Author: Lynda Jones

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Oprah Comes To Glendale

For the last few weeks, I’ve written about the Glendale Boys’ support group. What about the Glendale girls? 

As they reached middle school, the girls were just as at-risk as the boys. They, too, needed a support group. The reading teacher, who had known the girls in elementary school, saw the need, stepped in and ran a weekly meeting for them at the community center. This time, I was just an observer.

The Girls Group was,  obviously, different from the Boys Group. For one thing, it was more peaceful. Instead of arguing and fighting, the girls talked, played music and danced. Instead of grabbing whatever we brought to eat, the girls cooked. They were definitely more well-behaved on field trips. 

The goals for both groups were the same: Stay in school and out of trouble. Both groups challenged themselves to do things they thought were impossible. Both groups made a commitment not to have children before they were ready. I hope they kept that promise. I hope they are all doing well.

My favorite Girls Group activity was a game they created called Talk Show. It was modeled after their favorite after-school activity ~ watching Oprah on TV.

At the end of every Girls Group meeting, the leader would say, “We have thirty minutes left. What should we do?”

“Let’s play Talk Show!’ they would shout. Hands went up, eager to volunteer.

April, a beautiful, articulate girl, who had a lot of experience watching talk shows because she often skipped school would almost always be Oprah. Lady was always one of the experts because, as everyone agreed, Lady was an expert on almost everything. 

Liz, a shy girl without many friends, preferred to be a guest. The remaining girls volunteered to be additional guests or experts, depending on how many girls were available. And the show was ready to start.

Chairs were set up in the meeting room. Experts lined up in front, guests seated in back. Oprah would emerge from the hallway, holding her hairbrush like a microphone. The audience would stand, clapping and cheering enthusiastically.

One Talk Show episode still makes me laugh:

Oprah looks over the audience and announces: “Today’s show is about How To Tell If A Boy Really Likes You.” Everyone cheers.

Oprah: “Let’s get started. Liz, do you think it is hard to know if a boy likes you?”

Liz pretends to cry. She sniffles and blows her nose before starting to talk. “I just think nobody would ever like me because I am so shy. If a boy liked me, I’m sure I wouldn’t know it.”

Oprah: “We have to trust our instincts.” The leader and I look at each other, wondering if these girls have any idea what Oprah is talking about. Then she adds “And be true to yourself.” 

Oprah says it is time for a commercial so she can confer with Lady, who has written a book that will be a best seller soon. 

When the action resumes, Lady holds up an old dictionary with the corners torn off. “It’s all right here in this book I just wrote. My book is called, Boys Say And Do The Dumbest Things. Especially When They Like You.” 

By this time, the girls are laughing so hard they can hardly breathe. Oprah tells the hairbrush it is time for another commercial so the audience can pull themselves back together.

“The main thing to remember,” says Lady when the group has her attention again, “is that boys don’t usually have a clue about what to say. So if they say anything at all, it is probably because they like you.”

Then Oprah says, “Lady, I never thought of it like that before. This is really a Light-Bulb. An Ah-Ha Moment for us.” The girls dutifully nod their heads and then roll their eyes.

“You know, I love surprising people and making them happy,” Oprah continues. “So I want everyone to know that you are getting a free copy of Lady’s book to take home with you today.”

The audience claps wildly and files out the door. They can’t wait for next week. 

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D.C. or Bust!

I don’t remember how it started. Probably with one of my you-can-do-anything speeches, meant to cajole the Glendale Boys into doing homework. Probably when the boys showed up at our weekly meeting, furious with the news of  a school-sponsored trip to Washington, D.C. The school trip, three days in Washington, cost $1200.00 ~ more money than these boys could even imagine.

We were aghast. Three days in Washington, D.C. for $1200.00? Ridiculous! We could do better.

Only Washington, D.C.? What about Cape Cod? Boston?

Instead of three days, how about nine days?

How about a tour of East Coast colleges thrown in for good measure? Julie told us she was moving back to Connecticut, so part of the trip was to designed to re-connect with Julie.

What were we thinking?

Overall, the trip was wonderful, exhausting, gratifying and just plain horrible ~ depending on the moment. 

