El Ojo del Lago - February 2019 by El Ojo del Lago

Saw you in the Ojo

 D IRE C TOR Y  PUBLISHER Richard Tingen

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Alejandro Grattan-Domínguez Tel: (01376) 765 3676, 765 2877 Fax: (01376) 765 3528 Associate Publisher David Tingen Graphic Design Roberto C. Rojas Reyes Diana Parra Morales

Index...

FEATURE ARTICLES

COVER STORY

Mark Sconce checks out the life and times of Howard Shapley and his monumental work in the field of Astronomy.

Special Events Editor Sandy Olson

Chad Olsen writes about a Mexican friend of his that found a way to gauge the “hotness” of various chili peppers. There are six levels of “heat,” and most of us would be well-advised not to go anywhere near the final level.

Art Critic / Contributing Editor Rob Mohr

30 POLITICS

Theater Critic Michael Warren Book Review Panel Margaret Van Every Margaret Porter Clare Gearhart

Sales Manager Bruce Fraser Carmene Berner Office Secretary Rocio Madrigal ADVERTISING OFFICE Av. Hidalgo # 223, Chapala Mon. thru Fri. 9am - 5pm Sat. 9am - 1pm Tel. 01 (376) 765 2877, 765 3676 Fax 01 (376) 765 3528

42 LAKESIDE LIVING

Dr. Lorin Swinehart looks back at the career of Richard Nixon—and finds that while America’s 37th president resigned in disgrace, he was one of the more innovative and successful presidents when it came to the environment.

24 RELIGION—SORT OF...

Julie Mignard takes us into a confessional and what follows is funnier than you might imagine.

50 ON DEATH AND DYING Loretta Downs has put together a series of articles from various contributors about a somber subject much on the minds of many people who live in our wonderful little corner of Mexico.

62 DOG LORE Robert James Taylor remembers the life and times of a shaggy-haired mutt who became a legend some hundred years ago in Australia.

Send all correspondence, subscriptions or advertising to: El Ojo del Lago http://www.chapala.com ojodellago@prodigy.net.mx Ave. Hidalgo 223 (or Apartado 279), 45900 Chapala, Jalisco Tels.: (376) 765 3676, Fax 765 3528 PRINTING: El Debate El Ojo del Lago aparece los primeros cinco días de cada mes. (Distributed over the first five days of each month) Certificado de Licitud de Título 3693 Certificado de Licitud de Contenido 3117. Reserva al Título de Derechos de Autor 04-2011-103110024300-102 Control 14301. Permisos otorgados por la Secretaría de Gobernación (EXP. 1/432 “88”/5651 de 2 de junio de 1993) y SEP (Reserva 171.94 control 14301) del 15 de enero de 1994. Distribución: Hidalgo 223 Chapala, Jalisco, México. All contents are fully protected by copyright and may not be reproduced without the written consent of El Ojo del Lago. Opinions expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the views of the Publisher or the Editor, nor are we responsible for the claims made by our advertisers. We welcome letters, which should include name, address and telephone number.

8 Cover by Norma Rodriguez

14 HOT STUFF

Associate Editor Victoria Schmidt

Roving Correspondent Dr. Lorin Swinehart

COVER STORY

VOLUME 35 NUMBER 6

El Ojo del Lago / February 2019

COLUMNS THIS MONTH 6

EDITOR’S PAGE

10 IMPRINTS 12

FRONT ROW CENTER

BRIDGE BY THE LAKE

PROFILING TEPEHUA

WELCOME TO MEXICO

IF OUR PETS COULD TALK

LAKESIDE LIVING

RAMBLINGS FROM RANCH

Saw you in the Ojo

COLUMNIST

Editor’s Page

By Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez

A Brief History of Mexican Migration*

uring the early part of the 20th century, Mexico underwent a tumultuous social and economic revolution that was to have a deep and long-lasting effect on the United States. In the wake of that revolution’s shattered dreams, the first of the Mexican migrations began, driven by the mythical promise of El Norte. The United States was on the brink of the First World War, and the song its citizens would soon be singing was called Over There. Before that war was won, more than four million Americans had indeed been sent “over there,” thus leaving the country with a desperate need for domestic manpower. Heeding the call, Mexico sent north some half-million workers to help make the world, in President Woodrow Wilson’s memorable words, “safe for democracy.” This initial migration was unique in two ways: first, it was greatly welcomed by the American people and their government; further, it gravitated to that section of the United States (the West and Southwest) that had once belonged to the ancestors of those Mexicans now returning to it. Mexican labor began to help mine the ore, till the soil, maintain the railroads and make the guns, all vital to the war effort. Yet this labor force was consistently mistreated—and almost always by the same type of people who over the course of the next halfcentury were to most fervently court cheap Mexican labor during times of national crisis. Unlike other laboring minorities, however, the Mexican, his fighting nature recently forged in the blast furnace of the Mexican Revolution, now came forward to demand his share of that democracy being won on the blood-soaked fields of France. In New Mexico and Colorado, viciously exploited mine workers went on strike. Within hours, the mine owners brought about a “negotiated settlement,” leaving twenty-two Mexican men, women and children dead. With the First World War finally

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won, the United States ushered in the era of “The Golden 20s.” Yet for Mexican-Americans—who had worked, fought and died to make the 20s so golden—it became a period of benign neglect. Prosperity was in. Those of Mexican ancestry were out. Then came the Wall Street Crash of 1929, and suddenly benign neglect seemed a blessing by comparison— and nowhere were the after-shocks of the Crash more severely felt than in Mexico, with the peso so fatally tied to the dollar. What followed was the most disastrous economic period in Mexican history, thus setting the stage for the next monumental migration. With nearly a quarter of its population in a state of slow starvation, the eyes of the Mexican people again turned northward. Within one year after the Great Crash, more than a million and a half of them would venture across the border. This time, they came not by invitation, or even in search of a better life, but simply in the hope of staying alive. But soon realizing that conditions were little better in the fabled El Norte than in their own country, many returned to Mexico. If they were fated to starve to death, many felt it best to die on their own soil. Those who left voluntarily returned to Mexico with their dignity intact— for many opportunistic politicians in the U.S. now were blaming this last wave of immigrants for the Depression, brazenly ignoring that the migration had not even begun until after the Wall Street Crash. Xenophobia spread across the United States like a virulent disease. Massive deportation measures were established, and tens of thousands of Mexicans were rounded up like common criminals to be entrained south in cattle cars. Thousands of American citizens of Mexican ancestry, some with roots in the U. S. that dated back for a full century, were likewise deported. Many had fought as “Dough Boys” in France, but they were also shoved into the cattle cars, despite having been promised that naturaliza-

tion would be their ultimate reward for serving in the U.S. military. The Depression deepened, and for several years the border was unusually quiet, as Mexico began to pick up the pieces of its own shattered economy. That recovery would gain speed with a federal decree, the full import of which would remain unknown for another forty years. Nationalizing its oil industry, the Mexican government quickly sent packing the American, British and Dutch oil cartels as if they were the illegal aliens. Surprisingly, the American response was quite restrained, made so perhaps by alarming events around the world that soon would set the stage for the next great Mexican migration. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor came just as the United States was emerging from the worst economic depression in its history, only to hurl the country into another world war that would eventually cost more, in terms of men, money and materiel, than any other in all of recorded history. Yet as with every previous war, fighting men would have to be trained, fed and supplied. Hence, the call went out once again to America’s neighbor to the south. But this time, Mexico was not interested in chancing another humiliation, or even worse, a military defeat at the hands of a foreign enemy of the United States’ own choosing. However, the U. S., growing desperate for farming and factory labor, soon developed an enlightened and humane program for the importation of Mexican workers. Swayed by the stirring words and progressive programs of President Franklin Roosevelt, the Mexican people felt for the first time a common bond with the United States. Responding to the president’s plea, they returned by the hundreds of thousands to help settle an issue that the U.S. thought had been determined with the winning of the First World War. The period 1942-1945 is considered

as one of the finest in all of U.S. history, and an American president later would give some credit for it to the Mexican immigrants of that famous epoch; justifiably so, for on the home-front, Mexican labor helped till the soil in a manner which astonished our allies and confounded our enemies, while overseas, men of Mexican blood would become, in ratio to their numbers, one of the ethnic groups most highly decorated for valor under fire. The United States is, as it is so proud of reminding the world, a country that has been continuously replenished by those who were, in the immortal phrase on the Statue of Liberty, “yearning to breathe free”—and therein lies part of what has helped make it one of the great nations of the world. (*This is the second time we have published this editorial, our decision to do so brought on mainly by the shameful situation currently on the U.S./Mexican border, and the spiteful demeaning of Mexicans and other Latinos by the current U.S. Administration.) Alejandro GrattanDominguez

Saw you in the Ojo

The Milky Way, at night a silver river; Just look—the universe in stillness sleeps. The night has decked the sky in constellations. At such a moment one gets up and speaks To time and history and to all creation! Vladimir Mayakovsky Trans. James E. Falen

Harlow Shapley—A Profile in Astronomy By Mark Sconce

wonder what the good folks of Pisa thought when they heard that their home-town boy found himself cross-wise with the Vatican? The year, 1633. Whatever they thought, the Church fathers found Galileo Galilei “vehemently suspect of heresy” and ordered him to renounce all his views about the Sun being the center of the universe and not the Earth—views supported by evidence gleaned from his new telescope of only three magnification. Nevertheless, the fathers of the Roman Inquisition declared that his findings were contrary to Holy Scripture, a scripture based on Aristotle’s and Ptolemy’s ideas-ideas that had prevailed for nearly 1800 years. But the father of observational astronomy offered this: “I think that in the discussion of natural problems we ought to begin not with the Scriptures, but with experiments and demonstrations.” He spent the rest of his life under house arrest, lucky to have escaped torture in a dungeon. Ideas sometimes take many, many years to sink in.* But sink in they do. Knowledge is acquired, accepted, and assimilated. Is there anyone today, excepting “flatearthers,” who believes the sun and planets revolve around the earth? And does anyone of consequence really believe that astrology is better than astronomy in describing our place and condition in the universe? Telescopes made the difference of course; increasingly powerful telescopes changed everything. The Copernican Revolution was complete. It was a heliocentric universe after all (Helios, the Greek god of the Sun). Except for one thing. Polish astronomer, Nicolas Copernicus, and all his devotees believed that the Sun was the center of the universe. Ego-centric man had to be the center of something. But by the end of the 19th century, astronomers, using vastly improved telescopes, recognized that the universe extended far beyond our solar system. Stephan Hawking wrote: “This change in worldview represented a profound transition in human thought: the beginning of our modern scientific understanding of the universe.” And let’s not forget the powerful intellectual achievements and influence of Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein and Harlow Shapley. Harlow Shapley? Yes, my hero, Harlow Shapley, born on a farm in Nashville, Missouri in 1885, population 396 back in 2000. I wonder what the good folks in Nashville thought when they heard that their home-town boy had correctly estimated the size and structure of the Milky Way and our Sun’s position in it, an achievement, says Carl Sagan “… as important as the concept and reality of our Sun being at the center of our solar system.” In the 1910s, most interested observers believed that the Sun was near the center of the Milky Way. Shapley, using the new-built 60-inch telescope atop Pasadena’s Mount Wilson, made extensive observations between 1914 and 1919. I would be hard put to accurately describe the method he used; I’ll just settle for “a parallax view.” Suffice it to say, he correctly placed our solar system cradled between two spiral arms at the edge of our spiral galaxy, our Milky Way, containing over three-hundred billion stars. He reckoned our Sun to be about 30,000 light years** from the center of the Milky Way, a great wheeling disc of stars and cosmic gas and dust majestically rotating once every 240 million years. Imagine its shape as a vast wagon wheel, with its hub in the middle, cart-wheeling through the blackness of space. Rim to rim, Shapley reckoned its diameter to be 100,000 light years, and he was right. The bulge in the middle we now know to be a black hole four million times as massive as our sun and so dense that nothing escapes its gravitational pull, not even light. In this case, we’re lucky to be living on the edge. (Before going further, let’s recall that a light year is not a measurement of time

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but of distance-- enormous distance. We know that light travels at 186,000 miles per second {seven times around the Earth in one second!} Therefore, one light year equals about 6 trillion miles! Do the math…At last, something truly awesome!) No hero is perfect; Dr. Harlow Shapley is no exception. His greatest error was concluding and defending in public the idea that the Milky Way was the extent of the universe. Other astronomers felt certain that other galaxies existed outside the Milky Way, one calling them “island universes.” Satisfaction was achieved when one of America’s most important astronomers, Edwin Hubble, weighed in with photographs he had taken with the new Hooker 100-inch telescope at Mount Wilson Observatory. Upon looking at the evidence, Shapley conceded saying, “Here is the (evidence) that destroyed my universe.” In his role as Director of the Harvard College Observatory, he graciously encouraged Hubble to write a paper for a joint gathering of the premier American Astronomical Societies. Hubble’s findings went on to reshape fundamentally our view of the universe. How fitting that the space telescope, launched in 1990, whose images have thrilled and mesmerized the public, shall forever be known as the Hubble Space Telescope, the most sophisticated and productive scientific instrument in history. With larger and more sophisticated telescopes came a better understanding of galaxies (most of them spirals like ours) beyond the Milky Way—thousands of them, then millions, then 100 billion and probably more containing on average 100 billion stars. Besides his trademark stellar count of “Billions and Billions,” Carl Sagan loved to spell out these numbers to emphasize the grandeur of it all: “One hundred thousand million billion stars.” I hold in my hand, right reverently, too, Harlow Shapley’s 1958 book, Of Stars and Men signed by the author and gifted me by my father. The sub-title: The Human Response to an Expanding Universe. It’s one of those landmark books that shape the way we see things. Much like Silent Spring by Rachael Carson. In the same way Galileo’s discoveries altered the way folks thought about their world and their place in it, Shapley details new discoveries to convince us that life is abundant and inevitable throughout the known universe. He proves his assertion statistically in the same way that strong circumstantial evidence convinces juries of guilt. His elegant writing rises to the occasion: “To establish, through statistical analysis the high probability of planets suitable for living organisms is not difficult. A statistical argument, in fact, is more convincing than would be a marginal observation.” He goes on to discuss how adaptable and tenacious life is noting that some bacteria can even live in nuclear waste! What with billions of galaxies harboring billions of stars, many of them with “planetary potentialities,” it’s reasonable to conclude that some of those planets are habitable. (Over 4,000 exoplanets orbiting stars have since been discovered.) An ordinary star, our middle-aged Sun, on the edge of a typical spiral galaxy accomplished the creation of life on our planet “…through radiation to maintain the photochemical reactions that are the basis of plant and animal life.” Every other star may be a Sun to someone. We now live in a galaxy that has more planets than stars, writes the National Geographic. The chances for life are, well, astronomical. Sagan again: “The universe is a pretty big place. If it’s just us, seems like an awful waste of space.” Just knowing that life exists elsewhere is comforting. We will probably never meet because of the unimaginable distances that separate us. Nevertheless, finding life on another planet in another solar system, in or out of the Milky Way, would be “the most important news in human history,” declares Neil deGrasse Tyson. In the meantime, I recommend checking your library for the coffee-table book published by National Geographic titled HUBBLE—Imaging Space and Time. Here you will see images of the Cosmos unobstructed by earth’s distorting atmosphere. Through this new window on the observable universe, you will be rewarded by its unprecedented clarity and astonished by its immensity and majesty. We, this people, on a small and lonely planet Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns To a destination where all signs tell us It is possible and imperative that we learn A brave and startling truth Maya Angelou * It took the Church nearly 350 years to admit that Galileo was correct after all… **The distance is actually 28,000 light-years.

