo for a ride to the reception. The rest of us carpooled to a charming restaurant in the Denver foothills. There was music. There was an open bar. There was a full buffet. There were toasts and dancing and children chasing each other around the room. 

Outside there was a pond, with live fish and rocks painted with good wishes. It was a perfect beginning for a loving marriage surrounded by family and friends.

As I write this memory, my heart is filled with both joy and sadness for Jason and the girls. Jason and Kortnee had fifteen good years together. They had two children, Connor and Max, who grew up in a house filled with love. They went on day trips to the mountains and family vacations. They traveled to the East Coast to see both Devon and Tyler graduate from college. 

But Kortnee’s life was cut short five years ago when she had a sudden cardiac arrest.  She will always be remembered. She will always be missed.

Here Comes the Bride! A beautiful, happy bride! May she rest in peace.

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Los Tres Amigos

It was the rainy season and the roof was leaking. Water poured into the bedrooms.

“When can we fix these leaks?” I asked, as we emptied buckets of water into the courtyard.

“When the rainy season is over,” Neto insisted.

“When will that be?’

“October 15th.” 

I’d never experienced rain like this before. Certainly not in Colorado. From June until October, rain flooded the streets. Palm trees bent in the wind until they were nearly horizontal. Dogs and cats hid under abandoned cars. The humidity was stifling. 

October 15th, Neto showed up with heavy-duty metal spatulas to scrape decades of tar and styrofoam off the roof. Publio and Pepé, his best friends, were with him. They assembled a scaffold and built a makeshift ladder from 2×4’s

Laborers in Mexico earn very little money. A skilled tile-layer or carpenter earns 200 pesos for a ten hour day. When I first moved to Mexico, that amounted to $20/day (U.S.). Now, under the current exchange rate, that amounts to $10/day. It is a shockingly stingy amount of money. Food costs roughly the same in Mexico and the U.S.. Clothing actually costs more. Housing is the only commodity that costs less.    

I rewarded my workers by providing lunch for them every day. As a special treat for showing up on Mondays, I ordered 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, macaroni and cheese with marlin, whatever sounded good as I flipped through the pages. The only worker who was fussy was Christina. She told me during the first week that people in Mazatlan never eat black beans. “That’s for the poor people from the South.”

The roof project took more than three weeks.

Day 1. No rain. Neto set up the ladder. It consisted of a scaffold with a long board attached diagonally to one side. Small sections of 2×4’s  were hammered onto the board, to create footholds up the slope. Neto, Publio, and Pepé ran up the ladder and started working at 9:00. By 10:00 the sun was beating down on them and sweat was pouring off their faces. They drank gallons of water and kept working.

Day 2. Still no rain. Neto hauled a big bucket of sand up the ladder, along with a beach umbrella that looked like a giant watermelon. He plopped the umbrella in the bucket of sand and now they had shade. 

Day 3. Still no rain. I was beginning to believe the rainy season was over. Neto asked if he could borrow my boom box to take to the roof, along with the watermelon umbrella and the bucket of sand. Now the guys had shade and music. They sang and laughed as they continued to scrape layers of mold and crud from the old roof. 

Day 4. Neto brought a new worker, a young guy from Vera Cruz, to help load the old, stinky roof into buckets to take to the dump. Everyone called him “Vera Cruz.” I never knew his real name. Halfway through the morning, Vera Cruz fell off the ladder and needed to be rushed to the local Red Cross. He fell on his skinny hip and was hurt badly when he bounced hard on the cement. By afternoon, Vera Cruz was back on the job.

“How can he keep working? Isn’t he in a lot of pain?” I asked Neto.

“The doctor gave him a shot of Ibuprofen in his hip. He’s feeling better now. He wants to keep working.”

And that’s the way it went for the next three weeks. After the roof was scraped clean, the men laid a fresh coat of cement before spreading buckets of waterproofing across the roof. 

