Word Salad” by Sally Asante

By Sally Asante And You Thought Learning Spanish was Tough!

For those of us who, in our later years, decided to leave our north-of-the-border homes for the sunny shores of Lake Chapala, learning Spanish was one of our top priorities.

While some lucky few took to it like the proverbial duck to water, others, myself included, have found it as elusive as Big Foot. Oh, sure, I can make myself understood, as most of us can. But what I hoped would be a quick stop by Walmart or Farmacia Guadalajara can easily devolve into a lengthy game of hide and seek simply because my Spanish is insufficient to ask a clerk where I might find shoelaces, aluminum foil, baking soda, or pickle relish. Oh, the frustration.

I am a lover of language. I find it intriguing, fascinating, often amusing, and almost always logical. Wait. Logical? Or so I thought until recently when I received an email from the well-known linguist and humorist Richard Lederer that made me ponder what learning English must be like for the nonnative speaker. With his permission, I reproduce below a portion of Richard’s take on our mother tongue:

English is the most widely spoken language in the history of our planet, used in some way by at least one out of every seven human beings around the globe. Half of the world’s books are written in English, and the majority of international telephone calls are made in English. Sixty percent of the world’s radio programs are beamed in English, and more than 70 percent of international mail is written and addressed in English. Eighty percent of all computer texts, including all websites, are stored in English.

English has acquired the vastest vocabulary of all the world’s languages, perhaps as many as two million words, and has generated one of the noblest bodies of literature in the annals of the human race. Nonetheless, it is now time to face the fact that English is a crazy language—the most loopy and wiggy of all tongues.

In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?

In what other language do people play at a recital and recite at a play?

Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall?

Why is it that when we transport something by car, it’s called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it’s called cargo?

Why does a man get a hernia and a woman a hysterectomy?

Why do we pack suits in a garment bag and garments in a suitcase?

Why do privates eat in the general mess and generals eat in the private mess?

Why do we call it newsprint when it contains no printing, but when we put print on it, we call it a newspaper?

Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists?

Why do we put cups in the dishwasher and dishes in the cupboard?

Why—in our crazy language— can your nose run and your feet smell?

Language is like the air we breathe. It’s invisible, inescapable, and indispensable, and we take it for granted. But when we take the time to step back and listen to the sounds that escape from the holes in people’s faces and to explore the paradoxes and vagaries of English, we find that hot dogs can be cold, darkrooms can be lit, homework can be done in school, nightmares can take place in broad daylight while morning sickness and daydreaming can take place at night, tomboys are girls and midwives can be men, hours—especially happy hours and rush hours—of-

ten last longer than sixty minutes, quicksand works very slowly, boxing rings are square, silverware and glasses can be made of plastic and tablecloths of paper, most telephones are dialed by being punched (or pushed?), and most bathrooms don’t have any baths in them. In fact, a dog can go to the bathroom under a tree—no bath, no room; it’s still going to the bathroom. And doesn’t it seem a little bizarre that we go to the bathroom in order to go to the bathroom?

Why is it that a woman can man a station but a man can’t woman one, that a man can father a movement but a woman can’t mother one, and that a king rules a kingdom but a queen doesn’t rule a queendom? How did all those Renaissance men reproduce when there don’t seem to have been any Renaissance women?

Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. (Reprinted with permission.) Sally Asante

By Moonyeen King President of the Board for Tepehua moonie1935@yahoo.com

As 2020 comes to a close, recognition of all unsung heroes from this incredible year of challenge should be sung loud and long.

What would the small villages have done if not for the strong among them? Tepehua has its own unsung heroines - nurses Olga and Casi who have contracted the Covid disease. They work the front line in Guadalajara all week and volunteer for the Tepehua Clinic every Friday. All necessary precautions have been taken, and fortunately the Tepehua Center has been shut down for months now so exposure was limited.