The total out-of-pocket expenses for our trip, including airfare, was $545.00/person. United Airlines discounted $3300.00 from our ticket prices. We sold hot dogs in front of Cub Foods for weeks, to raise money. We solicited donations from the City of Glendale, Cherry Creek High School, and West Middle School. Target gave us cameras, notebooks and pens. Each family chipped in $50.00. It began to look like this was really going to happen.

Oh, my …what were we in for?

Rather than summarizing  the entire trip, one grueling day at a time, I will try to briefly hit the high (and low) points for you.

Certainly the best part was traveling to cities I’d never been to and watching the boys experience those things they never thought they would: flying in an airplane, eating all-you-can-eat dry cereal from dispensers in a university cafeteria, going out so far in the ocean on a boat we could no longer see land, watching momma and baby whales swim together just a few feet from our boat, laughing at a sea lion playing in the waves, visiting the Smithsonian museums, finding our way around the subway systems in Washington and Boston and, best of all, seeing our friend, Julie, again and meeting her parents.

Among the most difficult? Having one of the boys steal $45.00 from another. Sitting outside the  boys’ cabin at the youth hostel in Eastham, Massachusetts from 2:00-3:00 a.m. to keep them from charging a group of gorgeous girls who were staying two cabins down. Having only cold water in the showers in the Howard University dormitory where we stayed for four days. Dealing with boys who would not go to sleep at a reasonable hour and then were so tired they couldn’t keep up us the next day.

My proudest moments came often, as people stopped us to ask, “Who are these boys? Are they are sports team?” When we said they were at-risk, inner-city boys from Denver, the response was consistently, “These are some of the finest boys we’ve ever met. They are so polite, and helpful and friendly.”

The most rewarding moments came when I thought we really made an impact: marching the boys past yet another East Coast college. Teaching them how to learn something in a museum. Having long discussions about tolerance. Acknowledging together the best and worst parts of each day before we said good-night.

And my most lasting memories? Going to wake up the boys the first morning and finding five of them asleep ~ head-to-toe-to-head-to-toe-to head ~ in one dorm room. They pushed two beds together because the room was ‘too big and too lonely” for just two people. Hearing them argue constantly and realizing that they never let their bickering get out of hand or interfere with their friendship. And mainly, watching them change from little boy/puppy behavior to acting grown up and responsible.

I came back from the trip bone-tired, foot-sore and energy- depleted, swearing “I’ll never do that again.” And I never did. Some of life’s best moments only come around once.

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Courage

“I know it sounds cheesy, but I’d sorta like to be a hero,” confided Leroy as we talked about our hopes and fears for the upcoming trip to Snow Mountain Ranch.

That’s nice, I thought. I’d just like to survive with my faculties intact.

I agreed to go on this camping trip with my friends, Julie and Marcie, and six high-risk boys from the Glendale neighborhood. All the boys were smart, resourceful and outgoing. They were also rebellious and basically unmotivated.  But, most of all, they were endearing. 

To summarize four days into a few short paragraph, the camping trip was a lesson in courage. For four days and three nights we hiked trails and climbed cliffs. We rode horses, a white-water raft, and an alpine slide. We swam and roller-skated and told ghost stories around the campfire. We encountered problems and we solved them. We laughed a lot and did push-ups when we cussed.

Because we ALL agreed to challenge ourselves, I rode a horse (a very TALL horse) in cold, rainy weather over a treacherous, slippery trail for an hour while monitoring my breathing every second of the way.

So, I learned about courage by being courageous. I learned much more about courage, however, by watching the boys conquer activities they firmly believed were impossible for them.

Marquis jumped off a five foot cliff, into an icy river, ever though he is very afraid of water. B.J., who was terrified of heights, climbed to the top of a fifty-foot lodge-pole pine. Jonathon occasionally discarded his armor of bravado, stopped fantasizing about greed and violence, and talked honestly about missing his mother. Ben, who stubbornly believed that he is important only when he was in control, finally agreed to do what he was told.

And my most vivid memory? The one that come to mind whenever I shut my eyes and remember those four days, is Leroy, inching along the challenge course, fifty feet in the air, in the rain. It took him an hour to finish the course because his legs trembled violently with every step he took.

