Lynda Jones – Page 8 – lyndajoneswriter.com

November 20, 2021May 5, 2022

Goodbye Mamacita

If ever a woman was a force to be reckoned with it was Zelmira Rodriguez. Born in 1928, in the rural village of Hacienda del Tamarindo, she was the only girl in a family of five boys. She was tiny, with wild, black curly hair and flashing obsidian eyes. Her mother died in childbirth when she was seven years old. From then on, Zelmira and her brothers were raised by their Aunt Petra, another woman of force.

Petra was the only sister of Zelmira’s father, Ignacio Rodriguez, an exceedingly stubborn, selfish man. When his wife, Zelmira’s mother, was dying the doctor told him, “I can save your wife or the baby. What do you want me to do?”

“Save the boy,” Ignacio answered. Soon after he came home with a new wife, already pregnant. From that day forward, Ignacio was not allowed inside the house. Gerardo, Zelmira’s older brother, told his father, “You stepped all over our mother when she was alive. You will never step inside her home again.” It was a lesson Zelmira never forgot.

I don’t know if Petra raised Zelmira in her image, or if Zelmira was just born tough. I know that she rode horses and fed cattle, just like her brothers. I suspect that both Zelmira and Petra wore trousers, at a time when most girls were still in long skirts. She was a girl with grit. She worked hard and took risks. She probably didn’t go to school past the fifth grade but she was smart and well informed. She knew what she wanted in life and went after it, until it was hers. She was a woman who took charge of her destiny.

Zelmira loved to laugh. She loved being with family and friends. She had boundless energy and a stubborn persistence. She was determined all seven of her children would go to school and study hard. When Neto became more interested in surfing than in studying, she threw his surfboard in the trash and watched as the garbage man drove away with it.

When her oldest son needed money to go to college, Zelmira started selling fruits and vegetables out of their living room. She traveled by city bus to the big market every morning at 5:00 and came home in a taxi, with bags of food, ready to open her store.

When that money wasn’t enough, she added a small breakfast cafe on the back patio. When she realized she could make even more money by going to the U.S. to buy second-hand clothes to bring back to Mazatlán, she closed her store and moved to California, taking her youngest daughter with her. She left the two youngest boys at home with their father, with strict instructions that they needed to stay in school. She returned home four times a year, to make sure they did.

In the 1980’s, Zelmira traveled to Europe twice ~ once to Rome to see the Pope and then to Fatima, Portugal to visit the shrine of the Virgin Mary. She saw the Pope twice more, once in Los Angeles and again in Mexico City.

Can you imagine such a life? For a little girl born in 1928 in Hacienda del Tamarindo?

Zelmira’s life, was also full of heartbreak. Her beloved husband, Jesús, died in 1993. She lost two sons, as well as four of her brothers and, of course, her dear Aunt Petra. She outlived some of her nieces and nephews, and most of her friends.

Zelmira, herself, died peacefully this week at home, at the age of 93. Padre Lalo came every Sunday, to give her the last sacraments. We all knew that Zelmira would die when she was ready.

She will be buried next week in the family cemetery in Hacienda del Tamarindo, in the town she loved, next to the people who made her who she was.

Vaya con Dios, Mamacita. Go with God. We will never forget you. Your feisty spirit will live in us forever.

October 16, 2021

My Encounter With A Bear

Here is another story from long ago. A story that I haven’t told very many people.

It was August, 1964. I had spent another wonderful summer living in the woods of eastern Iowa. working as a camp counselor at Camp Hitaga. It was an idyllic experience ~ with great friends, horses, a swimming pool, and canoeing on the river. I was stationed in the nature cabin although, in truth, I knew very little about nature. I was there because I knew even less about horses and canoeing.

At the end of the season every year a few counselors traveled to Ely, Minnesota, at the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness Area for five days of camping and canoeing.

I talked my way onto the upcoming trip because my family was willing to host the group at my house in North St. Paul, about halfway between Cedar Rapids and Ely. I had never canoed before but I loved being outdoors. I was excited about being part of the group.

There were six of us, all together. My friend, Jymie, who spent the summer operating the camp store was also part of the trip. She had never been canoeing either. Luckily, the other four counselors knew what they were doing. They were experienced canoeists and had taken this trip before. They were strong and hardy. They knew about scientific phenomenon like weather and currents. Most importantly, they knew how to read a map.

Our first stop was to find an outfitter in Ely to sell us enough food to last the entire time we would be away. We rented three large canoes, a big tent, and six sleeping bags. The outfitter drove us to the drop off point. We climbed into our canoes and paddled out into the water.

The Boundary Waters is a series of lakes, along the Minnesota-Canada border. Canoeist paddle from lake to lake, and portage (carry) their canoes and equipment along trails that go from one lake to another. Portaging is hard work. Although the trails are well marked, sometimes they are long and steep.

A few counselors were able to put a canoe on their shoulders, and meander down the path. Jymie and I, both skinny back then, usually carried bags of equipment. Often it took several trips, back and forth along the path before we were able to drop our canoes back in the water and paddle for an hour or more before it was time to either portage again, or stop and set up camp for the night.