There are other heroes in various organizations that have been fighting quietly behind the scenes for justice and equality...ever trying to level the playing field. Those trapped within poverty cannot fight it alone, and when they are hit with a devastating health threat on top of that, the most incredible things can happen. Those who never knew they had strength and power to make change rise up, and change happens. Local heroes and natural leaders emerge and take over. This column has talked about the quiet heroes before, those people who quietly do the right thing because they know they can and feel they should. Whether it is by deed or financially, the one supports the other. The deed of course, comes in many forms and kindness doesn’t need financing, but reality is that permanent change usually needs financing of one form or another. Spiritual change is another thing that happens in times like these. The one thing that should never happen is for people to ‘give up’ and leave it up to God. HE is busy. Nobody can handle crises but us, and if they are not handled properly we have only ourselves to blame, not the devil.

So we, the people, will prevail. If we steer the ship ourselves for awhile, we will get through all kinds of problems. We can create things others cannot because the people will be in charge. Like potable water with a controlled price. Tepehua can do that now because the people helped us, and now the people will run it creating work for themselves and health for their families.

Water can heal. If a patient is in stage one to three diabetes, changing colas for clean water can reverse the situation in a matter of months. For the two years Tepehua gave away free water (along with a dose of education on nutrition) to those at risk, there was a remarkable change in the health of the people. Fewer diabetics needed care, and a huge drop occurred in the cases of parasites. Two years ago, the Tepehua clinic gave away free parasite medication to everyone because the rainy season always brings a rash of patients. This year few people contracted parasites. Water can kill. Water born diseases can be spread by bathing, drinking, using dirty glasses, a multitude of ways, and common symptoms are diarrhea and vomiting. But it can affect ears, eyes and skin. Diarrhea is a killer of children around the world. One relates developing countries to water pollution, but today even the USA estimates 4.32 million cases of acute gastrointestinal illnesses per year from polluted public water systems.

In the next column, we will cover the Lakeside villages that have taken the water problem into their own hands and the results they have achieved.

For all those unsung heroes that have seen all of us through a very bad year, you have no idea how much you are appreciated, and probably will never know. So many have risked their lives for us, especially the volunteers because you don’t have to...but you do it because you can.

Thank you.

By Tom Nussbaum

“Damn, I left my hearing aids on my nightstand,” Greg said as he slipped the elastic bands of his light blue COVID-19 mask over his ears.”

Walt exhaled with frustration as he donned his white mask. “Not again. Well, I’ve got mine.” He stopped. “Crap. I was gonna buy batteries before I picked you up. Mine are almost dead.” He laughed at his forgetfulness as they neared the popular Ajijic restaurant. “So, not only are we hearing impaired, but now our masks are gonna muffle everything we say.”

“What?” Greg asked. “Why do you want muffins on a velveteen plate? What restaurants have velveteen—” A blast of Mexican music, a hybrid of traditional mariachi and energetic pop, interrupted him as they stepped through the open doorway.

“And,” Walt added, “we’re gonna have to deal with this loud music.”

A hostess, younger than Greg and Walt’s masks, greeted them. “Two?” she mumbled behind her floral-patterned mask, as she grabbed a pair of menus. As predicted, the blare of a trumpet smothered her monosyllabic question.

Greg nodded with hesitation and looked at Walt. “What did she say?”

“She said ‘Two?’”

“That’s what I thought. Why’d she say ‘You?’” “What?”

The hostess led the duo to a table surrounded by several occupied ones and in front of the band. “Ramón will be your server,” she said, as she laid down the menus and left.

“Our waiter’s name is Damon?” Greg asked. “He must be from El Norte.”

“She said his name is Raven,” Walt corrected erroneously. “He? She? They must be transgender.”

Greg focused on the band, unaware his companion had spoken. “I wonder if they know any Ricky Martin songs? Diane loved Ricky Martin.” The widower toyed with his wedding band.

“Oh, yes, my wife loved Dolly Parton, too.”

A slender waiter, in black slacks, white shirt, and black mask, approached the table. “Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Ramón,” he announced to preoccupied ears. His English was perfect, his accent, however, thick. The band began playing Enrique Iglesias’ “Hero.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Walt gasped. “They’re playing ‘Jolene.’”

Ramón lowered himself to ear level. “Hola, gentlemen. I am Ramón.” This time he was successful. Both men turned to the waiter.

“Hola, Damon,” Greg greeted.

“¿Como esta usted, Raven?” Walt asked.