Leroy had never been able to balance his six-foot, skinny frame on a beam flat on the ground. And yet, he found the courage to successfully navigate walking on a wire, high in the air, one shaky step at a time.

Leroy got his wish. He was a hero.

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Marquis’ Birthday

After a successful camping trip the year before, Julie, Marcie and I decided to try another one. Something new.

We rented a large cabin on top of a hill at the YMCA of the Rockies in Estes Park CO. Marcie and I said “no tents this year” but we were willing to try a family cabin in the woods. We were delighted to find a beautiful cabin in a campsite far away from any neighbors.

The weather was cold, the creeks were flooding and we should have gone back to sleeping in tents! Because we had electricity, a real kitchen, four bedrooms and two bathrooms, the boys thought they were on vacation. They reverted to their at-home behavior and became unbelievably lazy. We learned that the boys worked together only as much as the elements required.

Our first big challenge came when we realized that they had smuggled a small television in one of their suitcases. Instead of being outside enjoying nature, as we had hoped, we found them huddled together in one bedroom watching an afternoon soap opera. We confiscated the contraband TV and listened as they protested, as one loud vocal group, about how unfair it was of us to take away the TV, when they went to all the trouble of sneaking it in. The louder they got, the more we just shook our heads.

The most memorable part of the week, however, had to do with Marquis’ birthday, which fell on the third day of the trip. At first he balked at even coming on the camping trip because. as he said, “I have a life.”

We reminded Marquis that his entire “life,” other than his mother and grandmother, would be in Estes Park that week. And besides, we would make him a cake.

From that moment on, the cake took on a life of its own. What flavor should the cake be? What about the frosting? What size? ~ all decisions of great importance.

On the day of his birthday, I brought Marquis back to Denver in treacherous, pouring rain, for a job interview that was canceled thirty minutes before we got there. By the time we got back to Estes Park, Marquis and I had spent five hours together in my car while the rest of the guys cleaned the cabin, baked his raspberry cake and frosted it with butter cream frosting.

After stuffing ourselves with spaghetti and salad, it was time for the birthday celebration. We sang Happy Birthday and told Marquis to make a wish.

Marquis thought a long time about his important wish. And then he blew out the candles. Through his NOSE! It was so gross. Marquis had seen a similar trick in a movie and couldn’t wait to try it. Needless to say, he killed the cake!

Even though everyone was dying for a piece of Marquis’ birthday cake, very few were brave enough to scrape the top layer of frosting off the cake and eat it. 

Happy Birthday, Marquis, wherever you are. I hope you are doing well. I’m making a wish for you today.

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Glendale Boys

My last years working as a social worker were the best gig ever. I worked part-time for the Cherry Creek School System and part time for the city of Glendale.  I started my day at noon and worked until 8:00 p.m. visiting families and supervising a tutoring program for students. Together with the city recreation direction and the victim’s assistance social worker, we planned social events and ran a support group for teenage boys.

We started the group when the boys were in middle school. Our goals were simple ~ keep them in school and out of trouble. We started with six boys, a mixture of ethnic groups and ages. We later added three more boys, refugees from Ethiopia and Bosnia. The refugees were no problem. The American-born boys were a handful.

In the beginning we bribed the boys with food to come to the support group. They didn’t like each other and they didn’t like our rules ~ things like staying safe and not hurting each other.  Gradually they began to see the value of the group. They learned to trust us and each other. They learned that the group was a safe place to talk about being angry instead of needing to fight.

The boys group stayed together for almost four years. At the end of the first year, the recreation director decided that we should all go camping. In the mountains. In tents.

I’m not a great camper. I much prefer a hotel with a pool. Except for the boys who were refugees, our guys had not spent much time outside the one-square mile, Glendale city limits. I wasn’t convinced this would work but I was willing to try.

Our campsite was on top of a very steep hill at the YMCA of the Rockies, near Winter Park, CO. It was rugged. There were no bathrooms. No showers. No kitchen. The boys had to carry huge containers of water up the hill every day, for hand-washing and cooking. They had to pitch a tent and cook over an open fire. I think we were there for three or four days. As you can imagine, these were not Happy Campers. Most of the time, they were Grumbling Campers. Dissatisfied Campers. Campers Plotting A Revolt. 