Mark Sconce

Saw you in the Ojo

IMPRINTS By Antonio Ramblés antonio.rambles@yahoo.com

Guanajuato’s Centro Historico

The first sight of Guanajuato is breathtakingly beautiful. Thousands of brightly colored buildings are draped across the hills like a mosaic carpet, and the colors are warm in the morning sunlight. It’s picture postcard perfect. Guanajuato has played an important role throughout much of Mexico’s history, Plaza de la Paz, Guanajuato, Mexico including its service as one of Mexico’s provisional capitals up until its capture during the French intervention in 1863. This city’s spirit is well summed up by its Plaza de la Paz – the Peace Plaza. This is where the wealthiest of colonial families built their homes. It is also the site of the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de Guanajuato – the Basilica of Our Lady of Guanajuato.

One of the plaza’s most distinctive feature is an allegorical sculpture of the woman “Peace”. Since much of Guanajuato’s through traffic has been routed through the tunnels of abandoned silver mines which run below it, the narrow streets of the Centro Historico are very pedestrian-friendly, and beg to be walked. The Alhondigas de Granaditas – The Granary – dominates the old city, and has played a central role in its history for more than two hundred years. Today it is one of the venues for the Festival Internacional Cervantino, held here every fall since 1972. The festival celebrates the life and work of Miguel Cervantes, who is considered by Spanish-speakers to be as significant an influence on their literature as Shakespeare is to English literature. The Alhondigas is best known, though, as the site of the first battle in Mexico’s War of Independence. In 1810, insurgents led by patriot Miguel Hidalgo entered the city to find that Royalist troops and sympathizers had barricaded themselves – and millions of pesos of silver – in the Alhondigas. The Royalists were counting upon the granary’s thick and windowless walls and single gated entrance to resist a siege, and they were able to fight the rebels to a stalemate. Murals, Alhondigas de The impasse was broken when miner Granaditas, Guanajuato Juan José de los Reyes Martínez, better known to history by his nickname of El Pípila, armored himself with a large flat stone strapped to his back and crawled to the wooden gate with a flask of tar and a torch. Martínez’s courageous act enabled the patriots to take the building, and his heroism is commemorated by a colossal statue of him that now overlooks the city. The building now serves as the Museo Regional de Guanajuato, documenting the city’s history from before the Spanish Conquest. Its architecture honors heroes of the Mexican Revolution with mascarons, gargoyle-like sculptures that incorporate their faces. Statue of El Pípila, Guanajuato The walls of the main stairwell contain murals by José Chávez Morado that allude to Independence, along with paintings and photographs. It is a long-standing tradition to celebrate Mexico’s Independence Day with a reenactment of Miguel Hidalgo’s “El Grito de Dolores” – the call to arms – in the Alhondiga’s large courtyard. An eternal flame is re-lit here each year on the anniversary of the battle. It ‘s no surprise that this charming and historic city is one of Mexico’s thirty-two World Heritage Sites. Antonio Ramblés

El Ojo del Lago / February 2019

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FRONT ROW CENTER By Michael Warren Ghosts By Henrik Ibsen Directed by Peter King

his play was written by Ibsen in 1881, and first performed in Chicago in 1882, in a production by a Danish company on tour. The critics panned it, calling the play shocking and indecent. At the time, Ibsen’s honest depiction of the suffering caused by venereal disease, and such topics as incest and euthanasia, was considered immoral. What is interesting is that the tragedy explored by the play is caused not by flouting the norms of society, but actually by trying to follow them. Peter King and a talented cast performed this powerful play extremely well. The pace was excellent, particularly in the opening expository scene. “Helene Alving” is the widow of Captain Alving, and meets with “Pastor Manders” to discuss the dedication ceremony for an orphanage she has created in her husband’s memory. We soon discover that her late husband was a drunkard and a lecher, and that her life with him was a torment. Monnie King, who is on stage for almost the entire play, is totally believable as the forthright truth-telling Helene, while Roger Larson plays the Pastor as a master of hypocrisy. He probably believes that Helene did the right thing by staying with her husband, although it cost her happiness. There is a young servant “Regina Engstrand” who is actually Captain

Alving’s illegitimate daughter. He had seduced her mother many years ago when she was working in the house. To keep up appearances the carpenter “Jacob Engstrand” brings her up as his daughter. Johanna Labadie plays Regina with a suitably casual charm – she has no money and will take whatever society offers. Meanwhile Peter King is a rough diamond as Jacob, and he also reveals him as a cunning bargainer in the second act. The ghost of the late Captain is shown in all its misery when Ken Yakiwchuk comes on stage as Helene’s son “Oswald.” In order to save him being corrupted by his father, Helene sent him away to Paris where he tried to become a painter. Now he has come home, suffering from what seems to be syphilis. It is implied that the disease was caused by the sins of his father. Ken gives an amazing performance as the bewildered and agonized prodigal son. At the end of the play, he begs his mother to help him die by giving him an overdose of morphine. This masterly play was recently adapted by Richard Eyre for a London production. This is the version that Peter King used, and it feels remarkably modern. He and his cast gave us a completely professional performance. I also congratulate LLT for having the courage to choose such a difficult and controversial topic. The set was simple and effective – I should specially mention the Rainwall effect designed by David Hutchinson. Margo Eberly was Stage Manager (welcome back, Margo!) and Geoff Long was her Assistant. Next up is a black comedy The Same Deep Water as Me, which opens on February 15. Michael Warren

El Ojo del Lago / February 2019

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Javier’s Levels Of Hotness By Chad Olsen

y friend Javier has a unique way to figure out the hotness of chili peppers. Before we get to that, a little background about chili peppers is needed. Wikipedia has a brief write up on this subject. Ushotstuff.com is also a good source. What makes chilies so hot is a substance called capsaicin (cap-say-ah-sin). This is a chemical compound that stimulates the nerve endings in the skin. Back in 1912, American chemist Wilbur Scoville developed the Scoville Organoleptic Test to measure the hotness of chili peppers. The measurement is called Scoville Units. Chili hotness, stated in Scoville Units, is imprecise due to climate, soil, genetics, etc., but the ranking of peppers is fairly reliable. Here are a few that we are somewhat familiar with in Mexico: The Pepper Scoville Units Bell 0 Sonora 300-600 Poblano 1,000-2,000 Jalapeno 2,500-8,000 Serrano 8,000-22,000 Chipotle 10,000-25,000

El Ojo del Lago / February 2019

Tabasco 30,000-50,000 Habanero (orange) 100,000-325,000 Scotch Bonnet 150,000-325,000 Habanero (red) 350,000-580,000 The Red Habanero is the hottest pepper found around here, but the hottest in the world is the Naga Jolokia (India) at over 1,000,000 Scoville Units! Law enforcement pepper spray is over 5,000,000 Scoville Units! Now, I’m feeling sorry for those protesters that got their eyes intentionally sprayed while their eyelids were held open. While downing a few shots of tequila with Javier at the Beer Saloon, I tried to educate him about the Scoville measurement of pepper hotness. “No, my friend,” he says, “hotness must be experienced: not measured.” “What do you mean?” I ask, “Tell me about it.” “Well,” he says, “there are really six levels of hotness. The lowest is the fire you feel in your mouth and the numbness of your lips; like your dentist just gave you a shot. “The second level is a glow on your face and ears; like what you see when you turn on the hot plate for your morning coffee. “At the third level your scalp begins to sweat and tingle; like a thousand ants are crawling around. “A ringing in your ears announces the fourth level; like the sound of one of those new-fangled electric alarm clocks. “The fifth level is a sense of well-being; like that college weed you used to smoke. This can last for several hours.” He stopped at this point. I could tell that he wasn’t sure he should go on. “But that is only five levels,” I complain, “You said there were six.” “Yes, you are right,” he says, “but not many experience the sixth level. It requires eating a generous amount of the hottest pepper we have here in Mexico. “It is the out-of-body experience,” he says, as he looks to see if I am laughing, “You begin to drift as light as a feather. You will be able to look down on your dinner companions. When this happens, you have experienced the sixth and highest level of hotness.”

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The Jigsaw Puzzle Queens By Sydney Gay

wo queens, Margaret and Nora enjoyed jigsaw puzzles; they often sat for hours fitting tiny pieces into proper places, creating order out of chaos. At age fifty Nora, the eldest queen, looked fabulous, her complexion was moist and peachy; Margaret, the younger queen, marveled at the beauty of the older queen, however she noticed a flaw, a possible character twitch, Queen Nora endlessly complained of aches and pains, but mostly she complained about her CPA, her certified paid accountant, “He’s a boob.” Nora accused him of mis-managing her personal fortune. How mystifying, queens are educat-

ed, so why would Nora employ a boob? Why did she appear to have an endless supply of money? Queen Nora told Margaret she did not like being questioned about it, “Endless bore to be tracking pennies my dear, but I guess it must be done.” “I suppose,” sighed Margaret, whose own interest in money was not something the two queens had in common. What brought them together was the love of jigsaw puzzling; interlocking colorful pieces made troubles melt away. They were seated at the puzzle table one day when Queen Nora had an idea. “Dah’ling, a cruise vacation would be wonderful, a voyage with a private balcony for a grand view of the islands; a room with a view, windowless cabins are plebeian, terribly claustrophobic.” “How lovely,” replied Margaret. Wasting no time, they left the puzzle table and trotted to the travel agent who clarified terms, “You may reserve adjoining suites if full payment is made today.” The older queen was cavalier, “I’ll pay for mine today, your largest balcony please, Margaret, dah’ling, and I need a private suite. You take the cabin next door.” The agent accepted Nora’s money and turned to Margaret, “You will be securing your room as well?” “Of course.” Margaret reached into her pocket for the bejeweled purse that

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held her fortune, but the purse was gone, disappeared, totally vanished, in its place a scribbled note, Stay ahead of the game. Oh my, how puzzling, what could that mean? Queens know not to worry; worry does no good at all. “I’ll pay tomorrow,” she said. That afternoon Nora and Margaret returned to the puzzle table, however swans swimming in a pretty pond no longer held Margaret’s interest, necessarily she focused on the current bigger puzzle, where had the money gone? “Your mood has changed, dah’ling. Is it the missing money? You seem a bit quirky, come now, we’ve nearly completed the pond, do be doll, finish the border.” Margaret pushed a few more pieces into place, “Nora, forgive me, I really can’t do this right now.” Queen Nora laughed a bit inappropriately, “Ha-ha, all in good time, money always comes when you least expect it.” “I’m sorry, I really must go home now.” “Ta ta darling, don’t forget to pay for your ticket.” “Of course.” Margaret made her way down the street, briefly she said hello to the village butcher hanging sausage in the window and to the baker making croissants, “Thank you Max, I won’t be buying anything today.” She nodded to the fishmonger skinning cod. “Thank you not today.” The only sound louder than the click clopping of Margaret’s heels upon cobblestones was the thoughts in her head. She passed Mr. Hellski at the wharf with his wheelbarrow of free fish scraps and wondered if Nora had swiped the money, she combed her memory for a clue, but couldn’t find one, but did however envision the elder queen stuffing a suitcase with cash, fancy clothes and jewels. Early the next morning the telephone rang, Brrrring! Bring! “Hello dah’ling, it’s me, I’m packing for the cruise. Such fun. By the way, did you find the missing money?” “No, not yet. Nora dear, did you notice anything unusual on the day it got lost? Did you see anyone take my purse? Did anyone put a hand into my pocket?” “How should I know, dah’ling? Well, ta ta, sweet, no point in wasting time, surely the money will appear, it always comes from wherever it is. I am off, busy as a bee you know.” Cruise departure was two days; hence to stay ahead of the game Margaret decided to sell the contents of her closet, there were nice things in there, especially the emerald green gown with exquisitely puffed sleeves, those sleeves drove men wild. She would sell the emerald dress. The amount was not predictable, but twenty quid would

pay for the cruise, thirty quid would be better, thirty would provide for extra shopping at sea... oops, if she spent everything, she wouldn’t have any money to come home to, “Oh well, money is confusing, I’ll figure it out later.” She sold the contents of her closet to the “Used, Not Abused Store.” The owner offered a surprising seventy quid, and promptly Margaret returned to the travel agent. “Hello again, I’m Margaret, remember I was in your office yesterday?” “Yes, you were.” “Yes I was. What did you say the cruise will cost? I forgot how much you exactly require.” “You are a bit late for the special, I only have one ticket left, unfortunately there’s a bit of an extra fee; however it is a most excellent cabin.” “How much all together?” “Twenty five quid,” The agent licked his lips; he knew to keep one excellent accommodation for tardy patrons who did not mind paying a last minute higher price, hardly a disturbing penalty for travelers who loved chic PR and private valets. He gave Queen Margaret a divine room, a suite with silk sheets, cedar closets and billowy pillows; above all she had a view of the great ocean. Immediately Margaret telephoned Nora. “Hello? Ooh really? You do? Dah’ling I was told your room had gone to the Duke of Ormandy, truly I thought you weren’t coming, well well, I’ll bring a jigsaw puzzle in case we have a rainy day, must go now, too-da-loo.” On day of ship’s departure, Margaret arrived one hour early. She opened the tiny cabin closet, a thrill went up her spine, and the aroma of cedar was divine. Having sold her best clothes, she had little to put away, thus in no time she stood upon the balcony enjoying the view and there on the pier was Queen Nora bookended by porters carrying jigsaw puzzles and valises packed with the finery many queens feel they need, jewels, boas, ball gowns, sun clothes, rain clothes, wind clothes and hats to match. Margaret waved from her terrace. “Ha’loo! Ha’loo! Nora! I’m up here! I’m up here! It’s me!” “Don’t yell like that, Margaret. What are you doing way up there?” “I have the King Phillip’s Cabin, it’s wonderful!” Queen Margaret turned cold. Her accommodations were three levels below. She pursed her lips. “Meet me for dinner, Margaret and don’t wear that horrible emerald green gown with the puffed up sleeves.” Sydney Gay