Not only had Jymie and I never been canoeing, we had never camped before. Setting up camp meant putting up the tent, building a fire, and deciding what to cook for dinner. After dinner we tied our cooking utensils and remaining food in waterproof bags, and hung them high in the trees so bears couldn’t reach them. We hadn’t seen any bears while we were canoeing, but one counselor pointed out a pile of bear poop along the trail as we were setting up camp. We knew we had to be careful.

We bedded down for the night, snug in our tent and our sleeping bags. About midnight, we heard a horrible racket outside.

“It’s a bear,” someone whispered.

“What’s it doing?” I asked.

“Shhh… I think it found our food.”

And then we heard rustling outside our tent. Accompanied by heavy breathing. Heavy bear breathing! The bear was right outside our tent, brushing up against our sleeping bags as it circled the tent.

As a group, six young women stopped breathing. I was terrified. The bear was right outside. It looked in the window of the tent and took a long look at us before finally ambling off into the woods.

The next morning we checked for damages. The bear had eaten everything we had. It ate whole loaves of bread. It ripped open a can of peas, and guzzled it down. The bear ate our eggs, cans of tomato paste, and opened packages of pasta. Everything was gone! Coffee and sugar. Oatmeal and lunch meat. There was nothing left.

One of the experienced counselors knew there was a small frontier store somewhere along our route. We stopped another group of canoeists to ask for directions. We had enough money with us to buy more supplies ~ mostly bread and peanut butter. Maybe a package of cookies.

From then on, we tied our provisions even higher in the trees. We continued our trip, grateful to be back on the water. And now, more than sixty-five years later, I am especially grateful that I am here to tell you the story of how I survived. How I was almost eaten by a bear.

October 9, 2021

A Pandemic Tragedy ~ 1918

This is a story of a good man who died too soon, and the family he left behind. It is a story of a hard-working Irishman, with a wife and two small daughters, who died at the age of forty-nine, a casualty of the influenza epidemic. John (Jack) Gorman was the father of my sweet mother-in-law, Dorothy Gorman Hein. Dorothy was eight years old when her father died. Her little sister, Margaret, was six. The year was 1918.

John Gorman was born April 9, 1869, in Donagal, Ireland, one of the poorest counties in all of Ireland. According to family stories, when John and the other Irishmen arrived in New York City, the locals threw rocks at them and shouted, “Get back on the train. We don’t want you here.”

And that’s what they did. John and his fellow Irishmen, got on a train heading west. They came to Colorado, in search of gold and silver and plenty of work in the mines.

John rode as far as Denver and eventually arrived in Nederland, Colorado. I would love to know how he got there. Did he take a stage coach from Denver? Did he go to Boulder first? Maybe Central City? How old was he at the time?

We know that John did not just work in the mines, although he must have when he first arrived. By 1911, he was also working in partnership with another Irishman, Jim Nolan. According to newspaper clippings, they were assessors ~ evaluating the quality of Pine Creek gold, part of the Apex Mine system.

Later, John purchased James Noonan’s interest in mines in St. Anthony of the Lake Gulch. He sunk a shaft in St. Anthony of the Lake Gulch and by 1911, he and another partner, John Smith, successfully mined gold that was worth a considerable amount of money.

I tell you all of this, to illustrate that John Gorman was a smart, ambitious man. An immigrant who was determined to make his fortune mining gold in Boulder and Clear Creek counties.

In 1909, John met an Irishwoman, who was also hard-working and determined to survive a hard life in the Colorado mountains. Margaret (Maggie) McNulty was born in Hannibal Missouri. She moved to Memphis, and then came west to Central City, where she met Jack. Together they had two girls, Dorothy, born in 1910, and Margaret, born in 1912.

From all accounts, Jack and Maggie, had a good life. They lived in a small house in Nederland and Jack worked in the local mine. Dorothy remembered seeing her father ride his donkey up the hill to the mine. When he arrived at work, he gave the donkey’s rump a slap, and the donkey turned around and came home by himself.

All of that ended in 1918, when Jack died of complications of the influence pandemic. The family was devastated. Maggie and the girls had just enough money to come to Denver, and move into a little house at 500 South Broadway. They sold candy out of the front room, and lived in the back. The girls attended St. Francis de Sales Catholic school.

Maggie later went to work at the Good Heart laundry, near the corner of Broadway and Alameda. The work was grueling and the pay was low. It was a very hard life for Maggie and her girls.

The girls grew up, married good, hard-working men, much like their father. Dorothy married Bill Hein and Margaret married Harry Gessing, two of the finest men on earth. Margaret and Dorothy were more than sisters. They were always dear friends, who loved to laugh, and dance, and have fun.

Maggie moved in with Dorothy and Bill and their six children. One day she was hit by a car, crossing the street as she left the Shamrock Bar with a friend. Maggie’s leg was broken and never healed well. She eventually lost her leg and had to move to a nursing home, where she died.