We didn’t allow them to use racial slurs against each other. In fact, the penalty for a racial slur was push-ups, in multiples of ten, for every offense. One boy did fifty push-ups before he got the message that we were serious.

I’ll remember a conversation with one of the boys about why we didn’t want to hear him use the n-word. “There is nothing wrong with that word,” he tried to explain to me. “It just means a lazy, useless black man.” 

I was incredulous. “Did you hear what you just said?” I asked him. He never did another push-up in front of me.

When it was time to go to sleep the first night, after an exhausting day of setting up camp, hauling water, and a goodnight campfire, the boys came to tell us three adults that they couldn’t sleep. They heard noises in the woods. They missed their families back home. They asked us if we would please, come and sleep in their tent. 

“Are you sure there is room?” we asked. It was not a very big tent.

“Sure. We’ll make room.”

So we dragged our sleeping bags into their tent and prepared to go to sleep.

One of the boys suggested that everyone say goodnight to each other. One by one, we went around the tent saying, “Good night…Sleep Well…Sweet Dreams…See you in the  morning…” and adding the name of their friend to the list. It was a tender moment in the lives of six boys I will always remember with a smile.

I don’t know where these boys are now. They would be in their early 40’s, probably with children of their own. I believe they all finished high school. I know that some of them went on to get mechanical certifications and college degrees. I pray that none of them got in serious trouble along the way.

Good night, my sweet boys. You will always have a place in my heart, if not in my tent.

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Camp Hitaga

For six years, while I was in college and graduate school, I spent my summers working as a counselor at a Camp Fire Girls camp near Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

I knew I didn’t want to go home after my freshman year in St. Cloud. There were no jobs for me in North St. Paul. I would have been a lousy waitress. I wasn’t certified to be a life guard. The few businesses in town weren’t hiring. And although I passed my driver’s test, I really didn’t know how to drive a car.

Ah, ha, I thought. Maybe I can work in a summer camp? I like being outdoors. How hard can it be?

The application process was easy. Back then there were no background checks. I’m not sure I even had to submit a letter of reference. 

I was accepted almost immediately. I later learned that the director wanted counselors with a music background. She hired me to be on the nature staff, not because I knew anything about nature, but because I could play the piano.

Camp Hitaga turned out to be a good fit for me. The camp director, Noel Newell, and the culture she promoted completely transformed my life.

Noel was a kind, gentle, gracious, quiet woman. I have no idea how old she was. She had beautiful white hair, so we all assumed she must be really old. She was a music major, who ran the camp like a choir. We sang all the time. We met at the flagpole and sang patriotic songs. We sang at meals, on hikes and canoe trips, in the shower, walking along dusty paths. 

Every night, the counselors met around a campfire. We sang in harmony, accompanied by guitars. Folk music by Peter, Paul and Mary and Bob Dylan drifted from every hilltop as counselors sang their campers to sleep. After the girls were sleeping we slipped away to the kitchen, searching for ice cream and dessert left-over from dinner.

Being on the nature staff allowed me to be outside all day. There were two of us on the staff plus a head counselor, who was a real biology major. We worked in a small cabin, filled with plants and animals ~ including an eight-foot bull snake that terrified me. I led nature hikes in the forest, where we identified plants, met for early morning bird hikes (supplied with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches) and late night star-gazing lessons.

The picture at the top of this page is of three campers building a bird bath. I don’t know whose idea that was. Probably not mine. I always learned far more than I taught.

One day, on a hike to the mail box, there were cows in the field next to the road. And one bull. There was mating going on but I was so clueless, I didn’t know what was happening. 

One of the campers asked, “What are they doing?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “I guess they are playing a game. It looks like they are having fun.”

I loved they campers and the other counselors. I’ve lost touch with all of them, except for one fine woman, a previous camper with whom I’ve shared a lifetime of friendship.

It was an idyllic time for me. I went from being a very shy, completely non-athletic young woman to someone who enjoyed social encounters and being physically active.