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COLUMNIST

BRIDGE BY THE LAKE By Ken Masson

efence is generally considered to be the most difficult part of bridge, with the opening lead being one of the most critical aspects of defence. Frequently the first card faced will set the tone for one side or the other as the hand is played. However, sometimes the partner of the opening leader will see that his side have not got off to a good

start and be able to right the ship if he sees a better line of play. In the illustrated hand the defenders weren’t at their sharpest and allowed declarer to make over tricks. The bidding was short and sweet with South opening 1 no trump followed by 3 quick passes. Apparently, West was a believer in the maxim: “lead your fourth best from your longest and strongest”

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and duly placed his 5 of hearts on the table. When the dummy came down South could count one spade, two heart, three diamond and 1 club trick so the contract was never in danger but since this was a duplicate contest he would seek overtricks. East won the first trick and promptly returned the heart 8 to his partner’s king and that player exited with a low diamond won by dummy’s queen. Declarer now played a spade to his queen and when that held he was up to eight tricks. Next he tried a low club to dummy’s 10, won by East’s queen. East returned a diamond to declarer’s king and he exited with the club jack to east’s king. That was the end of the defence and South was able to claim nine tricks for a tie for top board for his side. So where did the defence go wrong? It all started with West’s choice of opening lead. Yes, fourth best of your longest and strongest is often the best lead, especially against a no-trump contract. However, that maxim presupposes you have a reasonable chance of setting up and cashing a number of tricks in your chosen suit and for that you usually need high cards

in at least one other suit to provide an entry to your hand. West was sorely lacking in this department and would have been wiser to try to find his partner’s strength. After all, East was marked with a reasonably good hand as the declaring side had not made at least a move towards a game try. In these circumstances, it is often best to hope that partner’s length is where you are short and the spade 10 would be a good choice. This lead would work well here as declarer would have to scramble for 7 tricks. East had to share some of the responsibility in this defence as he should have known that his partner held a weak hand. Upon winning the first trick and seeing either the heart queen or jack fall from South he should have known there was no future in this suit and he could have switched to a low spade. This would have regained the momentum for his side and held the declarer to 8 tricks for a better match point result. Questions or comments: email: masson.ken@ gmail.com Ken Masson

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COLUMNIST

PROFILING TEPEHUA By Moonyeen King

President of the Board for Tepehua

moonie1935@yahoo.com

ncredibly enough, in 2019 women still find themselves with their backs against the wall, fighting for their rights against violence, Femicide, job inequality, lack of representation for family violence and rape, and other forms of oppression. “Poverty has a woman’s face”, a term used when discussing the plight of women of color around the world. The History of Mexican Feminism as stated by Wikipedia, happened in three peak periods. The revolution 1915 to 1925, another in 1968 to 1990 and peaking in 1975 to 1985. As with women around the world, household commitments, children, illiteracy forced them to underpaid jobs of domesticity if they could get one at all. In this authors research, the first jobs of any significance for women were teaching and nursing, and although underpaid they were positions of respect. In 2014 a gender gap evaluation was taken and Mexico dragged behind placed 80th on the list for lack of equality. It was as late as 1990 Indigenous women started demanding their rights, voicing their concern regarding domestic, sexual assault and no representation. They also faced ethnic discrimination by women of other “class,” unlike other feminist of the time. The ‘women of color’ and the Indigenous

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struggled against ethnocentrism from the main stream feminists. Artists such as Guadalupe Marin, Frida Kahlo, Maria Izquierdo and others began demanding rights that protected them from violence, freedom in sexuality. They explored politics and inequality but not by joining feminists movements. According to Wikipedia, by mid-nineties half of Mexico’s feminists were Lesbians, after years of hiding their sexuality from Society. The Zapotec Cultures believed in a non-binary gender called ‘the third gender’, which in this writer’s humble opinion has existed since the time of man. For the barrios, women have more to fight for than equality, they fight the poverty caused from lack of education. If parents can only afford to send one child to school it is usually the boy. The girl is then trained in menial labor and Motherhood. The oppression of women could be lifted simply by education. It has been proved that the education of women has very positive effects and far outweighs the affect that educating the male has. The experience of the Tepehua Team, and that of the Zapotera team that started the Community Center in Zapotera recently, proved giving the women tools they can wear many hats...give the man the tools and he will have tunnel vision. This is not degrading the men, it is that society gave everyone a role to play, but the burden of poverty and Motherhood with no family planning opportunity fell on the woman, the responsibility always fell on the women, therefore giving them a survival strength that in the male species of all the Animal Kingdom isn’t so strong. Education is a factor in economic development. In 2017 women around the world marched in unison...in South America, it was “Ni una Minos” (Not one [woman] less,” and in the North America’s and Europe “Me Too”...and still they march.

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Special Events at Jaltepec Centro Educativo By Carole & Terry Baker Our Annual Open House event for the local community who are interested in learning more about Jaltepec, the Technical University in Hotel & Hospitality Management, will take place on Tuesday, February 19th starting at 11:00AM. Young women from all over Mexico strive to earn their Degree in Hoteleria that in turn will change their lives. Refreshments and hors dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ouevres will be served and the presentation will start at 11:00AM with a discussion of the History of Jaltepec, the Academic Program and the Scholarship Program. There will be a tour of the facilities followed by a luncheon served at 1:00PM that will show the quality of education our students receive. Seating is limited to 60 guests. Please make reservations through Linda Buckthorp at buckthorplm@ gmail.com or call her at 766-1631. Another major event taking place is the appearance of the Nuestra Senora de Zapopan, THE VIRGIN OF ZAPOPAN. This treasured icon will be making a personal visit to Jaltepec on February 10th 2019. This is a major happening and thousands of people are expected to come to Jaltepec for this visit by the beloved Virgin.

a private, non-profit institution, the most important Mexican organization in terms of boosting Corporate Social Responsibility and Philanthropic Culture. The Jaltepec certification is known as AIT - Accreditation in Institutionality and Transparency that reflects the level of institutional development of the organization. This Certification is important as it allows any person, company or institution to know with certainty the features of a private, nonprofit organization and their services to third parties.

Jaltepec has been granted another very special Accreditation by the Mexican Center for Philanthropy,

Once this certification has been granted, Jaltepec will be able to start using the certification logo in all their public documents, such as brochures, the web site, and the annual activity reports.

El Ojo del Lago / February 2019

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Fall From Grace By Julie Mignard

ear Father Andrew, It has been a very long time since we’ve spoken. Not just that, it’s been a lived-life since I was the little girl squealing in delight when you tossed me over your head. I still cherish those feelings about you. They are disassociated now from the child-tossing; they’re just strong feelings on their own. You were always the first choice in our family: The first choice for advice; the first choice for comfort; the first choice for explanation and truth-seeking. Somehow you are still the first choice, though things have changed. The years have been full. I did finally get to play many roles in life: wife, mother, scholar. All of the usual boxes were ticked—marriages (two), children (three) dogs (two), education, travel, charitable works, civil disobedience, and some real adventures. Turns out I am an adventurous soul, who knew? You might have noticed I didn’t check religion in my list of boxes. It used to be there. It was there when you threw me to the heavens. It was there when you were the first choice. Not now. It decayed and blew away. The first hint of the illness that would kill it came in North Carolina where I was one of the values workshop teachers for a human sexuality class. We were going to focus on rape that week and the four of us grad school students met to discuss how we were going to grapple with the topic. One of the stu-

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dents, Tom, was 34, older than the rest of us, with a wife and kids, he’d entered grad school mid-career. His age is important to this story. In the middle of our planning he suddenly began sobbing. No amount of comfort reached him and we all emotionally withdrew to respect his privacy-or maybe not. Maybe we were just uncomfortable with the grown man crying among us. Finally the sobs subsided. He recounted the now-familiar tale of being raped repeatedly at ten years of age by his much-worshipped parish priest. Covered in the mist of sanctity, dressed for the sacraments with his earthly spiritual father, he was still not safe. Instead of the nameless legions of boys marching through the abused ranks of the last years---this was Tom. He had been married happily for sixteen years. He had three beautiful children. He’d worked two jobs to put himself through undergrad and now grad school—all with an anvil weighing on his heart. Our discussion had unlocked the chains of his private hell. The demons of guilt and shame and betrayal imprisoned there for the last 24 years came pouring out at that minute. Unable to fathom what had happened to him at the hands of God’s representative on Earth, he’d shut down. No one ever knew. Until now. But as I said, Father Andrew, Tom was just the first whom I actually knew. I had a friend who walked this path from another angle. She was involved

from the legal side in Ireland, to unearth what happened when horrified parents, unable to get sustenance from their spiritual leaders, turned to their legal system for help. Not even justice, Father, just help to stop the plague from ravishing the trust and innocence of their young boys. This work went on for five years, peeling back layer after layer of artifice, justifications and obfuscation, as the Church tried desperately to bury the truth under an avalanche of conspiracy, while all the time nurturing a sheltered path for these priests to move on and vampire the virgin peace of new victims. The tales would put Poe to shame. That’s not even the end of it, Father. Are you getting uncomfortable with this letter? Do you want to put it down, to throw it away? That is exactly what the Church did to the young people who sought refuge within its professed beliefs. There is more, of course. The Magdalenes in Ireland, the poor girls whose parents, instructed by Mother Church, didn’t discuss the sex act with their daughters, until the fruits of those fumblings in the dark sentenced them to incarceration in convents across Ireland. How long did they get to be washerwomen while the church sold their children, or worse, let the bastards die?

Stop. Stop. I have to stop now. So sorry there is no stronger word than “incredulity,” no more powerful emotional response than “outrage” and “anger.” These are mere whispers in the deafening blast of disbelief in the extent to which an unfeeling church protected the worst and trampled the least. I don’t really know why I am writing now. Perhaps I miss the halcyon days of purity, joy, safety and innocence: being tossed in the air in a starburst of giggles. Instead, I feel that I, all of us, have been dashed to the ground just when we expected to be lifted up. Missy

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COLUMNIST

By Victoria Schmidt

No room at the Inn

Face Book meme has a billboard photo of the Grinch that says, “Don’t move to Ajijic—We’re Full.” Dale Palfrey also referenced this graphic in a story in a recent Guadalajara Reporter. This resonates with me. Each time I hear of a new development, I think “Oh no!” Maybe I’m selfish and I don’t want to share my “paradise” with anyone else. But I’m a very practical person. There really isn’t any more room. Well over a decade ago, we moved here. There was no Wal*Mart. There was no Central Laguna Mall; El Dorado had just finished its first model home. There was traffic, but rarely traffic jams. And I have friends here who talk of when they first came; there was one telephone in the square to use to make long distance calls. In my former neighborhood, a vecino told me he had spent his entire life living in a four-block radius. Those four blocks held everything he needed. Sure, developments bring jobs, and tax dollars. But it also taxes an already overburdened infrastructure. CFE, Telmex, Telcel, etc. often have service outages. The villages are struggling to make ends meet. The sidewalks are falling apart; the roads are clogged with traffic year ‘round, while the roads themselves are crumbling. Trying to cross from east to west takes more time than ever before. Yet most of these problems can be fixed. But what happens when we lose our beautiful mountain views as developers carve into

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and build large housing developments? And are they safe? A few years after we moved here, mud slides and houses cascaded down the mountain around San Juan Cosala. There was much damage to communities that could ill afford to handle the catastrophe. At the same time, there is so much to offer here, but are we seeing that we offer help and see to the needs of the Mexicans whose land this is? This is their land, their country, and their culture. Is it the right thing to do to build a large housing development that will appeal to more affluent foreigners while barrios like Tepehua are filled with Mexican’s struggling to survive in homes with dirt floors, and look out spaces in walls that don’t contain windows? Schools go without necessary supplies, and many of the Mexican’s won’t go to a doctor when necessary, even though they may qualify for IMSS or Seguro Popular. Extra medicine and surgeries cost money they don’t have. Many foreigners volunteer their time and their money to try to make up for the disparities. The projects for Tepehua are growing and helping, yet many Mexicans remain unaware despite an excellent effort. There are charities that help with education, and catastrophic medical situations and most foreigners really do try to help. But does all the new housing have to be in gated developments? Can’t older properties be modernized, refurbished, or can’t vacant lots in neighborhoods be sold to meet housing needs of newcomers? I do not wish to post a “keep out” sign, but I also don’t wish to lose the beauty and the nature that made me fall in love with Lakeside. Do I have a solution? No. I see meetings being called, and hear about permits being issued. Rumors circulate about legalities of some of the proposed changes. I’m no expert. Yet most of my Mexican friends are not in favor of losing more of their countryside for housing, even if that housing is also for Mexicans. I wish I had answers, but I don’t. Does anyone? Victoria Schmidt

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HOUSTON, THE EAGLES AND HOTEL CALIFORNIA By David Adamson Harper

was invited to Houston to present an old friend into the USA Rugby Hall of Fame at a banquet at the downtown Hilton Americas hotel. The date had been arranged to coincide with a rugby match between the USA and Scotland on the following day. The USA national rugby team is called the Eagles. I was coming down in the elevator on Friday when a well dressed middle aged lady asked me in a broad Texas accent if I was here for the Eagles. I told her yes I was and asked her if she was also a rugby fan. Texans in my experience are very friendly and invariably polite but I could see that my question had confused her. She struggled for a moment and then replied, “Do you mean that football type game?” I responded “Yes the USA Eagles are playing Scotland here tomorrow.” “Well that’s a coincidence” she said, “because the Eagles band is playing at the convention center as well. I may have looked confused so she helped me and said, “You know, Hotel California, those Eagles.” We both laughed at the coincidence and the elevator doors opened and we went our separate ways. Hotel California was very well known to me as I used to race on a sailboat named Hotel California and we often had the song blaring out at full blast. A further coincidence was that I had just read an article in my internet Daily Telegraph where people in the U.K. were now comparing the Brexit machinations with the famous song, particularly appropriate was the line, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” This in turn reminded me of another line in the song that had been subject to some discussion a few years ago. The lyrics sung were “So I called up the captain, please bring me my wine, he said, ‘we haven’t had

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that spirit here since 1969’. When a music critic pointed out to Don Henley that wine was not a spirit he made this famous response: “Thanks for the tutorial and, no, you’re not the first to bring this to my attention – and you’re not the first to completely misinterpret the lyric and miss the metaphor. Believe me I’ve consumed enough alcoholic beverages in my time to know how they are made and what the proper nomenclature is. But that line in the song has little or nothing to do with alcoholic beverages. It’s a sociopolitical statement. My only regret would be having to explain it in detail to you, which would defeat the purposes of using literary devices in songwriting and lower the discussion to some silly and irrelevant argument about chemical processes.” Rather a good putdown I thought. The metaphor in question was, I believe, alluding to the fact that the freewheeling “spirit” of the sixties ended in 1969. I had another interesting elevator experience on Sunday morning. A couple entered and the man bid me a cheery, “good morning and how are you doing today?” I responded in kind and noticed he was barefoot. He saw me looking at his feet and told me he had lost his shoes but not to worry as they lived only 45 minutes away. I asked if they had been at the Eagles concert and they happily told me yes it had been great. The elevator arrived and we parted. But I thought this is another sign of the world we live in today. Not only do you have to pay big bucks for the tickets but if you intend to partake in adult beverages you cannot take any chances on driving home so you have to part with another $250 to stay at the Hilton Americas overnight. Oh, and my USA Rugby Eagles beat Scotland, 30 to 29, to register their first ever win over a Tier One rugby nation. So a good time was had by all.