Robotically Ramón inquired, “Would you gentlemen like something to drink?”

“Yes, I do need some time to think,” Walt said. “I haven’t even looked at the menu.”

“No, sir. To drink. Can I get you something to drink before you order?” The waiter adjusted his mask, hoping that would improve communication.

“Oh, of course. To drink. A margarita. Rocks. Yes, a margarita, por favor.”

“OK. Sangria it is. And you, sir?”

Greg furrowed his brow in thought. “A mojito?”

“Certainly,” replied Ramón. “A Pacifico.” He stepped away.

Several minutes passed. The music paused long enough for Greg and Walt to hear the hum of muffled conversations around them. A shrill one, however, rose above the others. It appeared to be an argument between a burly man and spindly woman.

“I think she is accusing him of ordering the wrong wine,” Greg said looking toward the disturbance.

“Yes,” Walt replied. “Ramón certainly is taking his time.” He looked at the menu. “What’s good here?”

“A beer? No. I didn’t order a beer. I ordered a mojito. You know I hate beer.”

As the band began the next tune, Walt’s right hearing aid screeched, like a dying banshee. “What’s that?” he asked, looking around. His glance settled on the husky man.

“What?” Greg uttered as the man rose and stepped toward the duo. His black mask bore a Day of the Dead motif.

“What you looking at?” he charged. “And which one of you said my wife looks like a mosquito?”

“I did,” Greg said. “I ordered a mojito. Are they good here?”

“Mojito? You said ‘mojito?’” The man stepped back. “I suppose everything’s good here.” He smiled. “I thought you said . . . oh, never mind.” He slithered back to his table.

Ramón returned with a sangria and Pacifico. “What are these?” Greg asked.

“Your drinks, señor.”

“But we didn’t order these.” Ramón leaned in and squinted, as if trying to hear better. Walt continued. “We ordered a margarita and mojito.”

“OK,” Ramón said as he stood. “That’s one beef fajita and a burrito.” He left.

“I think he got it this time,” Greg said. “But why didn’t he take these drinks with him since they aren’t ours?” He gazed toward a table at which a large man sat. “Look at his fajitas. That is a huge serving. I should order that.”

“Ssshh!” Walt hushed. “Don’t call him fat. He can hear you.”

“What?”

The band began playing a familiar tune, but with a mariachi interpretation.

“Hey,” Walt said, “They’re playing Ricky Martin’s ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca.’”

“Oh, yeah. Cool.” Greg smiled.

They were listening, however, to Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence.”

In the kitchen, a chef prepared beef fajitas and a burrito.

Tom Nussbaum

The Night Before Christmas On Mexico’s Coast

It’s the night before Christmas, but I live at the beach. I’m afraid a white Christmas is out of my reach. No snow, no sleigh bells, no Santa’s reindeer, The sound of the surf is all that I hear.

I miss mistletoe and I miss all the holly Strung lights on my cactus, it wasn’t as jolly What I wouldn’t give for some eggnog right now Tequila’s just not as festive somehow.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love living here But I get a bit homesick this time of the year When the kids were young, I’d be up until three, Wrapping their gifts to put under the tree.

They’re all grown up now with lives of their own Instead of their hugs, it’s a call on the phone Hey dad, how are you? How’s Christmas down there? They tell me they love me. I know that they care

It’s enough I suppose and I’m glad that they’re well Maybe next year they’ll visit, wow, that would be swell But tonight it’s just the missus and me And two cats – they’re the reason we can’t have a tree

On the satellite radio I hear Crosby croon Irving Berlin’s wistful holiday tune And I realize I’m not the first one to dwell On Christmases past, we remember so well

But the hour is late, it’s past time for bed The tequila I’ve sipped has gone straight to my head So I take my love’s hand and step out for some air And gaze at the stars hoping Santa’a up there

He isn’t of course, as I’ve known all along, And that cheery white Christmas is only a song But I hold my love to me and give her a kiss, And ask - does it get any better than this?