I spent every minute soaking up sunshine, in the company of like-minded women who were smart, funny, creative and energetic. Because this was the early 60’s, most of us went on to teach school and raise families. 

Noel guided us with a gentle hand, even though none of us were as quiet and well-behaved as she would have liked. She recognized that each of us had something special to offer, something that made us worthy, something that made us capable of being leaders of this new generation.

I never went back home again.

 

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El Mirador

El Mirador, or Lookout Hill, is one of three very high hills that offer a magnificent view of Mazatlán below. The road up the hill began behind my house, wound back and forth until it reached the top, and then descended onto Olas Altas beach. 

The climb to the top of El Mirador and back down took forty-five minutes. It was a great work-out for my legs and my nalgas, which had never been in better shape.

I sometimes climbed the hill alone, early in the morning, huffing and puffing all the way. Later, in the evening, Neto and I walked the road together, reaching Olas Altas in time to see yet another beautiful Mazatlán sunset. We always ended our ritual with the Buddhist prayer for our friends and family: “May you be happy …May you be healthy …May you be free from worry.”

The road was peaceful and quiet in the mornings, with very little traffic to interrupt my solitude. Occasionally I would see other hikers or men riding to work on their bicycles. I was curious as I saw beautiful homes along the way. Homes that obviously once belonged to Mazatlán’s rich and famous. Homes that were now neglected and abandoned  by owners who had long since disappeared. Who were these people, who let the jungle take over their gorgeous homes and property? I wondered. 

There was more activity on El Mirador later in the day, as vendors set up stands at the top of the hill to sell hats, rosaries, and shiny wooden palm trees to tourists coming from the cruise ships below. In the evening, taxi drivers congregated to drink beer and tell stories, blaring loud music from their radios before going home to their families for dinner.

The view from the top of El Mirador is picture-perfect. It stretches for miles into the ocean. Caves in the hillside, once used by the Spanish to guard the harbor, and later used by Mazatlán soldiers to defend their port from the French, now provided shelter for homeless men and their pets.

 I took the picture at the top of this blog early one morning as I trudged up the hill.

The homeowner had just ushered seven cats out of her house and into the street to spend the day. Some of the cats hurried to get back inside before the door shut tight. But they were too late. They would have to spend the day being outdoor cats, lounging in the sun and picking up garbage from the street when they got hungry.  

The next time I walked past this house all seven cats were still there, along with six newborn kittens. Unlike the once beautiful houses along the route, these cats weren’t abandoned. They would be allowed back inside before dark.

On another walk, this time coming home from my Spanish lesson, I saw a cat procession. At the head of the parade was a female cat, obviously in heat, screeching  and waving her hips at the male cat, who followed close behind her with a grin on his face.

Walking behind both of them was a woman with a handful of rocks. Every time the female cate let out a scream, and the male cat licked his lips in happy anticipation, the woman yelled curses at both cats and pelted them with her rocks.

I don’t think La Señora hit either one of them but it wasn’t from lack of trying. Her method was not good kitty birth control but it obviously released some pent up frustration on her part.

There was always something interesting going on behind my home, along the path to El Mirador.

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The Fourth of July

What fun! Spending the Fourth of July in Washington, D.C!

My grandson, Connor, and I traveled back and forth to Minnesota while he was in elementary school but now he was finishing fifth grade. We wanted to celebrate. Go some place different. Some special, knock-your-socks-off kind of place. 

What could be better than Washington, D.C. on Independence Day? Connor liked history and traveling. I loved fireworks and outdoor concerts. It was going to be a perfect vacation.

When we told people about our plans ~ go to Washington, stay in an Airbnb near the Mall, see the museums, the parade, the concert and the fireworks ~ they all said the same thing, “You are crazy! Do you know how hot it will be? How crowded? Do you know what you are in for?”

Our answers were: 

Crazy? Probably.

Know how hot it was going to be? How crowded? We had no idea.

Know what we were in for? Nope. No way!

Connor had just turned eleven and I was a lot younger than I am now. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat!

We flew to D.C. on Monday, July 1st, and took a cab to our Airbnb, a private room in a beautiful, modern condo within walking distance of the National Mall. Our hostess was a lovely young woman from Vietnam. She gave us our keys, announced that she was leaving to visit friends in New York, told us to make ourselves at home, and walked out the door.