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NIXON’S THE ONE

—The Surprising Environmental Record of our 37th President By Dr. Lorin Swinehart

e seems to glower at us from old newsreels and the pages of history texts. Unlike such other national leaders as Franklin Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, he seems not to have inspired affection even among his most fervid supporters. It has been said that all is fair in love and war and politics. Well, not necessarily. Early in his political career, Richard Nixon was never loath to climb over the bodies of his opponents, even to the extent of blackening their reputations. He may have been the most complex individual to ever occupy the office of President of the United States. It is doubtful that any

of us truly understood him; perhaps it is doubtful that he understood himself. As Vice President, he was the quintessential cold warrior, promoting the Domino Theory, the view that somehow the failure to replace departing French troops in Vietnam with US forces following the 1954 debacle at Dienbienpu would result in waves of Communist demons next menacing the coast of California. At times, he appeared to

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take advantage of the demagogic ravings of the later discredited Senator Joseph McCarthy who would have had us believe that a Communist lurked beneath every one’s bed and behind every well manicured suburban rose bush. In order to win the Presidency in 1968, Nixon adopted the so-called southern strategy advanced by columnist Kevin Phillips, shamelessly seeking the support of unrepentant southern racists, even embracing the outrageously hypocritical Senator Strom Thrumond of South Carolina. “Clear it with Strom” became the catchphrase before any policy decision was agreed upon. So much for the dark side of Richard Nixon. There was another side, one for which he has been given little credit. It has been observed that Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton were the two most conservative Democratic presidents of the twentieth century and that Richard Nixon was the most liberal Republican president. When the entire record is examined, he comes across as an old fashioned New Dealer, a nuts and bolts manager determined to solve the problems that were tearing US society to shreds at the time. Convinced by economist Milton Friedman that the draft was not good for the US economy, he ended it, replacing it with an all volunteer military. Aware that the seemingly endless war in Southeast Asia was dividing the country as it had not been divided since the Civil War, he entered office planning to end the conflict within a year. Tragically, it was to take another six or seven years before he was able to extract the country from perhaps its most divisive overseas conflict. And yet, under the leadership of Gerald Ford, his successor, we were, for all intents and purposes, out of it. Hoping to solve the problem of poverty and at the same time eliminate a vast and ponderous bureaucracy, he devised a negative income tax plan, one that would outrage contemporary conservatives, more interested in ideology than problem solving. His plan was complex but never saw the light of day, shot down by southern racist Democrats in a Senate subcommittee. While he has been credited with many accomplishments, such as opening the door to relations with Mainland China, which up until then we basically tried to pretend did not even exist, perhaps it is in the area of environmental protection that Mr. Nixon accomplished the most, and for which he has yet to receive long overdue credit. Sensing that US voters were growing ever more concerned about the environment, Nixon worked with Congress to establish the Council on Water Quality and the Environmental

Protection Agency in 1970. He signed the Endangered Species Act into law in 1972, as well as the clean Water Act. In 1972, it was Nixon who banned the use of poisons to reduce the population of predators like wolves and coyotes on federal lands. In 1972, he initiated the ban on the domestic use of DDT, although it is still in use in some other nations. He even signed a migratory bird treaty with the USSR. Under his administration, more lands were devoted to national parks, wildlife refuges and wilderness areas, in sharp contrast to our current presidential administration that seeks to shrink national parks and monuments, open forests and prairies to strip mining and fracking, and degrade and defile the landscape in every way imaginable, all the while encouraging the shooting, trapping or poisoning of any creature that doesn’t look like a cow, a sheep or a pig. Nothing in Mr. Nixon’s past suggests a love of nature or a sensitivity with regard to wildlife or habitat, although he seemed to love the ocean and the seacoast, whether at his homes on the California coast or in Florida’s Biscayne Bay. Perhaps he simply recognized the direction that society was headed in and proceeded to lead them there. It is doubtful that such cynicism is justified. He tried to be, above all else, a problem solver. In the end, rendered nearly ineffective by his role in covering up the Watergate scandal, he chose political self immolation rather than put the nation through more of the impeachment process. I never voted for Mr. Nixon. In 1968, I spent my Saturday mornings standing in supermarket parking lots handing out Eugene McCarthy for President brochures, as quixotic an endeavor as I have ever engaged in, given that my hometown of Ashland, Ohio was rockribbed Republican to the core. I repeated my folly in 1972, going door to door and serving on a phone bank for George McGovern. At the height of the Watergate scandal, I circulated a petition urging Nixon’s impeachment. No one will ever know who the man was who lived behind that mask of Cold War rhetoric, who catered to society’s most base instincts with phrases like “Will it play in Peoria” and referring to his political base as the silent majority, perhaps unaware that the term originated in The Iliad and referred to the dead. Still, credit where credit is due. He was one of our more innovative and successful environmental presidents. Lorin Swinehart

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The Superfluity Of Valentine’s Day A time for lovers, so they say, for me it’s just another day, since all my days begin and end, with thoughts of you. The truest day to celebrate, the day you came into my view, every day since then, too rich to calculate, but fearful you might not appreciate, I must give another clue, to the depth of my devotion, the constancy of my emotion, I yield to the banality convention now imposes, and gift you dear, again, with chocolate and roses.

—Steve Griffin—

The Torn Flag Flapping limply on broken string, Its power gone, merely a thing. Symbol of country, of honor and glory, Marched into battle, tells many a story. But what if the barriers dividing our lands No longer were needed, instead, linking hands, We’d lower the poles flying separatist flags, Stop fighting each other, they’d soon become rags, No more to wrap soldiers who’ve died, leaving grief, Be they red, white and blue, or bright maple leaf. For so long as we raise them, insist on their worth, We’ll always have conflict and no peace on this earth. Be the icon a star or a sickle or stripe, A flag is divisive encouraging strife. by Gabrielle Blair

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The Hourglass By Michael James Cook

She cried to the Southern Wind as she took him to her sacred place All vestiges that had protected her were scattered In a bedroom that had waited many years to see her form revealed In her beautiful naked wedding gown The tide of her womb drew him in from the shallows into deeper water The breeze of his breath became warmer as he looked down upon her gracile face I am the writer and you would think that would be a perfect ending But like the scales of justice Destiny is often weighted on the side of sadness Ships and paths cross but are eluded sometimes by the passage of time It all comes down to when the hourglass is turned upside down And the stars of life begin to fall Not always in a stream They sometimes kiss in an immense memory that is never forgotten Though buried with the weight of life they surface from time to time In moments of moisture And so the recurring dream is vividly remembered once again Of what could have been What should have been A brief encounter of years gone past The sweetness of such little history leaves you wanting more But then it seems that the said is yet again unsaid Until the next time Maybe For the wish still becomes a wish that lacks the courage of an honest dialogue Tis then such moments disappear over an emotional horizon The smile still lingers and it will always be there Till For if love exists We must pluck it out the air and lay it safe It is for your eyes only Thus the Universe can wait its turn to sprinkle them with cosmic dust In a magnificent Nebula of love’s creation But alas as much as time can ravage us With obstacles that our resilience seems to overcome We wait once more for the happenstance bus to come along And looking at your watch will not speed it along Now look at the hourglass and wonder if a larger grain will block the passage Thus giving love’s moments the time to flourish Let it wake the years lost that should have been claimed so long ago A new year is upon us and we ask ourselves Why so quick Why the moments don’t become eternal As you smile at the indentation on the pillow And wonder if this is something lasting Yet you smile as you smell the coffee brewing Knowing the reason why you had a sleepless night Let the scented dew of love rise like a coastal mist That cools the skin from whence it came And the hourglass which defied gravity in love’s time Begins to flow once more till the next time I am the writer I wonder if the opening paragraph was the beginning or the end I think I will leave it for you to decide if the sands of time got it right for once

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If Our Pets Could Talk By Jackie Kellum

ho is the better listener? Your spouse / partner or your pet? A poll by Associated Press Poll did a survey of pet owners of both sexes asking this question. The spouse / partner did not come out one hundred per cent. In fact, a third of pet-owning women said their pets are better listeners than their spouse /partner. Eighteen percent of pet-owning men said their pets are better listeners than their women counter-parts. Many of those involved in the study, actually ten per cent of those polled, felt more comfortable discussing problems with their pets. Although the pet did not offer any suggestions or opinions, they did not make any judgments either. At times of stress people might say things to another person in that moment, that they might regret later. This pet relax time gives the ‘troubled’ person some time to relax, think about the problem from both view points and go from there with a solution. And frequently a lick from their pet dog offered a great calming effect during this stressful time. Comparing dogs versus cats as calming ‘therapists’, the dogs came out ahead of cats. Twenty-five percent of dog owners said their canines listened better than a spouse, while only fourteen percent of cat owners chose the feline instead of a spouse / partner as the better listener. Dogs can teach us to be good listeners. Although your pet may not understand the words you are saying, they are ‘reading’ your emotions - the highs

and especially the ‘lows.’ They realize it is not always the words that are being said, but more in how you are telling what you are saying. They provide us with unconditional support. Pets do not take over the conversation, indicate what you are saying and feeling is not ‘valid’ or rush you to get to the point of the conversation. Dogs are quick to forgive, they don’t care what you look like, and they freely give their love and affection. They never talk back, never give us the wrong opinion and they are always there for us. One of their special attributes is even when you tell them your deepest and darkest secrets, they do not gossip. A pet does not ask intrusive unnecessary questions, does not moralize, or give unwanted opinions. They just seem to understand what you need - their attention and presence. For those who live alone with a pet, talking out loud offers comfort. It also stops questioning by others about your mental state when someone observes you speaking out loud when there is no other person seen in the room. You can always claim you were talking to your pet. Netflix also did a pet versus partner survey with over one-thousand pet owners. This survey revealed that eighty-four percent of those surveyed have watched Netflix with their furry friends, and—perhaps unsurprisingly seventy-one percent think their pet is the better partner for watching movies. And really, it does make sense as pets don’t talk during the ‘good parts’ of the movie, and they only sneak a tiny bit of your movie ‘munchies.’ Another reason stated in the survey was their pet was there in times of need. In fact, twentyeight percent of those people said that their pet gave them needed comfort during the scary and sad parts of the movie. Our pets are truly therapeutic ‘medicine’—without the side-effects. Jackie Kellum

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Laughs Courtesy Of These Jewish Comedians!

hecky Greene, Red Buttons, Totie Fields, Joey Bishop, Milton Berle, Jan Murray, Danny Kaye, Henny Youngman, Buddy Hackett, Sid Caesar, Groucho Marx, Jackie Mason, Woody Allen, Lenny Bruce, George Burns, Allan Sherman, Jerry Lewis, Carl Reiner, Shelley Berman, Gene Wilder, George Jessel, Alan King, Mel Brooks, Phil Silvers, Jack Carter, Rodney Dangerfield, Don Rickles, Jack Benny and so many others. * I just got back from a pleasure trip. I took my mother-in-law to the airport. * I’ve been in love with the same woman for 49 years! If my wife ever finds out, she’ll kill me! * What are three words a woman never wants to hear when she’s making love? “Honey, I’m home!” * Someone stole all my credit cards but I won’t be reporting it. The thief spends less than my wife does. * We always hold hands. If I let go, she shops. * My wife and I went back to the hotel where we spent our wedding night; only this time I stayed in the bathroom and cried. * My wife and I went to a hotel where we got a waterbed. My wife called it The Dead Sea. * She was at the beauty shop for two hours. That was only for an estimate. She got a mudpack and looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off. * The Doctor gave a man six months to live. The man couldn’t pay his bill so the doctor gave him another six months. * The Doctor called Mrs. Cohen saying, “Mrs. Cohen, your check came back..” Mrs. Cohen answered, “So did my arthritis!” * Doctor: “You’ll live to be 60!” Patient: “I am 60!” Doctor: “See! What did I tell you?” * Patient: “I have a ringing in my ears.” Doctor: “Don’t answer!” * A drunk was in front of a judge. The judge says, “You’ve been brought here for drinking.” The drunk says “Okay, let’s get started.” * Why do Jewish divorces cost so much? Hey, they’re worth it. * The Harvard School of Medicine did a study of why Jewish women like Chinese food so much. The study revealed that this is due to the fact that Won Ton spelled backward is Not Now.

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Jack Benny There is a big controversy on the Jewish view of when life begins. In Jewish tradition, the fetus is not considered viable until it graduates from medical school. * Q: Why don’t Jewish mothers drink? A: Alcohol interferes with their suffering. * Q: Why do Jewish mothers make great parole officers? A: They never let anyone finish a sentence! * A man called his mother in Florida , “Mom, how are you?” “Not too good,”said the mother. “I’ve been very weak.” The son said, “Why are you so weak?” She said, “Because I haven’t eaten in 38 days.” The son said, “That’s terrible. Why haven’t you eaten in 38 days?” The mother answered, “Because I didn’t want my mouth to be filled with food if you should call.” * A Jewish boy comes home from school and tells his mother he has a part in the play. She asks, “What part is it?” The boy says, “I play the part of the Jewish husband.” The mother scowls and says, “Go back and tell the teacher you want a speaking part.” * Q: How many Jewish mothers does it take to change a light bulb? A: (Sigh) “Don’t bother. I’ll sit in the dark. I don’t want to be a nuisance to anybody.” * They tried to kill us. We won. Let’s eat. * Did you hear about the bum who walked up to a Jewish mother on the street and said, “Lady, I haven’t eaten in three days.” “Force yourself,” she replied. * Q: What’s the difference between a Rottweiler and a Jewish mother? A: Eventually, the Rottweiler lets go. A-a-h! Memories of the good ole days! Thanks!