We live in a tropical heaven on earth Enjoying good health, aware of its worth I have everything I’ve ever wanted and more And a Christmas as white as the sand on the shore Merry Christmas to all

David Lyons

By Judy Dykstra Brown

Idon’t know of anyone who loves Christmas as much as

my mother did. She could barely wait for Thanksgiving to be over to put up her tree. Those trees were covered with icicles, bubble lights, angel hair and boxes and boxes of ornaments saved and added to over the years: blue or pink plastic birds whose legs fit over the branches so they seemed to be standing on them, a treetop angel with spun white hair and a face cracked and marbled with age, strands of large lights and later dozens of strands of miniature ones, homemade ornaments, glass balls, plastic stars, candy canes—each year the number of ornaments grew. The tree was always fresh and the largest she could find, screwed into the Christmas tree holder that held water to keep the needles from falling off for as long as possible.

Under the tree was always a skirt of white pull-apart Christmas “snow,” a plastic church that lit up inside and presents, presents, presents: handmade gifts from the church bazaar, clothes and toys purchased in Pierre, 60 miles away or ordered from the Montgomery Ward or Sears catalogs. The tree went up the day after Thanksgiving and came down only after the new year had arrived, but the pine needles in the carpet crevasses and its borders along the wall remained like hidden memories to be discovered for months afterwards.

The year my mother died, my sister Patti could not bear to think of putting up a tree or celebrating Christmas. I was far away in Mexico and it was the first year in her life that she hadn’t celebrated Christmas with my mother. I knew she was grieving, but I was deep in my own sadness of the past year. In January, I had a hysterectomy and on the day I returned from the hospital, I learned that my mother had gone into the hospital.

My doctor had forbidden air travel but we considered putting a mattress in the back of the van and having my husband drive me from California to Wyoming, but my sister assured me there was no need. It was nothing serious—just a bout of pneumonia. We’d been there for Christmas less than a month before and we could come again once my mother returned home from the hospital.

But that trip was never to be experienced, for within a week, my mother had passed away. In March, my husband, Bob, flew to Michigan to be with his mother who had gone into the hospital, and after ten days, she, too, passed away. Then in September, two days before we were to drive down to Mexico to move into our new house, Bob discovered he had cancer and lived just three weeks. All-in-all, a sad year that had been moderated by our happiness in looking forward to a new life in Mexico.

A few months after Bob’s death, I went forward into that new life, but my sister was left in the town where she and her husband lived and where my mother had lived for the last six years of her life. Everything around her reminded her of my mother; and with the advent of Christmas, those memories grew more poignant.

The small Wyoming town where my sister lives is two hours south of Billings, Montana, which is her usual shopping town and where she goes to get her hair cut and to see the doctor. A few weeks before Christmas, when a friend asked her to accompany her on a shopping trip there, she agreed. Even though her heart was not in it, as they browsed in a local store, she bought a few items, paid for them with her credit card and carried the bag to the car.

It was not until she got home and unpacked the bag that she found the small package in the bottom of her bag. She unwrapped it, trying to figure out just what it was—nothing, surely, that she had purchased. As she removed the final layer of paper, this is what was revealed:

Where had it come from? How

had it gotten into the bag? She had not purchased it. It was not listed on her receipt. Nor had her friend purchased it, so it wasn’t a case of the clerk putting it in the wrong bag. Was it the last Christmas miracle provided by a mother who over the years had so faithfully purchased the new boxes of fragile icicles to hang above wrapped boxes that contained dolls, new Christmas dresses, ice skates, princess phones, bottles of bubble bath or miniature formals for our favorite dolls? Skunk games and paper dolls and books, first watches, necklaces, music boxes and drop-seat pajamas? With no other explanation, my sister could not help but consider that perhaps it was a little message from my mother, urging her not to give up her faith in and enjoyment of Christmas.

It has been fourteen years since my mother died, and my sister has hung the ornament on her tree every Christmas since. It has been a few years since I spent Christmas with her, and I had forgotten this story, but yesterday, when I arrived in Phoenix to spend Christmas and took pictures of her tree, she repeated the story again.