My house would never have been ready for guests without Los Tres Amigos. They arrived every day with a smile. They tried to understand my English and struggled to teach me Spanish. They thanked me every day for allowing them to work and for giving them lunch. They became my good friends, as well as Neto’s.

Publio is still one of Neto’s best friends. His family became my family, too. Sadly, Pepe died two years ago, from complications of a motorcycle accident and horrible medical care. Seeing Publio again last winter was a joy. But I will always have a hole in my heart, where Pepé used to live.

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A Family In Disarray

1931. Grandpa Jones lost everything in the stock market crash. It was the beginning of the Great Depression. Prohibition was still in effect. Millions of people were out of work. Uncle Johnny went to prison for killing Frank Ventress at the Green Lantern. Uncle Frank and George Hurley disappeared. Grandma Jones’ family was in disarray. 

George and Margaret Hurley owned the Green Lantern. George, a man of questionable ethics, was the manager. Margaret, my grandmother’s hard-working sister, was the cook.

The night of the murder, George took off for California, leaving Margaret to raise their five children alone. The FBI questioned Margaret repeatedly about the whereabouts of her husband. She didn’t know where he was. If she did, she might have killed him, herself. 

Our family lost track of George until one day in the 1940’s his picture appeared in Life magazine. He was sitting on a boat, enjoying the California sunshine and the good life. 

“His picture wasn’t identified, but everyone knew it was him,” my mother said.

Meanwhile, Frank Fay was accused of being an accomplice in the Green Lantern murder. He was, after all, the guy who chased Frank Ventress out the back door of the restaurant into Uncle Johnny’s gunfire.

Frank and Johnny took off for Canada. Johnny came back to Minnesota to face charges but Frank hid from the police and was never charged.

Uncle Frank, the youngest of Grandma’s siblings, was tall and handsome, gregarious and generous. Frank sent money to Grandma Fay, Aunt Margaret and Aunt Ruth for years, while they struggled to pay their bills with no husbands to help support them.

Frank never drank alcohol and he was not involved in the speakeasy lifestyle of Johnny and Ruth. He was a less flamboyant Chicago gangster. Gambling was his vice of choice.

Frank married Florence Hotek, a beautiful woman from Fort Dodge, Iowa. Although they never had children, Florence had a glamorous sister with a daughter, who always lived with Frank and Flo. 

“We never knew when Frank would drive up in his big black car with those two gorgeous women in front and the little girl in the back seat,” my mother told us.

Frank and Florence spent winters in Florida and summers in Minnesota. Anyone who operates a gambling casino in the U.S. needs to have a Federal Gambling License, called a stamp, to operate legally. Without it, gambling is a federal offense. Frank almost bought the Federal Gambling License in Florida, but for some reason neglected to do so, which caused the FBI to chase him for years.

Great-Grandma Fay died in 1944. The funeral was in Minneapolis and filled with drama. Frank was Grandma Fay’s favorite. Her baby boy. Her only living son. Would he show up for the funeral? Would he risk being arrested? Or would he outsmart the FBI one more time?

The church was filled with giant sprays of flowers, sent from Chicago, California, Florida, and the Twin Cities. “For Frank’s Mom” the cards read. There was even a huge bouquet in the shape of a golden horseshoe. FBI men stationed themselves outside the church, waiting to arrest Frank if he came to the funeral. At the last minute, Frank slipped in the side door to say goodbye to his mother and the FBI never knew he was there.

Frank continued to run illegal gambling operations in Florida. In the summer he moved to Brainard, Minnesota, and ran a restaurant called The Bar Harbor. The restaurant was infamous. Frank paid off the local authorities and ran a casino in the back room of the restaurant with slot machines, Black Jack, and Poker.

Brainard was far from the Twin Cities in the days after WWII, and it was a destination for serious gamblers. The restaurant was on Gull Lake. People docked their big, fancy boats and went inside for dinner and a night of gambling. 