Jim Hein, Maggie’s grandson, remembers his Nana as a woman who lived upstairs, wore a big fur coat, liked to tell stories and laugh. We can only imagine how her life would have been different if only her husband, Jack, hadn’t died ~ much too young, in the pandemic of 1918.

October 2, 2021

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.

September 25, 2021

Not All Sun and Fun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 18, 2021October 16, 2022

An Artist, A Writer, and A Businesswoman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 11, 2021

Independence Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

¡Viva Mexico!

September 4, 2021

Rain, Rain Go Away

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes, but not until October 15th.”

“Why October 15th?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 28, 2021

The Volunteer Pool Monitor

I love my job! As a volunteer pool monitor, it is my responsibility to open the pool gate in my community at 7:00 each morning.

I walk from my home to the pool in almost total silence. It’s a meditation. The only sound is the squawking of a few crows that live high in the trees.

Two cats, one black and white, and one all black, walk separate trails. They are “neighborhood cats” not unlike the “neighborhood dogs” in Mexico. They belong to no one and yet belong to everyone. The cats look well fed. The squirrels and rabbits eye them with suspicion.

We have almost no birds any more, in my community. That is a recent development. I don’t know where they’ve gone. I hope the cats didn’t eat them.

As I reach the big iron gate, I take a deep breath and realize how beautiful the pool is. The water is calm at this hour of the morning. Six big pots of flowers surround the L-shaped pool. Geraniums and sweet potato vines overflow their pots and beg for water.

Again I remember my home in Mazatlan, where the fountain was often the only sound I heard, early in the morning, as I sat outside drinking a cup of coffee before the buses roared by outside. There were bright red hibiscus, instead of geraniums, but the effect was the same. I was glad to be alive.

Not every morning, has been peaceful, of course. One morning I was startled as I reached the pool, to see four very drunk young adults swimming in the pool before I was able to unlock the gate.

“Who are you? And how did you get in” I wanted to know.

“I’m Jeremy. This is my friend, Josh. He’s leaving today for the army. We thought we’d come for a swim before he has to leave,” said the lesser drunk. Two girls with long, stringy, blond hair scooted to the side of the pool.

“How did you get in?”

“We put our hand through the bars and unlocked the gate,” Jeremy lied. I realized I was never going to get a straight answer. I also realized that if people are determined to get in the pool after hours, they will find a way.

By this time, both young men were out of the pool, wanting to shake my hand and let me know that they were, in fact, very good boys. They were sorry. They didn’t want to cause any trouble. I told them to go home, and they did.

As part of my responsibility, I water the plants twice a day. I water by hand, because I believe the plants like it that way. I fertilize them every couple of weeks. I talk to them in the morning and tell them to be good boys, and not cause any trouble. I come back at supper time and water them again.

Two weeks ago, I decided to stay at the pool for a little while after watering the flowers for the second time that day. It was a quiet, peaceful scene. An elderly couple was noodling and bobbing their way around the deep end, when a group of very loud, young Afghan-American girls arrived. Because they are Muslim, they are allowed to swim in their shorts and t-shirts, rather than in bathing suits they consider to be immodest.

They have come to the pool before with their mother, a lovely, quiet woman full of gratitude, who eagerly told me she doesn’t know what to do with her daughters or their friends. They scream and yell. They don’t listen to her. This particular night the girls came with their grandmother, an aunt, and a much younger sister (age 6) who was the only one entrusted with the key.

The girls jumped in the water, laughing and screaming as usual. They were chasing and spraying each other with “water blasters” ~ high powered squirt guns. A couple of them sprayed my feet as I walked along the pool, watering geraniums. I ignored them.

The elderly couple called me over and remarked that they were going to leave if the girls didn’t stop screaming. That was my cue. I talked to the grandmother and the aunt. I told them I was going to ask the girls to stop screaming. They nodded their heads in agreement.

I approached the girls, who were having a great time. When I leaned over, to give the girls my message ~ “stop screaming or come out of the pool” ~ one of them hit me with the water blaster. She soaked me, head the toe. My hair and my t-shirt were dripping wet. The girls stopped screaming when they realized what happened. Grandma started to cry. The aunt apologized.

“Get out of the pool!” I thundered. I was no longer the nice Grandma Lynda. I was the person who used to work in a high school. I was not a volunteer pool monitor. I was a campus security guard.

I ordered the girls to sit at one of the tables, while I told them, “If you ever come back to this pool, you will not scream. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” they answered, meekly.

“Do you see anyone else screaming at this pool?” I pointed at the elderly couple bobbing in the deep end, who were obviously not screaming.

“Do you see anyone else hitting the volunteer pool monitor with a water blaster?”

“No.” they agreed.

“Then you don’t do those things, either.”

“Ok”

And next time leave your water blasters at home”

The girls have not been back. They’ve been replaced by Japanese Beetles, attacking the geraniums and the sweet potato vines. Alas, Japanese Beetles are more of a nuisance than screaming middle school girls, and harder to get rid of.

Author: Lynda Jones