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Love Letters To Bad* Men By Gloria Palazzo gloria_palazzo@yahoo.com

love Bill because he tried his best to be a good father. He worked long hours to bring home money. He taught me how to ride a two wheeler. It was an old green one with fat tires and the boy who owned it got killed in the war. Bill called me, “Hatface.” He said I looked good in the ladies hats he made in his factory. I love my mother’s second husband, Albert, because even though he was not a nice person he took good care of my mother while she was sick with Alzheimer’s. I love my half brother Ted because he is very kind, He is also very big and even though he is so much younger than me, because of his size and teddy bear gentleness, I can make believe that he is the older brother I always wished I had. I love my first boyfriend Ronnie because his parents brought him to Rockaway and he used to keep me company while I baby sat. I was twelve and he was thirteen. When the family returned the following summer, he still liked me. I was surprised. I love Jimmy because his sister introduced us and he became our high school president. We were so popular that the kids on the bus saved seats for us. His parents did not approve of me and so he stopped coming around. I went to his house on Halloween and they didn’t know it was me behind that silly mask. I love Robert because he was the smartest student in his class and he was studying to be a brain surgeon. He bought me a dictionary for my birthday, I once sneaked out of my dormitory to go with him to watch Syracuse and Cornell play football. He slipped out of my life but surfaced in my thoughts every day for eleven years. I love Jules because he is the father of my children and because his mother was a great cook. He helped me to escape my home because I did not have the guts to run away. He was a good dancer and taught me to dance the Mambo. He also had an infectious laugh. I love Steve because he was my first baby. He is very handsome. When he started to walk he looked so cute waddling around with my big old coffee pot. He didn’t like toys. Only the coffee pot. I once heard his brother say he was a

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chrome magnum. I do not know what that is. I love Robert because he was a beautiful baby with big blue eyes and curly blond hair. He looked like an angel, but the devil got into him for a while. It was in the form of beer, marijuana and pretty girls. Later he became the best driver that UPS ever had. My grandson Jason calls him dad. I love John because he was my last baby. He was such a good baby. His dedication to his studies and his devotion to me were a treasure. His affection and loyalty kept me on a sane course when everything around me seemed to be falling apart. I love Fred because he taught me how to drive long distances in a big truck carrying heavy machinery. He also taught me how to put a worm on a hook, catch a fish, unhook it, clean it, and then fry it up right there on the beach and savor the solitude of togetherness in nature. I love Jim Palazzo for all the right reasons. He adored women. He also liked them. I carried acres of sadness and anger when we met and he taught me to love and trust with truth and honesty. Thank you, Jim. And thanks too for the name, Palazzo. I love Dell Krietel because he lifted me right out of Walmart’s where I was demonstrating Kodak cameras. We made love the way it is described in steamy novels. That was one hell of an awakening. The affair lasted three months, but the residual lingers on. I love Perry because he was funny and very rich. We met by chance in Bimini where we enjoyed a three day love affair. It was supposed to end there, but it didn’t and we hop scotched in Tampa society for two years. Fate separated us when he didn’t recover from surgery. His death shattered my dreams but he continues to visit me every time I see a butterfly. I love Archie because his wagging tail and loving eyes never faltered even though he was often scolded for messes and spills. He pawed his way into our hearts and barked dutifully to protect us. My last great love leaves a trail of smoking dust and jagged tears as this broken heart tiptoes, ever searching for just one more ‘bad’ man. “Bad” in the best sense of the word.

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Sandy Olson

Phone: 331-283-8529 Email: sandyzihua@hotmail.com

ART WALK Mark your calendars! ASA’s Open Studios Art Walk is held on Saturday and Sunday, February 9 and 10 from 10 am to 4 pm. This event offers artists the chance to show the public their work where it was created, whether in a studio, garage or back yard. Artist Shannon Kilkenny The entry ticket is a catalogue featuring a photo of a creative work by each artist. Catalogues are on sale at the Lake Chapala Society, with sales continuing until February 8. OPEN CIRCLE Sunday morning finds Lakeside residents at the Lake Chapala Society and Open Circle, a forum on a variety of stimulating topics. A Artist Shannon Kilkenny social hour with coffee and snacks at 10 am is followed by an interesting lecture and discussion at 10:30. February 10 Why All the Volatility and What This Means for Investors Presented by Yann Kostic and Tom Zachystal “The Worst December for the Dow Jones since the Great Depression,” “Dow down 1,000 points one day and up a 1,000 points the next,”“Markets down 20% between October 1st and Christmas.” We’ve all seen the headlines about the recent market volatility. After a decade of relative consistency and positive performance in investment markets, volatility has intensified. Last March, Yann and Tom warned of this possibility and even suggested that it might start in October 2018. In this, their fourth annual Open Circle presentation, Investment Managers Yann Kostic and Tom Zachystal will give a historical perspective on investment markets and volatility and discuss the current situation and where we might be headed. Tom Zachystal, CFP, CFA, and Yann Kostic MBA, are both US Registered Investment Advisors (RIA) and cater to US expats in Mexico. You can read their regular column in the Lakeside Sun at http://www.lakesidesun.com/. February 17 The Rise and Fall of a Foreign Retirement Community in Mexico Presented by David Truly Mexico has a long history as a popular destination for often eccentric foreign retirees and expats. Recent changes in the socio-political climate and the influx of aging baby boomers, however, have resulted in a migration trend that has exerted significant pressures on both the natural and socio-cultural fabric of some retirement destinations. Private and public agencies now aggressively promote retirement migration to enhance Mexico’s tourism development initiatives. Dr. Truly offers an overview of recent studies that reflect some of these changes in the Lake Chapala area and the role of the foreign and Mexican communities in this transformation. A brief review of tourism and retirement research will shed light on the unique nature of this community and its fragile existence. David Truly has a PhD in Geography and has studied retirement migration to Mexico since 1997. Formerly a professor at Central Connecticut State University, he has taught at the Universidad Autónoma de Guadalajara and has conducted numerous studies on senior housing and health care throughout Mexico. He is currently living in Austin, Texas. February 24 A Shot in the Dark Presented by Phil Rylett Vaccines were once heralded as the savior from the scourge of infectious diseases. The worry of once commonplace and devastating diseases could be eliminated by a widespread program of vaccinations. Then why, a couple of generations later, are vaccinations feared and opposed with the same fervor as the diseases they allegedly prevent? Phil will look at one particular vaccination program that has gained so much

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notoriety that even the US president has weighed in on the issue. The story might surprise you. Phil takes a look at the intriguing story behind the scenes of a vaccination that today is mired in controversy. Phil Rylett has spent his entire career in healthcare, first as a pharmacologist then as a nurse and then managing a statewide program for early detection of breast and cervical cancer. March 3 Global Warming, Climate Change, and Renewable Energy for Mexico Presented by Donald W. Aitken, Ph.D. Dr. Aitken will give a pictorial two-year overview of the extraordinarily fast, increasingly extreme, and now better understood global responses to (including the human costs of),a small increase in global temperature and large increases in global climate-warming emissions. Global renewable energy growth and Mexico’s Phil Rylett recent strides in large industrial and utility scale renewable energy will also be documented. Dr. Aitken, a 12 year resident of Ajijic, is a former Research Professor of High Energy Nuclear Physics and Astrophysics at Stanford University and founder and long-time Chairman of the Department of Environmental Studies at San Jose State University. He later served as the Executive Director of the US Department of Energy’s Western Regional Solar Energy Center and as the Senior Staff Scientist for Renewable Energy Policy and Economics with the Union of Concerned Scientists. He is widely published and has received many awards for his lifetime service to these fields. Please note that this PowerPoint talk will take place at the Club Exotica from 10:30-12:00. SUNDAY AFTERNOON….. …. after Open Circle is the time to go to the 2019 Jewish Film Festival this month. As usual, the movies are shown at 1:30 at Cinemas del Lago, Bugambilias Plaza. February 10 Three Identical Strangers Three strangers are reunited by astonishing circumstances after being born identical triplets, separated at birth, and adopted by three different families is a feel good story for everyone. February 17 Crimes And Misdemeanors The poignant, penetrating, and scathingly hilarious film by Woody Allen about the complexity of human choices is one of the watershed films of his career. February 24 RBG At age 85 Ruth Bader Ginsberg has developed a lengthy legal legacy while becoming an unexpected pop culture icon. This film presents her journey to the U.S. Supreme Court. CABARET! DINNER SHOW Celebrate Valentine’s Day February 14 with The Freedom Group, in a high energy dinner show at la Bodega. The show will be repeated on February 17. Aside from the music, there all be an option of lasagna, a three-piece fried chicken dinner with salads, complimentary tequila and gourmet popcorn and 10% off on all drinks. The evening features dancing, music, comedy and more. Tickets for the dinner and show are $300 and $350 at the door. They are available at La Bodega, Mia’s Boutique and Diane Pearl Colecciones. On February 14 the bar opens at 5 pm, dinner service is at 5:45 and the one-hour show starts at 7 pm. At the February 17 Sunday matinee, the doors open at 3 Left to right back row: Dave Salyers, Len Locke, pm, dinner is at 3:45 and Amy Friend, Mimi Hanes; front row: Jim Barto, the show starts at 5 pm. Diana Laris, Cindy Paul, Sue Hoffman

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There is no reserved seating. A portion of the proceeds goes to The Ranch Animal Rescue Center. For details write ChapalaFreedomChorale@gmail.com or call 376-766-1002. EASY MONEY? The next Lakeside Little Theatre production is The Same Deep Water as Me. It’s directed by Neal Checkoway. Show dates are February 15 - 24. Near-washed-up lawyer Andrew is one half of Scorpion Claims, a rundown legal

Front Row: Mark Donaldson (seated), Kelly Mills, Patricia Guy, Emily Crocker, Judy Long, Bruce Stanley, Jill Flyer, John Ward (seated). Back Row: David Dennis, Todd Pifer, Rob Stupple, Russell Mack, Johan Dirkes. outfit run by benign Barry. When Andrew’s former schoolmate Kevin turns up with a claim about a minor car accident, Barry dismisses him on the grounds that he appears untrustworthy. But Andrew succumbs to the pressures of past ties and the possibility of easy money. A review: “Darkly comic … this is a shrewd, smart play that takes an uncompromising look at the so-called compensation culture.” -The New York Times Tickets are $250 and are available at LLT’s Box Office from 10 to noon every Wednesday and Thursday, also one hour before curtain. The evening shows are at 7:30 pm and matinees are at 4 pm. The first Saturday and both Sundays are matinees.  For email reservations, email tickets@lakesidelittletheatre.com or call 376.766.0954.  CAFE MORTALITY AJIJIC Come to Danny’s Restaurant (Carretera Oriente 2 east of Colon), Ajijic, on Tuesday, February 19 from 3 to 4:30 pm for an informal, respectful conversation about dying. It’s a place to share stories and perspectives. There is no agenda. Attendees do the sharing. The co-hosts are Debi Buckland and Loretta Downs. Space for 30 only is limited; reservations are requested. RSVP to cafemortalityajijic@ gmail.com. 65 pesos for tea or coffee includes tip. Dessert is extra. All funds go directly to Danny’s Restaurant. A LOOK AROUND AND LUNCH TOO Centro Educativo Jaltepec invites members of the community to visit the school for a tour and lunch on Tuesday, February 19, starting at 11 am. In this school, young women from all over Mexico come to earn the Degree in Hoteleria that in turn will change their lives. Refreshments and hors d’ouevres will be served. The presentation will start at 11 am with a discussion of the history of Jaltepec, the academic program and the scholarship program. A tour of the facilities is followed by a luncheon served at 1 pm that will demonstrate the quality of education these students receive. Seating is limited to 60 guests. Please make reservations through Linda Buckthorp at buckthorplm@gmail.com or call her at 766-1631. SPINNING, DYEING AND WEAVING Check out this new class taught by Brad Mowers, who gets a rave review from prominent local artist Francisco Nava: “A craftsman, a scholar, a musician, a gardener and farmer, a reminder that the world can be a beautiful place if we invest our energies towards her healing and sustainability. This person is Bradley ‘Weaver’ Mowers.” The five classes meet on Wednesdays and Fridays in Chapala, beginning February 20. There will be a maximum of six students. The fee is $1000, which includes instruction and materials. A $500 deposit is required to hold your place in class. To register, email

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Brad at bdmowers@gmail.com. ANOTHER CANADIAN GEM Bare Stage Theatre is presenting yet is another Canadian gem of a play, You Will Remember Me, by award-winning playwright François Archambault, one of Canada’s most compelling writers. The show runs February 22, 23 and 24. It’s directed by Bernadette Jones. The plot: the man at the centre of the play, Edouard, is brilliant. A scholar and frequent commentator on Canadian sovereignty, the retired professor can expound on almost anything with great erudition. Trouble is, he The Cast: Ken Yakwichuk, Director Bernadette Jones, can’t remember Tina Dawn Leonard, Roger Larson, Linda Freeman and what he’s said five Lynn Phelan minutes later and has to be continually re-introduced to each person he’s talking to, with the exception of his wife, Madeleine and their daughter, Isabelle. The theatre is at Hidalgo #261 on the mountain side of the carretera in Riberas del Pilar, across from the Catholic Church. Parking is available in the parking lot of the Baptist Church, behind the theater. Donation is $100. The Box Office and bar open at 3 p.m. Reservations are by email at: barestagetheaatre2018@gmail.com. For those who use Facebook, look for Bare Stage Theatre 2018 for breaking news and updates. LLT 2018-2019 PLAYHOUSE SERIES The next play in LLT’s Playhouse Series is Julie, by Polly Stenham after August Strindberg. It runs March 2 and 3, with 4 pm performances. Wild and newly single, Julie throws a late night party. The play examines how class divisions and middle class ennui exist today, and can result in similar tragic results. Warning: there is strobe lighting and it may have adult themes and languages. GOOD STUFF AT THE BEACH Last month in La Manzanilla two of our Lakeside authors Rachel McMillen and Judy Dykstra-Brown joined with Colima author Roberta Rich to give a reading in benefit of the local Helping Hands Bookstore, which provides scholarships for local kids. Rachel McMillen writes mystery novels set in British Columbia, Roberta Rich is the author of the popular Midwife of Venice historical romances and Judy Roberta Rich, Judy Dykstra-Brown Dykstra-Brown is and Rachel McMillen a poet, memoirist, and blogger. You can read her daily poetry/prose/photo blog at judydykstrabrown.com VIVA LA MUSICA Saturday March 2 La Fille du Regiment by Donizetti. A story of love and loyalty featuring soprano Pretty Yende and mezzo-soprano Stephanie Blythe offering a feast of bel canto vocal fireworks (215 minutes). The bus leaves t 10:30 for the noon show. Viva bus trips to the Met Opera are $450 and $550 for non-members. Tickets are available at the LCS ticket area Thursdays and Fridays from 10 to noon, or by calling Rosemary Keeling at 766-1801.