I remember meeting Uncle Frank twice. One time, on a family vacation to northern Minnesota, we stopped at the Bar Harbor. It was about 10:00 in the morning and our family and Frank were the only people there. Frank took us kids behind the bar and filled our pockets with candy bars. He let us have all the coca-cola we could drink. We thought he was the coolest person we’d ever met.

Another time, we met Uncle Frank at a bait shop in northern Minnesota. My dad said we were going to buy bait for fishing at Uncle Frank’s store. After we bought our worms, Frank said, “Bob, I want to show you something.” He opened a hatch in the floor and we all trooped down to the cellar, where Frank proudly showed off his casino in the basement of the bait shop. 

Uncle Frank continued his life as a successful gambler until the early 1960’s, when Miles Lord, a firebrand lawyer, was elected Minnesota’s Attorney General. Lord initiated a crackdown on organized crime and Frank’s businesses were shut down. But Frank never went to jail for this or anything else.

Uncle Frank died of natural causes in 1966. He was sixty-nine years old.

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Murder at the Green Lantern

Uncle Johnny killed a man at the Green Lantern Saloon in St. Paul. He said it was self-defense. But it probably wasn’t.

My Irish grandmother, Irene Fay, was the oldest of six children. Her brother, Owen, died when she was twelve and he was ten years old. Her father was killed instantly in a train accident, when she was in high school. She had a painful limp, probably caused by a bone that didn’t heal properly. She had a tough life.

Grandma was a kind, serious, hard-working woman, She married my grandfather, Robert Jones, when she was seventeen and he was twenty-four. Grandpa was a studious, sober Welshman, who never drank a drop of alcohol.

Irene’s younger sister, Ruth Fay, was Grandma’s opposite. Ruth was fun-loving, friendly, exceptionally pretty and always ready for the next drink, even if it wasn’t legal.

Ruth married Johnny Quinn in the St. Paul Cathedral in 1923, three years after the start of prohibition. I can only assume it was a Roaring 20’s courtship, filled with music, dancing, and bootleg liquor. Ruthie’s hair was short, she dressed as a flapper and she loved to drive a car. Johnny was a small-built, dapper, charming Irishman. 

Ruth and Johnny moved Chicago and opened a speak-easy, in a two-story house across the street from Wrigley Field. A frequent customer was Hack Wilson, one of the best outfielders the Chicago Cubs ever had. Hack’s hitting record rivaled Babe Ruth’s. He spent so much time in Ruth and Johnny’s nightclub, he chose them to be godparents to his son. 

Johnny was a member of Chicago’s North-Siders, an Irish gang, headed by Bugsy Moran. The South-Siders, the Italian gang headed by Al Capone, were their enemies.

As a child, I loved to hear Johnny and Ruth tell stories of gangsters running out the back door of their house. I grew up hearing stories of machine guns hidden in violin cases, of people being gunned down in the streets, of crooked policemen, and gangsters “with a heart of gold.”

Feb. 14, 1929, the day of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, Johnny’s life was miraculously spared. Johnny and another man were in Detroit, on a run to get liquor from Canada, when Al Capone’s gang killed five members of the North Siders. Ruth had gone to St. Paul, to live with my grandparents, because, as she told us later, “the heat was on.” 

Ruth learned the news of the massacre on the radio, and eagerly waited to hear the names of those killed. When Johnny’s name was not on the list, she was ecstatic. “My Johnny is alive!” Three days later she got a telegram, confirming the good news.

Ruth and Johnny moved back to St. Paul, but were again the focus of prohibition-era drama. They were regular customers at the Green Lantern, a seedy, Irish saloon notorious for illegal activity. Among the regulars were Johnny and Ruth, Grandma’s sister, Margaret Hurley and her husband George, and their youngest brother, Frank Fay.

My grandmother tried to shield Grandpa from her family’s illegal activities. She hurried downstairs every morning to check the newspaper to see if any of their names were mentioned. When they were, and it happened frequently, she would carefully cut out the article before Grandpa had a chance to read the paper.