Here’s what we learned in six days in D.C.:

  • Washington is a beautiful city with flower gardens and large trees everywhere. 
  • The museums are outstanding. Almost all of them are free.
  • The monuments are incredible. We saw monuments to the Korean and Vietnam wars and monuments in honor of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Dr. Martin Luther King. 
  • The National Zoo is phenomenal. We took the subway to get there and back, another new experience for both of us. The line to see the pandas was too long and the weather was sweltering, so we mostly saw elephants and lots of fish. 
  • The Smithsonian Folklike Festival is a wonderful, two-week celebration spread out along one end of the Mall. The 2013 themes were Hungarian Heritage, Endangered Languages, and African American Style and Identity. We spent most of our time exploring African American Identity, including eating fried chicken and waffles for breakfast. 

On Thursday, July Fourth, we got up early to find a good place to watch the parade. Floats and marching bands were lining up along the street. We saw the Budweiser Clydesdales and men on giant, old-fashioned bicycles cruising up and down the street. People were putting last minute touches on floats that celebrated cultural and ethnic diversity. Tourists from all over the world, wearing red, white and blue, were waving flags and snapping pictures.

We found a seat on a wall along the parade route and made friends with those around us. The parade lasted for hours, every float more beautiful than the one before. At one point, Connor found a cool spot under a tree and took a nap. 

A bicycle-rickshaw driver took us home, where we stayed until it was time to walk back for the concert on the lawn of the Capitol. We found a place far in the back, put down our blanket and watched the concert on large screens surrounding us. The concert finished to the roar of cannons and the 1812 Overture. We were in a perfect spot to watch dazzling fireworks right in front of us.

That was the last time Connor and I traveled together. I smile every time I remember it.

“We did it, Baby!” I said to Connor as we sat in a crowded airplane, on our way back to Denver.

“That’s right, Grandma.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We just did something no one else has ever done.”

“Indeed!” I thought to myself.

We did something that I will hold in my heart forever. Something that no one else has ever done!

 

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Sister Kathleen

People ask me where I learned to write. I tell them, “In Sister Kathleen’s classroom at St. Peter School.”

Sister Kathleen, my seventh grade teacher, didn’t just teach me to write. She taught all sixty-six of us to write that year ~ 1955.

We were World War II babies. Not officially Baby Boomers but a huge class, nonetheless. I can still see the classroom. Six rows across, eleven desks deep. The tallest students in the back. The most troublesome ones in the front. My desk was somewhere in the middle.

Sister Kathleen, a tall, skinny, Franciscan nun, was one of the older teachers ~ maybe forty years old ~ and 100% Irish. A lot of the nuns who lived in the convent were Irish. Unlike some of the more dour, German nuns, the Irish nuns were funny and smart, dedicated, creative teachers. They taught us to square dance and do an Irish  jig. They let us play Bingo. They went ice skating on the playground, wearing their habits late a night, when they thought no one could see them. 

St. Patrick’s Day was the biggest holiday of the year at St. Peter School. It was the only day we were allowed to come to school in something other than our uniforms, as long as we were wearing green. There were treats in the cafeteria and a dance after school. 

Looking back, Sister Kathleen was a remarkable teacher. She taught a love of learning, especially history and geography, to all of us. She divided us into reading groups. I was lucky. I was in a group of (mostly girls) who didn’t require much instruction. I’m sure there were groups  (mostly boys) who required all the resources she could muster. 

Like the rest of the Irish nuns, Sister Kathleen was known for her quick temper. Disaster struck whenever Sister Evangelista, the principal, called her into the hallway for a meeting. Sister Kathleen put her finger to her lips as she left the room, admonishing us to be quiet and keep working while she talked with Sister Superior. 

Good behavior lasted less than five minutes. Of course, we didn’t keep working. Of course, we didn’t keep quiet. Soon the classroom was total chaos. The bolder girls flirted with the popular boys, who mostly shouted to each other across the room. The bravest boys got out of their seats and yelled out the windows. We knew what was coming but we didn’t care. For that moment in time, in our seventh-grade minds, it seemed worth it.