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Man, What A Trip! By Paul Allen

any of those who peruse this missive will, because of their distance in the journey of life, recall sayings which have largely faded away. One such expression which preceded a subject line was the word “Man...” Frequently heard was ‘Man, what a movie!’ or ‘Man, did you see that?’, or ‘Man, can that guy sing!’ It was used for exclamation, or even a sense of praise. One which was used a lot was, ‘Man, what a trip!’ This could be referring to a journey of some kind. However, it was not limited to that. It could easily refer to an experience which made a great impression. Of course, in this case, the subject might be a myriad of events depending on the individual and his assessment of life. Another ‘oldie’ was that it ‘turned me on’. This usually meant an impressive impact on a person. It could mean a scene, a song, a painting, a fancy car, and the list goes on. These examples describe an earthly or material reflection. Nothing is really wrong in this sense. However, could this be applied to something much

deeper in the soul and spirit? If one has a deep, spiritual experience, or a moving revelation of spiritual importance, we might think in past jargon, ‘Man, what a trip!’ ‘Man, I’m glad this has become clear to me!’ ‘Man, how did I ever miss this?’ We need to understand that this mode of thought and expression is much deeper than, say, a great oratorio. It is because we are spirit, we have a soul, and we live in a body. Not the other way around. The Eternal God is the cause of all this. He is way ahead of us and wants us to walk in His plan. This journey is why we respond the way we do by saying, “Man, what a trip!” Because He understands our true motive and response, He receives this jargonistic expression. The real importance is if He is guiding your journey!

VISITING MY PAST LIFE: An Ex-Pat Perspective By Alejandra Gordon

t’s always baffled me as to why anyone in mourning for a someone “departed” would want to think of them as watching, or being near them. Can you imagine what it would be like to be a ghost among the living? To “be present without being connected.” To be there, but yet not be? After a decade of living in Mexico, that’s how I feel when I visit my home country. Like a specter, I’m just a spectator: not involved in the daily life of everyone else rushing about, but bearing witness to it. Connected by the history of some shared experience, but feeling as disconnected as someone trying to dial seven digits for a local

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phone number in Los Angeles, when now you need to dial all ten to connect. (Who knew?) Should it be true that those who really are “departed” (in the mortal sense of the word) are present with us, I hope they at least have the same dispassion I feel to not one of those living in my former home town. I’m fine with it. If there are ghosts bearing witness, I hope they’re fine with it, too. If anything, when I see folks of retirement age still in downtown gridlock, I piteously wonder, “What the heck are you still doing here?” I keep that thought to myself, however. Comments like that might be as welcome as…seeing a ghost.

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ETERNALLY YOURS—On Death And Dying MAKING FRIENDS WITH DEATH By Loretta Downs

even years ago, I arrived in Ajijic for a month-long winter respite from Chicago. I was expecting solitude to write and was delighted and surprised by how easy it was to make friends here. Some, I know, will be friends for life. At that time, I had spent 25 years companioning family members, people with AIDS, hospice and hospital patients, and nursing home residents through the end of life. I walked in healthcare with the sick and I sat at the bedside of the dying, all voluntarily. The whole experience fascinated me, called to me to learn more about dying. I studied dying and death, took classes, read books, listened to teachers, and watched Death at work. As a result, I learned more about living than I ever could have. Death taught me about being grateful, compassionate, non-judgmental, being present and being in the present, listening carefully, feeling joy even in the face of adversity, and appreciating every breath I take with the awareness that one will be my last. Death is an experience that can-

not be avoided. If you fear flying, you can choose to drive or take a train. You don’t like broccoli? You can choose to push it off your plate. Afraid to die? No choice. But there are choices and decisions about how to die when you get there. That is why making friends with Death is as beneficial as making friends anywhere. The contemporary end-of-life experience is like none other in human history. For millions of years we died much younger and we died quickly from injuries, infectious diseases, or organs that stopped working. Child mortality was high. We all died at home, surrounded by loved ones and cared for by family and neighbors. Everyone witnessed death, and understood the dying process. Death was a natural part of life and we developed rituals around the way it affected us. Today we live twice as long as we did just 120 years ago. Science has mastered treatments for chronic illnesses, extending both our living and our dying processes, sometimes beyond what we would choose. Many of us die in ICUs, with loved ones be-

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lieving, “We did everything we could to keep her alive.” Though 75% of us say we want to die at home, that many of us are dying in institutions where dying is not recognized as a natural part of life, one that deserves sacred space. Why? Because we don’t talk about dying. We don’t prepare for Death. We do not make friends with Death, learn how she meets us. We fear the mystery, we fear acknowledging our own mortality. That fear stops us from exploring the possibilities that accepting impermanence can teach us. It stops us from talking about what’s important to us when we do face death. It stops us from connecting deeply to each other in our shared mortality. It stops us from having peaceful, gentle deaths. Baby Boomers and their children are giving energy to the “Death Positive” movement spreading around the world, the same way the Natural Birth Movement has done. We want our loved ones to be included in this most significant experience. We want our values and beliefs honored at every major life passage, especially the last one. We want to end well, in comfort and with dignity—at any age. Healthcare organizations are getting the message. The era of paternal medicine is over. They are now working to teach their staffs about “Person-Centered Care” and “Shared Decision Making in Critical Illness,” for discussing advance directives before it’s too late. The key to ending well is for anyone over 18 to engage in the lifelong process of advance healthcare planning, making decisions about treatment choices before you become too ill to do it.

“Compassion and Choices” offers useful tools, including a Dementia Provision for your living will. Option for treatments and care at the end of life are expanding. From palliative care and hospice, voluntarily stopping eating and drinking (VSED), legal Medical Aid in Dying (MAID) available in seven US states (20 more are considering it) and all of Canada The “Death Positive” Movement is creating new ways to approach Death. Professional death doulas and death midwives are being trained in large numbers to guide patients and loved ones through the natural process. “Death Cafes” are being held all over the world—watch for notices on “Café Mortality Ajiijc” events—as are “Death over Dinner” parties. People are making their own coffins and cremation containers. The desire for natural burial and places to do it are increasing. We are walking toward meeting Death at a good time. The reason for this special section is because Lakeside is home, if even for a short time, to a rapidly growing and aging community. That means more of us need help and more of us die here each year. Besides the high quality legal and medical professionals, care homes, and funeral providers who are paid to serve us in sickness and death, there are many others supporting the inevitable end-of-life experience for all of us. Some of their stories are in these pages. Our hopes for this Special Section on Making Friends with Death is that you will begin to open your door to the positive aspects of planning ahead; that you begin to have conversations with your loved ones about what ending well means to you; that you take care of the business of dying so not to leave a mess for someone who loves you; that you want to learn about the dying process and the options available to you when you have to face it; and that when you do face it for yourself or someone you love, you can be present—whether near or far away. Let’s face the fear together. Let’s prepare together. Let’s open to the mystery and create support together. Let’s make friends with Death, because making friends with Death will give you a friend for life. Ed. Note: Loretta Downs can be contacted at www.endoflifeinspirations.

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Freedom Chorale:

Walking Each Other Home By Cindy Paul

hen Pastor Robin Moore told me about the Threshold Choirs cropping up all over the world, I asked her what they were about, exactly. She said these people got together and learned very soft, chant-like songs and then sang them a cappella at the bedsides of those who were on the threshold between life and death. I said, “That’s what I want to do!” It felt natural to create such a choir, because I had recently lost

my mother and my husband and was casting about for a creative outlet that would be grounding and nourishing for me. I needed light and what better way to find it than to share it? So I gathered some like-minded singers, wonderful people with the will to bring a little light into the world. We’ve been singing together since early 2018, and we’ve had some unforgettable experiences along the way. In our “Journal of Sings” we keep notes on the mo-

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ments that stand out: “Art was lonely and wanted to talk. He was gracious and full of love, and ended up singing with us, weeping as he sang and as he listened. He told us he forgave his brother and would see him in the light, and he said, many times, that he had been changed by the music.” And another entry: “Today we sang several songs, but the highlight came right after ‘Shenandoah’ when Robert said he didn’t know whether to applaud or pray.” In striving to deliver comfort and peace through song, our group has learned to sing softly with energy and to sing as one voice, both huge accomplishments for any choir, no matter what size. The number of singers in Freedom Chorale fluctuates, depending on which expats among us happen to be in town. We welcome anyone with a true voice and good attitude, and there’s no need to be able to read music. As director of the Chorale, it’s my hope that eventually we’ll have two groups of singers and can visit twice as many homes where there are shut-ins and people longing for a welcome break in their routine. Where we sing, what we sing, and why Today, Freedom Chorale sings at private homes, nursing homes, and in public. We find that even heavily medicated and semi-comatose patients respond to our soft bedside singing, a moving experience for us. Many of those living in nursing homes are confined to wheelchairs, but enjoy music that is a bit more rowdy than our threshold-style chants and lullabies. For them, we bring about an hour of well-known 60s tunes, and they often sing along. A few titles include “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Country Roads,” and “Peaceful, Easy Feeling.” We just breeze in and start singing, and the staff brings their charges out so they can enjoy music they love for a little while. Revisiting our youth in 60’s Singalongs But we don’t stop there! On Tuesdays, Freedom Chorale moseys over to La Bodega de Ajijic to present our 60’s Sing to the public from 4-5:30 pm. We project the lyrics onto a screen, and everybody has a nostalgia fest singing while the guitar plays. We relax with one another, in the unspoken realization that these songs bind us, even as they shaped our collective young identities and our visions of the world we grew up in. Sound Voyages – an experi-

ment in aural therapy Along with the nursing homes and the 60s Sing, Freedom Chorale also explores methods of changing energy through sound. This is a fascinating field loosely referred to as ‘sound therapy.’ We employ the chants that we’ve developed in combination with manipulated recordings of sounds such as Tibetan bells and ocean waves. Listeners find their spirits renewed as they are treated to meditative audio cues designed to help them reconnect with their personal still, small voices. The heart of it all Though Freedom Chorale is in its infancy, it is mature and focused in its mission. Freedom Chorale singers come from all walks of life. Two were nuns in their early years, and two grew up on a farm. While some of our singers have experience performing, nothing we do is performance-oriented. This is, in fact, the very crux of our character as a choir. When one is performing, it can often be like asking for energy. But when one is chanting, singing softly at a bedside, or happily reliving the songs one learned in high school, it’s more like sharing energy. We connect to others through music and sound, and we create a circle of energy that reverberates long after we physically separate. For me, directing the group has been incredibly fulfilling. Each time I sing to someone who knows they are dying, each time I share an old 60’s tune with another person of my generation, and each time I see a beaming face after a Sound Voyage session, I know I’m doing what I’m meant to do on this planet. We do not charge for our services. For more details on Freedom Chorale, please find us on Facebook, write ChapalaFreedomChorale@gmail.com, or join us on a Tuesday afternoon at La Bodega. Sing along to some of those great tunes we all know and love, or just let the music take you away. Singing him home. The Freedom Chorale at a special Ajijic Writers Group meeting on November 30, 2018 to honor Poet Jim Tipton, who had mentored a lot of those writers. They planted a cypress tree with a plaque in the garden at The Nueva Posada. Left to right: Sue Hoffman, Judy McKinnon, Susan Miller, Dave Salyers, Tom McClure, Mimi Hanes, Amy Friend, Lila Wells, Cindy Paul. You can see them perform at the memorial: https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=sA1Mk4_ aw-c&feature=youtu.be

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How the Lakeside Jewish Community Attends to End-of-Life Challenges By Elizabeth Katz and Betty Shiffman

ike many religious communities all over the world, the lakeside Jewish community is largely unaffiliated. The Lake Chapala Jewish Congregation, aka LCJC or “the synagogue,” has adopted the view that it is not only a congregation in the religious sense, but also a generator of occasions to congregate for secular purposes - to share food, music, and film, for example, and not least, to face together the challenges that arise at the end of life. Dying is dying, death is death and mourning is mourning: what’s different about Jewish dying, death and mourning? Some examples: Jewish tradition encourages us to accept death and to meet it thoughtfully. Jews have a meaningful custom called Ethical Wills, a statement of the accumulated wisdom and values which we have attained through our life’s experience. Jews bless the memory of our departed loved ones by affirming life. That is the message of one of Judaism’s best known prayers, the Kaddish. In Jewish tradition, although the human form no longer embodies the spirit, we continue to show respect for that form. At the same time, we believe that the soul, newly freed from the body, is still near, and we

respect its presence. These precepts underlie the practices of washing the body, ritually purifying it and keeping watch over it. Recognizing that in death, we are all equal, Judaism encourages the use of the same simple shroud for everyone, and a plain wooden coffin as well. A Jewish burial is a “green” burial, without embalming, elaborate caskets and vaults. Traditionally, Jews do not have music at a funeral, nor is it proper to bring flowers. A gift to charity named by the deceased and in his/her honor is recommended instead of flowers. In biblical times, Jewish mourners literally tore their garments in grief. In modern times, a black ribbon is torn and then affixed to the mourner’s garments - on the left, over the heart - just before the funeral service begins. In Jewish tradition, the mourners themselves begin to fill the grave, each placing a shovel full of earth on the casket or urn. Upon return from the cemetery, mourners share a meal, called a “meal of consolation.” Traditionally, this meal does not include meat. It uses foods which are the basic staples of life, and/or which symbolize life. Hard boiled eggs and bagels are two examples. This meal is not an oc-

casion for lavish feasting and drinking. In fact, serving liquor is discouraged. The first seven days following the funeral are known as Shiva, which means seven in Hebrew. Traditionally mourners during this time lead a simplified life and shiva services are held both in the morning and the late afternoon, when family and friends gather. Less intensive Jewish mourning observances continue for about a year, ending with a ceremony at the grave, when the grave marker is unveiled. When visiting a grave, mourners leave a stone. The stone is like a calling card which says that someone who loved you came to visit. Three LCJC committees offer nonjudgmental and confidential help at the end of life. The Chesed Committee attends to all who are ill, including the terminally ill. The Shiva Committee steps in when death has occurred, and mourning begins. Both groups see themselves as vehicles for disseminating information and for facilitating action. The Cemetery Committee operates the Jewish cemetery, providing for Jews and non-Jewish spouses a rare opportunity for burial lakeside. The committees define the lakeside Jewish community to include Jews by birth, Jews by choice, and Jews at heart (non-Jewish partners). We embrace atheistic, agnostic, and nonobservant Jews, as well as Jews on the whole spectrum of Jewish observance. We welcome as well Jews who have incorporated other religious traditions into their beliefs and practices. The Jewish community works with Funeraria San Francisco in Chapala, which provides traditional plain pine coffins, and can dress

DEADBEAT SALAD RECIPE (Serves 4) 1 large jicama 2 medium red beets 1 tangerine sectioned Juice of 2 limes Sea salt to taste Directions: Peel the jicama; slice and small dice. Set aside in bowl; squeeze lime juice onto the jicama. (The acid will begin to “cook” the jícama). Peel the beets and grate on