“Irene, why is there this hole in the front page of my paper?” my grandfather would ask.

“There was a coupon on the other side. I cut it out so I’d have it when I went to the store.”

The night of March 19, 1931, Uncle Johnny shot and killed Frank Ventress, a big, belligerent man who fought with Johnny and Frank earlier in the day. Johnny was convicted of second-degree murder and sent to the state prison in Stillwater, Minnesota. Until the Governor of Minnesota commuted his sentence, Ruth visited Johnny in jail every week. He was still “her Johnny” and they were always very much in love.

I wish I could tell you that Johnny and Ruth lived a straight life after he returned home, but that wouldn’t be true. Prohibition was repealed, so they needed to find another business. They bought a small dry-cleaning business in St. Paul, and set up an illegal gambling operation in the back. They ran that business until Uncle Johnny died of natural causes in 1963.

Ruth lived for fifteen more years and died in 1978. She was always the life of the party. She drank whiskey out of porcelain tea cups. She was always beautiful. Always everyone’s favorite aunt. Always a baseball fan. Always generous. Always ready with a laugh and another story. 

I was lucky to have an Aunt Ruth and Uncle Johnny in my life. Everyone should be so lucky.

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¡Viva Mexico!

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 carried 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 sales tax in the U.S. for the sheets., I had to give the inspector $200.00 to approve my move across the border.

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 a police siren announcing a 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 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 chants, ¡Viva Mexico! and ¡Viva Independencia¡ encouraged rebellion and called for an end to Spanish rule in Mexico.

The Spanish regime was not prepared for the suddenness, size, and violence of the rebellion. From a small spontaneous gathering at Father Hidalgo’s church in Delores, the army swelled to include farm workers from 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 and friend of Father Hidalgo, took charge. The movement’s banner, with an 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 clothes. The War of Independence was 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, dancing 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 among the crowds. And school children, dressed in Mexican themes, march through the streets of their neighborhood. 

The following day a moving truck with all of my belongings pulled up in front of my house. Out jumped six strong, 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!

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731 Delaware Avenue

As the oldest of nineteen Jones grandchildren, I was blessed. There was never any doubt that Grandpa and Grandma loved us above all else. They taught us what love looked like.

First and foremost, Grandma and Grandpa loved each other. They met in St. James, Minnesota, where Grandpa worked as a telegraph operator for the Chicago Northwestern railroad. He had recently been transferred to St. James from Chicago and lived in a boarding house run by Grandma’s aunt.

Grandma was a high school student when her father, an Irish immigrant, was crushed between two train cars. He was killed instantly, leaving the family devastated and without any income.

Grandma went to work for her aunt, serving breakfast and dinner before and after school. It was there that Robert and Irene met, fell in love and were married.

Robert, always a hard-worker, continued to get promoted, first to Mankato, Minnesota and then to St. Paul, where he and Irene bought a home at 731 Delaware, and raised four children ~ Margaret, Robert Jr., Shirley and Gwen. 

Life was not easy for Grandma and Grandpa. The day the stock market crashed in 1929, Grandpa came home on the street car, fell on the couch and cried. “We’ve been wiped out,” he told my father. The next day, Grandpa went back to work, determined to salvage his life. Determined that all of his children would go to college.

My mother and I lived with my grandparents after I was born. My father was in the Navy and it was not a happy time for my mother. But it was heaven for me. Can you imagine? I was a baby with two adoring grandparents and three single aunts!

My brother, Bob, was born when I was eighteen months old. My father was still in the Navy. Mom and I moved in with her parents, at their farm in North St. Paul.

Gone were the days of being taken for rides around the block in a red coaster wagon. Having my picture taken every time I smiled. Instead of being the oldest grandchild, I was buried in the middle of the pack. My cousin, Lori, had tea-parties with me, but Grandma Hunt was too busy cooking and cleaning to pay attention to most of what we did.