Her tree is miniature in comparison with my mother’s tree, but it is infused with my mother’s love of Christmas and everything it entails— a childlike sense of wonder that, to this very day, my mother encourages us to share. Tonight, as my sister and I fill stockings for each other, her husband, Jim, and the longtime friends who will arrive tomorrow, I’m sure she feels as I do—both of us “good girls” who are minding our mother by remembering to BELIEVE in the magic of Christmas. Judy Dykstra Brown

ACROSS 1 Naval fleet 7 Chest muscles 11 Compass point 14 Used a rotary phone 15 Crazed 16 She 17 Type of American Express card 18 Entice 19 Anger 20 Who lawyers work for 22 Overshadows 24 Rascal 27 Tilt 29 Bird’s home 30 Imbued 32 Overcompensate 35 Mistakes 37 Condemn 38 Tavern 41 North Pole 42 Defiled 44 Modest 45 Captain (abbr.) 48 Sounds 49 Amelia ___ 51 Heredity component 52 Coupe 55 Two 56 Digital audio tape 57 Rights’ opposites 60 Horse sound 64 Abridged (abbr.) 65 Garret 67 Elapse (2 wds.) 71 Lab animal 72 Loaf 73 Tenant 74 Compass point 75 Data transmission rate 76 Low ranking officer

DOWN 1 Hubbub 2 Tear 3 Entrance rug 4 First letter of the Arabic alphabet 5 Prefix for half 6 Jewish calendar month 7 Palsy affected 8 Flightless bird 9 Thick string 10 To lack symmetry 11 British county 12 Slaves 13 Seize 21 I want my ___ 23 Some 24 Thoughts 25 Wise Man’s gift 26 Percival nickname 28 For 31 Tiny mark 32 Award 33 Purpose 34 Ammunition (abbr.) 36 Costa __ 38 Transported by bus 39 Stadium 40 Start over 43 Hog 46 Doctoral degree 47 Mocked 49 Billion years 50 Fish eggs 52 Knowing 53 Not rural 54 Cake 58 Smooth but insincere 59 Cola 61 Island 62 Dale 63 Boo 66 Winter malady 68 Pounds per square inch 69 Implore 70 Japanese currency

By Rob Mohr

Above my horizon rest a crescent Moon whose ghostly form fills heaven’s sweep, joined with Venus’ expanding smile.

An ancient union made in eastern skies, where their graceful dance seals their love, while Mars’ red glow westward leads, as I enter lustrous heaven’s cryptic frame.

Framed by Orion’s three stars arrayed, a crystal crown of the God’s refugent light, a family formed by transcendent spears, which which leads me back to long lost worlds,

when Ancient’s found in each brilliant night escape from each day’s mortal struggle, to speak in soliloquies of time and space, of Moon’s rise and Mar’s slow demise -

where gyrations of Venus, Sun, and Moon aligned their farmer’s eyes and hearts, to mark their days, weeks and months.

A count the ancients knew and understood, guiding when to plant in warming earth, as spring rains descend on nascent crops nurtured throughout heaven’s starlit nights. As I now reflect below this complex sky, who am I within this unperceptive world, where human understandings slowly fade throughout the days’ long, slow march, constrained at times by grievous strife?

Yet, this enchanted night has disposed a spiritual gift from our watchful God, who breathes new life as I complete my course, beneath creation’s eternal sky.

Anonymous

1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Holiday spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they’re serving rum balls. 2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly it’s rare! You cannot find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It’s not as if you’re going to turn into an eggnog-alcoholic or something. It’s a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It’s later than you think. It’s a party! 3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That’s the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand-alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat. 4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they’re made with skim milk or whole milk. If it’s skim, pass. Why bother? It’s like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission. 5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people’s food for free. Lots of it. Hello? 6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year’s. You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you’ll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog. 7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don’t budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They’re like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you’re never going to see them again. 8. Same for pies. Apple, Pumpkin, Pecan, Cherry, Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or if you don’t like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day? 9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it’s loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards. 10. One final tip: If you don’t feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven’t been paying attention. Reread tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.

Remember this motto to live by:

“Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming “WOO HOO what a ride!”

Have a Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year.

P.S. These are not Weight Watchers endorsed.

P.P.S. During these times of COVID, read to celebrate Holiday’s passed…and prepare for post COVID Holiday’s. There will be celebrations once again.