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the body in the shrouds which one of our volunteers sews by hand. If desired, burial can be in the Jewish cemetery. At the graveside, an experienced lay leader performs the customary Jewish service. We can also shape the service to meet individual needs. At one funeral for a member of the Jewish community, three “dancing” Mexican horses followed the hearse to the grave. One horse was rider-less, with the sombrero of the deceased hung on the empty saddle. Because there were a significant number of Spanish speakers present, the service was conducted in Hebrew, English and Spanish. On another occasion, the Canadian Legion provided an honor guard, a Canadian flag to cover the coffin, a rendition of “The Last Post,” and recitation of the poem “In Flanders Fields.” A friend of the deceased played a bagpipe lament for a fallen warrior. The Legion distributed their customary red paper poppies to be pinned over the heart and later removed and dropped into the open grave. On February 20 and 27, there will be a workshop for the Jewish community entitled “All Right, All Ready: Let’s Get It Done!” This two part workshop is designed to motivate and to help members of the community prepare for dying and death in Mexico. A more complete announcement will be available soon, but contact E Katz, 766 3728, now if you are interested in attending. If we can help you, or you wish to help us, please contact J Braverman, 332-822-1507, S. Greenberg, 332-815-4973; E Katz, 376-7663728; B Shiffman 331-861-4123; or M Sullivan, 376-766-1432.

medium grade. Drain in colander allowing some of the beet juice to drain. Segment the tangerine; slice off the fold of each segment, allowing for easy removal of seeds; then cut segment in half. Add to the jicama and mix. Add the shredded beets and sea salt! So refreshing and delicious! www.AbueLinda.com / abuelindascuisine on Facebook

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The LCS Post Life/Emergency Registry By The Lake Chapala Society Post-Life Committee

he LCS Post Life Emergency Registry is over 25 years old and is one of more than 100 monthly services, continuing education programs and activities that benefit members and the entire Lakeside community. Imagine this: Your neighbor, Helen, has been ill. She lives alone so you’ve been looking in on her once in a while. One morning, you knock on her front door. No answer. You open the door and walk through her living room and kitchen, calling her name. No sign of Helen. You peek into her bedroom and see Helen lying lifeless on her bed. Helen has passed away during the night. What do you do? Who do you call? Procedures for death and dying are different in Mexico. Unless foul play is suspected, do not call the police or ambulance. You are advised to first call the deceased’s physician and then their funeral home as well as next of kin. But you don’t have any of the names or contact information. Fortunately, you recall that Helen told you she is registered with The Lake Chapala Society Post Life/ Emergency Registry. LCS provides this registry service to members, non-members and the entire Lakeside community. It serves as the only central emergency resource lakeside, available for Cruz Roja, consulates, Mexican authorities, relatives or neighbors that can be contacted at any time. “This program is particularly important for single people living Lakeside to help them, their loved ones and friends prepare,” said Terry Vidal, Executive Director of LCS. The Registry Form includes contact information for yourself, doctors, friends, family, attorney/legal contacts, funeral home arrangements and household information from pets to household staff. Terry said that people who register can be assured that

their information is considered confidential and the form is designed so that no sensitive or financial data is collected. The information is stored electronically and available 24/7. Marianne O’Halloran, the Post-Life Manager, said that the form though comprehensive, has limited required fields. Within a week of registering, individuals can stop by LCS for a printed copy to keep in their records. Marianne said that the administrative fee for registration is only $50 pesos per person and that all updates are free. “It can be a problem to keep the contact info up to date!” says Marianne. She also reminds us to find someone you trust – a friend, neighbor, or a family member is a must to share a copy of your registry with. “It’s something that everyone needs to think about,” she added. Terry said that over the years he has been contacted many times by varying authorities. One unfortunate incident was when a member of the LCS Singles Group was found dead in his home when children and teachers complained about the smell emanating from his house across the street. Since he was registered, LCS was able to contact his children NOB who then took care of his affairs. But this is not always the case. Many times LCS has been contacted and could not help. This is unfortunate because some of the bodies end up in limbo in the Mexican system for years. Recently LCS was contacted by municipal authorities regarding unclaimed bodies being kept in refrigerated tractor trailers. Of the two foreigners amongst these bodies, LCS, through the Post-life/ Emergency Registry, helped identify one of the deceased. Don’t let this happen to you or a loved one. Be prepared! LCS has a resource guide to help residents prepare. The booklet, “Being Prepared for Life and Death

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Lakeside,” provides important information about Mexican Wills, Health Care Directives and Post Life Wishes, Powers of Attorney, Notario Publicos, lists of funeral homes and other resources for emergencies and the inevitable. The American Legion Post 7 in Chapala and My Guardian Angel have partnered with LCS and participate in the Post-Life/Emergency Registry Program. The booklet is available at the

LCS Office or at the American Legion during office hours. To learn more and access the booklet online, visit: https://www.lakechapalasociety. com/public/post-life--emergencyplanning.php

I Want To Wake Up Dead By Sue Greenberg I want to wake up dead. Weird you may think. Not to me. Just a little hospice nurse humor. You want to be buried in your leathers with your motorcycle? Weird you may think. Not to me. Honoring my patients’ wishes is the cornerstone of my work. Helping my patient put on her fur coat in the middle of a hot summer day because she is insisting she must get ready for her trip. Weird you may think. Not to me. Symbolic talk is common at the end of life. Watching my patient stare into the corner of the ceiling while smiling, giggling and chattering with words I do not understand. Weird you may think. Not to me. In very fluent English she shares with me she had been talking with her husband and mother who have already passed. They are waiting for her to pass over. At her request lifting my patient into her car and driving her to the ocean despite the fact she can no longer sit up on her own. Weird you may think. Not to me. There are no rules as you are dying. Mixing my patient’s martini at 9AM and helping him sip it and seeing the smile of aaah cross his face. Weird you may think. Not to me. It is 12 Noon somewhere in the world. Learning to drive my patient’s tractor at her insistence. She wants to prove to me it is harder than driving my motorcycle. Weird you may think. Not to me. Laughing and bringing fun and pleasure to her life was an honor as she watched me through her bedroom window. Speaking at a funeral about my patient’s ‘yellow bus travels’ as he had requested. Weird you may think. Not to me. Bringing tears and laughter was his request. Packing the mailman’s bag full of letters for his last delivery. Weird you may think. Not to me. Being present to witness his birth from this life to the next is a rare honor. Wheeling my patient in her wheelchair into the voting booth the day before her death. Weird you may think. Not to me. There are priorities at the end of life and hospice nurses make them happen. This is all still not weird enough for me to stop my sacred work.

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ODE TO LOVE AND CARE-GIVING:

An Art Installation at El Sacrificio, Mexico By Wendy Jane Carrel, M.A., End-of-Life Planner

t is a notable synchronicity that “Transcendence - A Celebration of Those with Perseverance”, a medical art installation created by LK Gubelman (Leslie Katheryn aka Kate), is located in El Sacrificio (the Sacrifice), Jalisco, Mexico. Gubelman, an architect by profession, was caregiver to her retired and ill parents (mom Canadian, dad American) over the course of eight years at Lake Chapala, Mexico. Her creation is based on what she witnessed as she put her life aside to assist and honor her father and mother. The installation is also, she might share with you, how she has been meeting her sadness and grief. The art has been her therapy. The Transcendence exhibit in El Sacrificio (25-45 minutes from the

lake, depending on who is driving) is located inside a stone warehouse

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at “Los Conos,” a property with two cone-shaped granaries; the warehouse continues to serve as art studio. Once you enter the studio you cannot help but notice what is before you – six large scale works that required several years to complete (2013-2015) with the assistance of four men. What will you see? Depending on your own interpretation, the exhibit offers a way to reflect on caregiving, love, life and death, healthcare, and medical interventions. The largest of the pieces - THRESHOLDS – UMBRALES – is what you notice first. From the entrance, it resembles a beautiful stained glass window. Up close you see a symbolic body surrounded and connected by IV bottles filled with bright-colored water through plastic tubing. According to the artist, this piece is about time passing; each frame telling a tale of care given and the will to persevere. The IV bottles are those actually used by Gubelman’s mother during the last eight months of her life. ENTANGLEMENT – ENREDO is a lattice work of medications, pills and pill boxes hung from the ceiling in suspended form, dazzling with crystal and beads linking one to another like Christmas decorations. Standing under it you cannot help but notice the enormity of drugs consumed and what was required by caregiver Gubelman for medication management. TRANSPARENCY – TRANSPARENCIA is a corridor of x-ray images, CT scans, MRIs mounted on translucent multi-colored panels described best by a fan as “a tunnel of muted light and color…and a tale of medical machinery (cold steel) and the toll on all involved.” The names of Gubelman’s parents, Allison and Oscar, are on the panels. IMMUNITY – INMUNIDAD Gubelman, who has lived in Mexico many years, is fascinated by folk traditions, especially “Voladores de Papantla” performed in public venues. (Four men are suspended by rope from a very small pole, upside down). Her Immunity piece features an upside down figure representing a bird in flight, a symbol of freedom. It also represents the second interpretation of the Voladores – a plea for rain followed by the hope for renewal and

vitality. PRISM – PRISMA Shiny multi-colored beads strung together inviting entry into an airy tent-like environment full of blister packs, candy-colored seed beads and pill boxes form the Prism exhibit. The display represents 4,961 pills consumed by Gubelman’s parents during their illnesses. GAUNTLET – ACEPTOR EL GUATE Gauntlet was the first piece Gubelman visualized as she looked for a way to express the roller coaster of daily family emotions. The roles of caregiver, and daughter, patient and parent were often blurred and tested. They all knew they had signed on for difficult times. Note: Gubelman, who is shy in nature, somehow felt compelled to collect all the pill boxes, IV bottles, medical records, x-rays, and other mementos as a way to keep her parents close. Little did she know that the items would be the basis of her art work as well as part of her healing process. What might you discover or experience? You may instantly relate to Gubelman’s Transcendence installation, or not. According to Gubelman there are a variety of responses. Many visitors, both gringo and Mexican have felt either saddened or amazed. Many find deep meaning, especially recent widows and widowers who have been caregivers themselves. The exhibit has been called thought-provoking, emotional, captivating, impressive, astonishing, and a source of inspiration for healing from loss. It has also been called a commentary on modern medicine. At minimum, you may feel sacrifice and perseverance were involved not only for Gubelman, but for her parents. The experience that all submitted to required acts of love. No matter your read, it is an immersive art experience worth seeing if the subject speaks to you. A video of the art installation with visitor comments was produced by Bradley Gaurano of www.videoparami.com . It may be found on this link: https://goo.gl/SK2XFm Who might wish to see the exhibit Transcendence? Caregivers, healthcare workers, perhaps those mourning the loss of loved ones, and of course, the general public. For more information or to schedule a private studio tour, please contact Bethany Anne Putnam at bethany@lkgubelman.com You may discover more on the LK Gubelman Facebook page, or find other photos of the exhibit on Instagram@ lkgubelman

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Caring For The Caregiver By Valerie Rhoda

e’ve all cared for someone with an illness for a few days. Many have found it to be a rewarding experience. Then life returns to “normal.” The temporary caregiver has little knowledge of the physical and psychological impact of full time caregiving. Being a caregiver means managing two adult lives on a daily basis, with no hope of them “growing up and becoming independent”. The demands increase as the caregiver helplessly watches their care-givee deteriorate. One member describes the disease as a “thief” who has stolen their partner and just left their shell.

Caregivers experience a myriad of conflicting emotions. Love and concern, denial, frustration, resentment, anger, depression, exhaustion, feeling overwhelmed by the Herculean responsibilities they shoulder alone. The dynamics of the relationship change, the caregiver unwittingly becomes parental which can be perceived by the care-givee as demeaning and infantilizing. Unresolved issues, family conflicts arise both in communication style and about the type of care being provided. Adult children can be a great support or, as often happens, unable to accept the reality of their parent’s condition and/or critical of the caregiver.

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The CAREGIVER SUPPORT GROUP was created eight years ago to provide a safe, confidential cocoon for members to share their feelings without being judged. New members often express relief at being able to say things out loud that they wouldn’t dare say to others or even admit to themselves. Anyone caregiving is welcome, for whatever time they can spare. Care-giving is isolating; friends get tired of listening and often pull away because that could be their future. Rarely do people ask how is the caregiver, mostly just how is the care-givee. People often enter the group after they’ve lost themselves in the overwhelming demands of care-giving. They are emotionally and physically depleted. They have neglected their health, they are often full of guilt and recrimination. Even though they have given up so much of themselves, to provide for their care-givee, they feel they should be doing more. I put out two signs at each meeting. One says “My needs come first.” something new members balk at until they realize, as one member said, “if you don’t take care of you, who will be there for your care-givee?” Taking care of oneself makes one available to care for their person. The other sign says “I don’t have to be a hero, just be good enough”. Many caregivers feel they should be super humans and manage everything and pressure themselves to do more than they physically or emotionally can. Hearing each other’s stories helps members accept their limitations and change the focus to self care, which is essential (60% of caregivers become ill and/or die before their care-givee). The group assists members as they wrestle with putting their person in care. It’s a heart wrenching process, fraught with guilt and feelings of betrayal. They help the member see the dangers to both parties

in keeping the person at home. In late stage dementia, as an example, the care-givee can be aggressive, abusive or wander. Frail elderly have higher incidences of falling, there are toileting requirements, etc. physical requirements the caregiver is no longer capable of providing. One third of the group has their person in care. They can share how they chose a facility and dealt with their feelings about the process. Caregivers commonly experience “ANTICIPATORY GRIEF”. It is a healthy way to prepare the psyche for the death of their care-givee and the vision they had of growing old with their person. One member coined the term “an anchor into the future”, as a way to give permission to think and plan for a life after caregiving, without feeling disloyal to their person and giving them something for themselves. Members put aside their own burdens to listen and support each other. This is accomplished by hugs and laughter and excellent tips and skills they’ve acquired. I provide articles on care-giving, diseases and therapeutic techniques. HOW CAN YOU HELP A CAREGIVER? LISTEN. Offer CONCRETE assistance, such as grocery shopping, doing laundry, providing respite, staying with the care-givee, allowing them to reconnect with themselves or friends. Pay for a caregiver for a few hours, give them a spa day. Give them a HUG! LIFE AFTER CAREGIVING: Often after the death of the care-givee there is grief and relief. Their care-givee is no longer suffering, and they are no longer responsible for another person’s existence. They can begin to build a life for themselves. They realize care-giving has become their identity. They have to reclaim and create a post care-giving persona. What does life looks like if you are not care-giving? Can you resume your prior life? Do you make a new life? Most members “graduate” into the GRIEF SUPPORT GROUP which grew out of the need to provide ongoing support to caregivers and to others dealing with the loss of a loved one. It enables members to sort out their feelings and deal with the parallel paths of grieving and rebuilding. The groups meet on the second and fourth Wednesdays, CAREGIVER SUPPORT, 10:30-1pm and GRIEF SUPPORT, 2:30-4:30pm. Both are FREE and CONFIDENTIAL, facilitated by a counselor with extensive group experience and expertise in these areas. Contact Valerie Rhoda, 376-7664522, vhrhoda@gmail.com.