Grandpa Jones retired from his job at the railroad and bought a second home in the country, a small log cabin with a huge garden where he cultivated and sold prize-winning peonies. Acres of peonies in every color, ~ pink, white, deep red, and magenta. My mind’s eye of happy memories is still flooded with Grandpa’s flowers. My brother and I spent weekends and idyllic summer days at the log cabin in the woods.

Grandpa sold the cabin in the  early 1950’s. As a family, we continued to visit my grandparents every two weeks for Sunday dinner at their home on Delaware Avenue. My mother wasn’t happy with the arrangement because she couldn’t smoke at Grandma’s house. It was clear that she found those afternoons stuffy and boring.

The Joneses are quiet people. We didn’t talk much. Mostly we sat around after dinner, murmuring small talk until it was time to leave. As an extremely shy child, that was just fine with me. I loved being with Grandma and Grandpa in their quiet home filled with beautiful things.

Occasionally we played games or answered letters from Shirley and Gwen, who by then were married with large families and living far away. Bob and I played the piano and Grandma and Grandpa beamed. Sometimes Bob would sing “Goodnight, Irene” for my grandmother and she would smile with tears in her eyes.

My grandparents died young. I was in sixth grade when Grandpa died and in eighth grade when Grandma passed away. I miss them to this day but I know how lucky I was to spend time with them while they were alive. 

This weekend, as we celebrate Grandparent’s Day, I realize there is no love stronger than the love of a grandparent. Good grandparents don’t spoil their grandchildren. They just love them, with all their heart.

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On Top Of The World

By the time we got to Mexico City, Neto and I had climbed more than a few pyramids ~ none of them easy. The steps are tiny, as if the people who built them had itty-bitty feet. And yet the risers were so steep, each climbing step felt like a giant’s footstep. No pyramid was as impressive, however, as Teotihuacán, a World Heritage Site, thirty miles outside of Mexico City.

After a week in Cuernavaca, Neto and I decided we couldn’t take being in our Airbnb for one more night. It was noisy and dirty. The art on the wall was grotesque. It was depressing. It was time to move.

“Where should we go?”

“Let’s go back to Mexico City.”

We were both leaving from the Mexico City airport in two days ~ me by plane to Atlanta and Neto by bus to Guadalajara. Spending a couple of nights in downtown Mexico City seemed like a good choice. 

As usual, we didn’t have a plan. Our bus pulled into the Mexico City terminal and we went outside to catch a taxi. 

“Where do you suggest we stay for a couple of nights?” Neto asked the taxi driver. (Note: Do NOT try this by yourself!)

“I know a nice place by the Plaza de la Republica,” the driver answered. And off we went, Neto in the front seat next to the driver, me in the back. Soon Neto and the driver were laughing and trading stories like old friends. They’d both been to the U.S. They’d both been sent home. Neither of them regretted the experience.

We pulled up next to our hotel. It was breath-taking ~ very European modern with lots of glass and hotel staff who looked like they were part of a photo-shoot. Handsome men with bright white smiles assured us we had come to the right place.

The next day, our last full day together before we had to leave, we opted for a tour of Mexico City and the surrounding area. A van picked us up after breakfast. Again, Neto sat in front with the driver. I was in the second seat, with a delightful family from Ecuador. By the time the tour was ended, we were all good friends.

I was the only person in the van who didn’t speak Spanish. The tour guide did his best to speak English. Neto did his best to translate for me. Mostly I spoke to the family from Ecuador in very short phrases and smiles. 

Our first stop was the Templo Mayor, a major attraction in the very heart of downtown Mexico City and one of Mexico’s most important archaeological sites. We wandered aimlessly around the ruins before getting back in the van to go to The Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. 

The new church was built between 1974-1976 on the same site as the previous 16th century basilica, which had been sinking into the ground for many years. The new, modern church, was filled with prayerful pilgrims from all over the world. Outside the church, priests were selling rosaries. For a few extra dollars, they would say a blessing over the beads.

