Author: Lynda Jones

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Mamacita is Back

This week’s blog post is by Ernesto

My mother arrived back on our doorstep last weekend. For the past six months she’s lived with my sister, Norma, in San Ignacio Cerro Gordo, where winters are cold in the hills outside of Guadalajara. It was time for Mamí to come back to Mazatlán to spend time in the sunshine with me and my brothers.

My mother is 92 years old. That’s a long life for a Mexican woman but my mother has always been a person in charge of her own destiny. She was born in La Hacienda del Tamarindo, the only girl in a family with five brothers. She was a warrior woman  ~ tiny, weighing less than 100 pounds, with fierce black eyes and a head full of wild curly hair. Her voice, low and growly like a pissed-off dog, commands attention.

One time, I took Mamí on a seven-hour bus ride to Guadalajara. It was a terrible trip. The bus was cold, the toilet wouldn’t flush and the smell was horrible. People complained but the driver said there was nothing he could do about it, so he just kept driving. My mother got the idea that the woman in the seat in front of her was the person who stopped up the toilet. Of course Mamí didn’t have any proof but she didn’t care. She harassed the poor woman all the way to Guadalajara. 

“You know you are the one who did it. We all know it. You gave us a terrible smelly ride and it’s all your fault.” 

Mamí wouldn’t stop until the end of the ride, when I walked up from where I was sitting two rows back, took her by the arm, and quietly led her off the bus.

Another time, not long ago, I looked out the window and saw Padre Lalo walking my mother home. The priest liked to stop at our house after Mass for coffee and sweet bread but I could see by the look on his face, this wasn’t a social call. I went outside to meet him.

“Neto, I’m afraid you need to keep your mother home from now on.”

“Why, Padre Lalo? You know she loves going to Mass.”

“I know, Neto. I’m happy to bring communion to Zelmira here at home but she causes too much trouble when she comes to church.

“What does she do?”

“She watches people going to communion and judges them. Today she stood up in her pew, pointed at Rosita Morales, who was getting ready to take communion, wagged her finger and shouted,  ‘You shouldn’t be taking communion, you (bad word). We all know where you were last night and who you were with.’ 

“Rosita left Mass in tears. Neto, your mother is a good woman. But so is Rosita. I can’t have scenes like this in my church. You have to keep her home.”

Now that Mamí is back with us, I notice a big change. She’s still stubborn but she doesn’t talk much and she doesn’t cause trouble. Because she’s lost most of her teeth, we bring her cereal and soup to eat. She’s quiet and mellow, content to sit in her chair and sleep a lot. I know this makes her easier to deal with, but I miss the feisty mother that I used to know.


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How I Met Ernesto

I’m often asked how I met Ernesto. The short answer is that he picked me up on the beach.

Here is the longer version:

It was April, 2005. I had just bought a house in Mazatlán. A really big house with five bedrooms and six bathrooms. A house full of cockroaches. A house that needed a lot of work. 

I was staying  at La Siesta, a cheap hotel across from Olas Altas beach. I didn’t bring enough money with me and I was quickly running out of cash. I didn’t know how to speak Spanish or how to use a foreign ATM. I was sitting on my bed in my desolate, miserable hotel room when it hit me ~ What was I doing here? In a strange city, in a foreign country, with no one to turn to for help? 

Neto found me sitting on a bench by the ocean, eating a Snickers bar and watching the waves wash in. He was good-looking and charming. He spoke perfect English.

“Hi, What are you doing here?”

“I just bought a house.”

“That’s nice.”

“No it isn’t. It’s a big mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because it needs too much work and I don’t know where to start.”

“Don’t worry. I can help you do whatever you need. Where is your house?”

“Right around the corner. Do you want to see it?”

We walked together down the street to my empty house on Aleman Avenue. I told him I wanted to start by putting a fountain in the courtyard.

“Can you build me a fountain?” I asked as we opened the front door.

“Sure. Don’t worry. I can build any kind of fountain you want. Just show me where you want it.”

Neto came every day to work on the fountain. Soon I realized that he had never built a fountain before and he had no idea what he was doing. He spent days digging holes in the ground and then covering them up again. Then I had an idea. 

“Neto,” I said, “This job is too big for just one person. From now on, I want you to be the foreman. You need to find some helpers ~ an electrician, a plumber, a tile guy, and someone to help you dig the foundation.”

The next day, Neto showed up with his friends, Publio and Pepé, and Señor Blanca, a plumber who arrived with all his tools on the back of his bicycle. They made tremendous progress in just one day. At the end of the day, I walked them to the door to thank them and say goodby. 

“Adiós. Graciás,” I said, as I formally shook their hands. 

“No,” said Neto. “When we leave, you need to say, “Adiós, Guapos. (Goodby, handsome men.) Hasta mañana.”

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Honoring Jesús Flores García

Today’s Día de Muertos essay is written by Ernesto.

We don’t put up Dia de Los Muertos altars in my house. If we did, my father’s altar would include a couple bottles of Pacifico, a pack of filtered cigarettes, a plate of boiled shrimp, a rosary and a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Every morning my father knelt before La Virgin to say a prayer before going to his job as a blacksmith in downtown Mazatlán. When his day was finished, he sang his way up the street holding his friend, the tequila bottle, in his hand. He walked through the door and knelt again before the Virgin’s picture to say graciás for bringing him home.