In an instant, the classroom door flew open, Sister Kathleen ~ her face bright red, her hands shaking, her veil whooshing behind her. She walked to the front of the class, picked up a piece of chalk and wrote in giant letters: 2000 WORDS ON RESPECT (or obedience, or trustworthiness, or whatever popped into her head) BEFORE YOU GO HOME TONIGHT. ON YOUR KNEES!! WITH PERFECT HANDWRITING AND SPELLING. NO REPEATING!

We scrambled to get notebooks and pencils out of our desks. We dropped to our knees ~ much easier for the boys, after all, because they wore long pants. We girls knelt on bare knees, which only made me more determined to write faster and in my best handwriting.

These “writing lessons” happened at least once a week. My mother got used to me coming home from school late and merely asked, “What did you write about today?”

I know a lot of people have horrible memories of going to Catholic school. I felt sorry for boys who were often in trouble and were physically punished for what they did. 

But for me, a girl who was extremely shy and wanted to avoid the spotlight at all cost, a girl who loved school and who especially loved to read, it was a good experience. I learned to write.

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Moving to Mexico

I was sixty-two years old, restless and bored.  Rabbits were attacking my garden and a fox jumped the fence at night to eat the rabbits. My water bill was $400/month just to keep the grass green for the rabbits to eat. 

I had been teaching piano lessons for seven years. I was good at it, and yet, none of my students ever prepared for their lessons. None of them!

I scheduled four recitals a year. At Halloween we preformed in costumes. At Christmas we came in our very best clothes. And still no one practiced. My fantasy was that one day I would be ninety years old, still sitting on that damn piano bench, saying, “Let’s try that section one more time, Honey.”

There was a fierce thunderstorm one afternoon while I was teaching. I sat at the piano, trying to be patient as yet another student stumbled from note to note. My mind wandered and I looked out the window to watch the storm. 

Suddenly CRASH!! Lightning hit a huge tree in my yard, slicing it right down the middle, taking out my neighbor’s fence and blowing bark halfway across the street. My lights went out and piano lessons were over for the day. I took it as a sign.

The next day I was having lunch with a friend.

“What’s new,” I asked.

“You won’t believe what I’m doing? I’ve probably lost my mind.”

“Tell me.”

“My husband and I are buying an old house in Mazatlán. We’re moving to Mexico at the end of the year.”

I wished her well, went home, and called her that same night.

“‘I’m going with you,” I announced.

“Where?”

“To Mexico.”

And just like that, I made up my mind. I had never been to Mexico. I didn’t know how to speak Spanish. I couldn’t find Mazatlán on a map. But I was ready for something new.

We flew to Mazatlán together two months later. My friend was closing the deal on her house and I was along for the trip. We stepped off the plane, greeted by hot, humid September weather. 

It was five days of pure magic. The food was delicious. The Mexican people, gracious and kind. We rode through the city in open-air pulmonias ~ golf-cart/taxis with music blaring in the streets. The ocean was exciting and beautiful. And the sunsets over the water every night? Simply breathtaking. I was hooked.

I asked a realtor to show me some property. We looked at a few small homes in the downtown section of the city. They were nice. They would have been ok.  “But do you have anything else?” I wanted to know..

“I have one more place. A large, single-story home that’s been empty for a while.”

 “It needs a lot of work,” he warned as he put his key in the lock.

The home was two blocks from the ocean. Built hacienda style, with rooms on three sides of the courtyard, the house took up half a block. The entire home was surrounded by a concrete wall that desperately needed paint and patching. A battered, wooden front door opened onto the street.

When the door creaked open, I gasped. I didn’t see a house that needed a lot of work. I saw two big mango trees on the side of a huge courtyard. And room for a fountain with water splashing and birds singing right in the middle of the patio. There were five bedrooms and six bathrooms and a kitchen that spanned the entire backside of the house. A banana tree on the back patio provided shade and fresh bananas. I was completely enchanted.

My home in Aurora ~ the one that the rabbits and fox fought over, with a tree split down the middle by lightning ~ was valued at $210K. This new home, close enough to the ocean to walk to sunset every night, was $130K. It was an easy decision.

My new life had begun.