No trip would be complete without a tourist stop for lunch and souvenirs, where we shopped and had free drinks of tequila and pulque. The souvenirs were mostly items made from precious stones, especially onyx and malachite, not your typical airport fare.

Our final stop was Teotihuacán, a sacred site with not one, but two, Aztec temples: The Temple of the Sun and the Temple of the Moon. Neto climbed both of them. I climbed one with my new best friend from Ecuador. We made it to the top with the help of a long rope, strung from the top of the temple to the bottom. We climbed, step by step, hand over hand on the rope, until we reached the top. We were triumphant. 

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The Magic of Tepoztlán

Seven years ago this week, Neto and I were in the Pueblo Magico (Magic Town) of Tepoztlán, Morelos. The town is the believed to be the birthplace of Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent god of the Aztec people. It is also home to a thriving Nahuatl community, one of the few places in Mexico where the Nahuatl language is still spoken and taught to children in school

I flew to Mexico City in 2013, to meet Neto and travel by bus to Cuernavaca. Our AirBnb apartment was so horrible we couldn’t stand to stay there during the day. We survived by taking day trips to the small towns nearby. Instead of lounging around Cuernavaca, we climbed pyramids and went to museums. We had lunch in hidden restaurants. And we went to Tepoztlán. 

There are currently 112 towns in Mexico with the designation of being “Magic Towns.” I’ve been to five of them, Todos Santos (Baja California), Tlaquepaque (Jalisco), Sayulita (Nayarit) and Cosala and El Rosario (Sinaloa.) All of these towns are, indeed, magical places. (Well, Sayulita ~ not so much.) But Tepoztlán, one of the first three towns to win that designation in 2001, was the best.

Tepoztlán is famous for its sacred hilltop pyramid, a 16th-century convent, art museums and handicraft markets. The town is surrounded by tall cliffs. But we didn’t know any of that that when we arrived. I’d never heard of the place and Neto had never been there, so we mostly wandered and learned as we went.

It was later morning when we arrived. Our first stop was the Ex-Convento of Dominico de la Natividad, built by Dominican priests in the 1500s. It is an enormous church, dedicated to Mary, mother of Jesus. The church was undergoing massive renovation, including restoring the huge, original bells from the belfry, so we weren’t allowed inside. Instead, we strolled along the church sidewalks, wondering what to do. There are two museums on the grounds, but we decided to explore a large tent, instead. That’s where the magic came in.  

Inside the tent, a man was bent over a very large piece of wood, carefully crafting a a series of murals out of seeds and different colored corn. The murals, depicting indigenous, historical events are a marriage between the Catholic feast of the Virgin Mary on September 8th, and the celebration of Tepoztécatl, the Aztec god of harvest.

Artists from Tepoztlán work on the murals from mid-summer until early September. Seeds and colored kernels of corn are sorted, filed and stored in an elaborate system of drawers at one end of the tent. The artists handle them like jewels.

The murals are enormous. When they are finished, they cover the walls on one side of the church for all to see. Including birds. For the rest of the year, birds pluck the seeds from the murals until, over the coming year, most of the seeds are gone and it’s time to start over.

From the churchyard, we could see a pyramid on top of  Tepozteco Hill. Pilgrims follow a winding path through thick forest to reach the Tepozteco Pyramid. We were told that the hike could take from twenty minutes to three hours, depending on how fast we walked. Neto could probably do it in twenty minutes. I knew it would take me three hours. We decided to wait until next time.

It was getting close to 1:00 and we were hungry. We stopped at a small restaurant across from the church. We opted for traditional street food, quesadillas and tacos, rather than try a local favorite, itacate, a tortilla stuffed with ingredients such as pork crackling and roasted grasshoppers. 

Neto and I often reminisce about our visit to the magic town of Tepoztlán. Although we talked about going back some day on September 8th, to see the murals, go to mass inside the church, shop at the market, and climb to the pyramid, it now seems an impossible journey. But, if you get the opportunity, maybe you can go in our place.