My dear, kind, generous, honorable father died of a sudden heart attack in 1993. I was lost for a long time after he died. Papí was my protector. My guardian angel. He held me up and never let me down. I’m glad he didn’t see how much trouble I got into after he died but I know he would be proud of the man I am now. My father was my North Star, guiding my way with his constant good humor and basic decency. When I look to the heavens, he is still there telling me, “Ernesto, you are a good boy. Make sure that everyone knows that about you.”

Who is your North Star?



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Dia de Los Muertos

November 2nd, Dia de Los Muertos, Day of the Dead, is a major national holiday in Mexico. It incorporates Aztec traditions and coincides with All Souls Day in the Catholic religion. Unlike people in the United States who avoid talking about death, Mexicans often joke about dying to demonstrate that they are not afraid. They are determined not to let death stand in the way of their joy of living. 

In the days leading up to November 2, bakeries (panaderias) prepare bread in the shape of skulls. In Mazatlán, people put together elaborate skeleton costumes and participate in a raucous nighttime parade throughout downtown. In small towns, families decorate their homes with altars covered in marigolds, photographs, and articles that remind them of family members who have died. It is a day to remember and celebrate loved ones, to share joy and tears, laughter, stories and plenty of cerveza and tequilla.

In recognition of Dia de Los Muertos, I share this tribute to my father, Robert Jones, who died in 1996. 

My earliest memory of my father happened when I was about four years old. My family lived upstairs, above my grandparents, in a small home across from the local Catholic church. I sat on the floor, watching my father sleep on the sofa next to me. My brother and I were eating an orange and we methodically put the orange seeds in my father’s ear. By the time he woke up, my father’s ear was over-flowing with discarded orange seeds. That event is significant for two reasons. It established that my father could sleep through anything and that he allowed us children tremendous leeway. Adults in my family have always claimed that the ability to sleep anywhere is the sign of a clear conscience. In my father’s case, that was certainly true.

I miss my father tremendously. He taught me to fully appreciate comic books, holidays, gardening, Alfred E. Newman, horse-racing and music. He was the only father I knew who could click his heels and wiggle his ears. Who would play Sousa marches on his trumpet on the Fourth of July and Taps at night. The last piece of music I heard him play was Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I never heard him play so well, or so sweetly. He died four months later. He was the most honorable, kind, gentle man I’ve ever know.

Adios, Papí. 

 

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What’s In A Name?

Nicknames in Mexico are common. Almost everyone has one. Some names you recognize ~ Poncho (Francisco), Checo (Sergio), and Chucho (Jesús). Other, more creative names, you might hear on the street.

People who know Ernesto, call him Neto. But people who grew up with him in Mazatlán call him Chanfles ~ which refers to the wicked, left-footed kick that was his trademark in soccer games when he was a boy. Neto was able to kick the ball hard, with so much spin to it, his opponents were helpless. His team scored and he won the game.

There are other nicknames found in many families that refer to physical features. Güero is the name typically given to the lightest child in a family and Prieto is often the name given to the darkest one. A guy who is losing his hair is known as Pelón, a girl who is tiny and petite is known as Ratona (Mouse) and a boy with big ears is called ~ you guessed it ~ Orejas.

A Citizen of the World is full of nicknames for Neto’s friends. Bombon (Marshmallow), Huesos (Bones), Tetas (a guy so fat he has “man-boobs”) and Sombra (Shadow) are a few of the people you will meet. While these names might be considered inappropriate in other cultures, they are meant to be fun. Someone thinks of a name, it sticks, and no one seems to take offense. It’s just the way it is.

 

 

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Hello!

Welcome to my website.

I started this website in October, 2019, at the same time I decided to write a book. I never intended to write a book. I listened to my friend, Neto Flores, tell stories of his life and often said, “Your life has been so interesting, someone should write a book about you.”

And then it occurred to me, maybe I should be that person. I started with one story ~ a story about how Neto was there when his brother, Sergio, was almost born on a bus. I joined a writing class at the Aurora Senior Center, near where I live. I read that story to my classmates, and they encouraged me to keep writing. 

I wrote more stories about Neto ~ how he was expelled from kindergarten after just one day. How he sold peanuts on the beach when he was ten years old. How he discovered surfing and crossed the border into the US when he was fourteen.  Neto’s book, Citizen of the World, was born.

My journey to being a writer was, like most journeys, step-by-step. One foot in front of the other.  I went to a week-long writer’s retreat in Victoria, Canada. I found an editor to work with. I continued to meet with the Aurora Writer’s Group, until the pandemic shut us down. I wrote my blog every week.  I found a great web-guy to guide me.

Finally, the book is finished. It’s been an incredibly journey.

I’m eager for you to read my book. It is about Neto, and his love of surfing. But it’s about a lot more. It’s about resilience and redemption. 

Who is this book for?

  1. Travelers, adventurers and wanderers.
  2. Athletes, especially surfers and swimmers.
  3. Anyone who loves the ocean.
  4. People who gre up in the 60s and 70s.
  5. Readers who love stories about second chances.
  6. Anyone interested in Mexican immigration, culture and customs.
  7. People who want to understand drug dependency.
  8. Researchers, interested in the history of the drug trade between the US and Mexico.
  9. Slow readers…fast readers…and everyone in between.
  10. YOU ~ your family and friends.