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Bob—The Railway Dog By Robert James Taylor

delaide, South Australia- 1882. Bob, at nine months old, left his home, and his career as a locomotive hitchhiker began: he would acquire an insatiable thirst for train travel and throughout his lifetime he would travel thousands of miles in South Australia. He would get to know every station, station master and every line, and though he had no master, every engine driver was his friend. His temperament was gentle, his pedigree was elusive: he had shaggy long hair, grey and unkempt. He was originally found by a William Ferry, a train guard, who picked him out of a truck load of waifs and strays found wandering around the environs of Adelaide. Bob’s facial expression had just something that appealed to the kindly heart of the animal loving guard- he possessed him. In time Bob had found his worldand his days were spent travelling on many different trains, with train engine drivers, he was in his element, sitting on his black throne- the cab top. The big whistle and belching black smoke seemed to have an irresistible attraction to him—he lived on the fat of the land, not being particular from whom he accepted his dinner. Railway workers loved him, train drivers gave him pride of place, on top of the engine cab, and they willingly shared the contents of their tucker bags. Bob would be very well-known, and indeed adored by so many during his lifetime and was seen frequently in

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Victoria, Brisbane, and Sydney. Even though he had no master, he always knew where to find William Ferry, his founder: at night he would follow his engine man of the day, never losing sight of him, spend the night with him, and return with him the following morning to the Railway. In 1889 William Ferry was promoted to Stationmaster, but by now Bob had graduated from jumping trains alone—he was the independent King of the Outcasts. His fame would spread throughout Australia, and even as far as England; artists painted his portrait, writers wrote about him, poets sang his praises. He died in 1895: his portrait hangs on the wall of the Adelaide Art Gallery; his statue in the museum. In 1924, The Register noted that Bob had earned such a reputation that a brass plate was made for his collar; on it was engraved, “Stop me not, but let me jog, For I am Bob, the railway Dog.” Robert James Taylor

RAMBLINGS FROM THE RANCH

t The Ranch, dogs from the Lake Chapala area who are abused, homeless or abandoned (often all three) find a refuge where they are well taken care of until they find a forever home. Generally, The Ranch focuses on medium and large dogs, but there are times that the guidelines get blurred and the rule of no puppies less than ten-weeks old vaporizes. One reason The Ranch isn’t the best environment for fragile pups; they can wriggle out of their pens and get lost again. We also normally don’t accept small dogs. However, our number one priority is to help all dogs and such was the case with Mary Agnes and her two babies, Calvin and Clinton. Recently, a woman was here visiting for a few months and fell in love with a gentle little street dog. After a few weeks of feeding her, the dog delivered two puppies. So she took the three dogs in until she needed to return to Canada. Some neighbors offered to take just the puppies, but she knew they wouldn’t be cared for properly and were too young to be away from their mother. She needed our help. The Ranch staff couldn’t bear the idea of this sweet momma and her babies being put out on the street so we took them in and put out a plea for a temporary foster home. Fortunately, a loving soul has taken them in for a month until the pups grow and get stronger. They’ll come back to the Ranch and we’ll be looking for loving parents to give them a forever home. Fostering puppies or dogs with special needs is a critical component of The Ranch’s ability to save lives. Volunteers are always needed to take in some cute little ones

in need of extra attention. If you’d like to join our roster of foster parents let us know - at: www.adoptaranchdog@outlook.com or call 331.270.4447. Follow us on Facebook: Lakeside Spay and Neuter Ranch and Adoptions.

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Served And Deported By Luis E. Gutierrez

hile sitting at the Army Wings in Ajijic, I´ve noticed the replica soldier sitting at the bar as you walk in, and it reminded me of all the young soldiers risking their lives for the great nation of the USA. There are several veterans that gather together on Mexican borders with uniforms and US flags, letting the world know that they have been sent back to Mexico after serving in

the Armed Forces, and it goes back since the Vietnam War up to this day, and now imagine being deported with no help whatsoever after serving in combat, like Mr. Francisco Lopez at 73 years of age who was drafted back in 1967 and served overseas. He was deported in 2003 and has turned his house into a shelter to help out all young deported veterans where he is the director of the Deported Veterans Support House

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in what is known as the “Juarez Bunker.” His hopes of going back to the States are very slim but all he wants is medical care, a right for all who have served. There are about 230 veterans who have served in combat that were promised US citizenship after serving; afterwards, they were honorably discharged from the service, and a few years later were deported, without any benefits or any help whatsoever. There is also a group in the border town of Tijuana, and Mr. Lopez is also the man behind that place, helping those deported veterans, that have been approached by the local cartels and the sicarios because of their military experience, and knowledge of weapons and war tactics. All these deported veterans now get together on Memorial Day on the borders of Tijuana and Juarez to honor the fallen soldiers as they respectfully salute the flag of the United States and the various branches of the Armed Forces to show the world and the people of the United States that they are here in Mexico left on their own, with no support or any help from our government. Now, you may be asking yourselves as I do what have they done? What happened that these veterans have been kicked out of their country for which they have served putting their lives in danger, and were promised their US citizenship afterwards? Yes, you might have the answer to this question, According to Mr. Trump, everyone that commits a felony will be deported, Mr. Francisco Lopez was arrested and deported in 2003. It’s a divisive issue. Navy veteran Juan Valadez of El Paso argues that everyone is not sympathetic about it, but as he reads the comments that deported veterans got what they deserve for breaking the law, he argues that they made a mistake, but are still veterans and have

served the country. Valadez enlisted and was deployed to the Gulf of Aden, then to the Persian Gulf. After that, he served two years in federal prison for drug conspiracy, but states that he is an immigrant and he has done more than most immigrants and US citizens have done. He signed up for the military voluntarily and deployed twice; therefore he served his time in prison and deserves a second chance. On the other hand, Hector Barajas-Varela, after he served the country, was convicted for shooting at an occupied vehicle in the Los Angeles area and although no one was hurt, he spent 13 months in prison and one month on parole. He was deported back in 2004 and has been living at the Bunker in Tijuana, a haven for all the deported veterans. Barajas-Varela could have applied for his citizenship while in service, because he was a legal resident. He had mistakenly believed that serving in the military was guaranteed citizenship and applied while living in Mexico back in 2016, passing his English and civics test of his naturalization process. Last April California Gov. Jerry D. Brown (D) pardoned Barajas-Varela for the crimes he had committed that led to his deportation, and granted him the opportunity to become a US citizen; he plans to live one more year at the Bunker in Tijuana, where he will continue helping other deported veterans. There is an untold number of veterans whom have been deported, who were entitled to become US citizens, but due to the failure of the federal government to help naturalize immigrants, because of their service in the US military. Meanwhile Rep. Raul M. Grijalva of Arizona has introduced a bill called, The Veterans Visa and Protection Act of 2017 that prevents noncitizen service members and veterans from deportation unless they are convicted of violent crimes. Now as you’re reading this and before you judge, take in consideration that many of these veterans come back home with lots of mental issues and some of them don´t even know they have an issue. Alexander Heaton, director of the Veteran Action Coordination Committee, argues that the majority of these guys were deported because of crimes related to addiction, which is a veterans’ health issue. Many got in trouble while selfmedicating because of things that had happened to them in the service. Congress doesn’t care because the see it as just another immigration issue.

Saw you in the Ojo 65

MAHALO By Laurie Long

want to say a few words about the Hawaiian language. Hawaiian seems to consist almost entirely of vowels with a few, lonely consonants thrown in as afterthoughts. (Our Hana campground, Waianapanapa, is a good example.) You probably know that ‘aloha’ means both hello and goodbye and has a generally understood “welcome to the islands, bruddah” floating around in the background. In fact, the only Hawaiian term more heavily used than aloha is mahalo, which means “thank you.” But like aloha, mahalo has an unspoken background message. It’s all in how it’s used. “Please don’t park in front of the driveway. Mahalo.” or “That cheeseburger will be $25. Mahalo!” or (on the Hana Highway), “Let the local drivers have the right of way. Mahalo.” Mahalo can morph from a simple “thank you” into “pay attention you brain-dead turon.” (a neologism combining tourist with moron.) And with the milling herds of turons swarming to Maui like invading locusts, it’s understandable. The gentle and polite islanders can’t bring themselves to behave like New Yorkers, so they rely on mahalo.

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It brings to mind the traditional southern expression “bless their heart,” which sounds sweet, but is generally used either preceding or following some personal comment that is likely to be less than neighborly. “He hasn’t got the sense God gave a chicken, bless his heart.” “Poor Mable has moved on from the ‘plus’ sizes to the ‘tent’ sizes, bless her heart.” “Yep, that flood took out their house, so they built another right on the same spot, bless their hearts.” On the islands, every request for you to wake up, follow the rules, and try to act just a little less like an ignorant tourist is followed up by mahalo. Paul and I wanted to use it. We wanted to “go with the flow” — simply as a “thank you” (without any undercurrents), but we just couldn’t. Every time we tried we would look at each other and start cracking up. We made it worse by reading the local notices to each other – the ones with mahalo at the end. I guess we will just have to leave mahalo to the natives, with their sweet smiles and their $25 cheeseburgers. Bless their hearts.

Saw you in the Ojo 67

The Quest for the Elusive Mung Beans (A Visit to Abastos) By Chuck Bolotin

ike an aspiring knight in a medieval fairytale who had been told to bring back the egg of a fire-breathing dragon or a nascent American Indian brave who had been given the task of producing a specific feather from a fearsome bird on some faraway mountaintop, I now had my challenge: bring me the mung beans. In this case, the one issuing the challenge was none other than my wife, Jet, a devoted cook who sees the world as her laboratory. “Lakeside is a ‘pot luck culture,’ where friends and neighbors share the foods of their

heart,” she said. “To participate, I need a breadth of ingredients. Please get me those beans.” Just like the rites of passage challenges described above, the result of my quest would be binary: I would either succeed and be rewarded not only with the satisfaction of knowing I had achieved The Next Level of Life here at Lakeside and the fabulous culinary creations of my wife; or I would fail, and with that failure would come not only domestic disgrace and disappointment, but it would also put the lie to my off-handed, uninformed

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assertion: “Of course you can get anything you want here at Lakeside. Guadalajara is right by and it’s a city of five million people.” Would my previously impetuous and ignorant bravado be rewarded with salvation or with repeated and prolonged ignominy? We were about to find out. On top of the request issued by my wife and it’s predicted success foolishly elevated to a point of honor by me, I had added two kickers: the price had to be somewhat reasonable and the sought after ingredients had to be available in larger quantities. There are some who would say: “You’re in Mexico now. Stop trying to make Mexico like the US! Just use the local ingredients and forget about items like mung beans and moong dahl (also on my list).” To these people I would respond in two ways. The first is a question: Is that how you lived before you moved to Lakeside? Did you never use any items that were not grown within the immediate vicinity of your home? If this is you, OK, for you, you’re right; do the same here. For the over 95% of us not in this category (just a wild guess) who would like to make their lives richer and more interesting, let’s continue. The second response is a visual and an observation. Every time that our alternating housekeepers Sol and Gaby come to our home, Jet provides lunch, usually complete with a dessert of some type, exactly what Jet and I ate. Jet delights in offering up items such as Vietnamese pho soup and Sri Lankan eggplant with mustard seed and gingerbread with crystalized ginger, usually foods neither Sol nor Gaby have ever tasted, and all with ingredients not generally used in Jalisco cooking. Sometimes, we’re around as Sol or Gabby try out the special of the day. First the look of anticipation and then, upon her first taste, the joy on Sol’s face, which often lights up like a Christmas tree, is all you need to know. Would you have the heart to deny Sol

this pleasure? And what would you say after you found out that right after lunch, Sol or Gaby’s first call is to the other one, so they can talk about what Jet just served them? Back to my mission. We had been told by wiser and more experienced locals and expats of a magical land not so far away in Guadalajara called Abastos. “What is this land like, oh Maestro?” “It is enormous, oh One Who Seeks Mung Beans, with all the food items you can imagine. For example, there are streets that contain just candy wholesalers and one devoted just to oranges.” “But are there exotic items not easily available at Lakeside at reasonable prices and in bulk?” “You ask a lot, Ferreter of Food Exotica, but perhaps you will find that which you desire.” “If you please, Wise One, please explain more.” “You know those vendors at the tianguis who visit on Wednesdays in Ajijic?” “Of course, I do, Master.” “And you think they get most of their items directly from the farmers?” He could see from the perplexed look on my face that that was exactly what I thought. “Harrumph,” he guffawed, slapping his well-fed belly, which jiggled with what I could only imagine was lots of the unusual and interesting food he had eaten in years past. “Most of them just buy at Abastos and bring it here to Lakeside.” In stages orchestrated by my sagacious instructor, I was beginning to understand, which must have showed on my face. This pleased the Giver of Knowledge, who must have felt I was ready for deeper understanding. Nodding, and then slightly squinting, he studied me and then paused for a moment. Bringing me close, he said in a whisper barely audible: “And where do you think the exotic restaurants here in town get their ingredients?”

It was a rhetorical question, and like all good rhetorical questions, one that did not need to be answered. Abastos. I must go there. Our first stop was to Cereales y Hojuelas A Granel, located in the shadow of the very modern and impressive SAT building adjacent to the main Abastos food area. There they had herbs, seeds, bark, roots, culinary and medicinal plants, all in bins and jars, in bulk, and very reasonably priced. There was preserved fruit of all types, including kiwi, pear and star fruit, nuts (whole and broken), including pistachios and cashews, whole cardamom, whole leaf teas, dried celery, fenugreek, white peppercorns, coriander seeds, anise seeds, dried potatoes and… frijole mungo (mung beans). We purchased them all. Our next stop was Abastos Gourmet, which very much lived up to its name. The manager, Alonso Muro, was very gracious and quite an expert on the world’s foods. Alonso’s store had smaller quantities of imported food from all over the world, including Middle Eastern (Jet bought Bulgur Wheat #2 for tabouli), American (corn meal and molasses), Indian, Asian and Greek (Alonso had us try several varieties of olives). As just one example, Alonso told us

that he currently had oily moong dal, which he had on special because he said that most people prefer the dry moong dal. Almost on cue, a man who was obviously Indian and who had not heard our conversation asked Alonso for moong dal, but said he preferred the dry. Turning to me, Alonso raised his eyebrows and palms in the universal “See I told you” gesture. Abastos Gourmet had seeds and beans that are hard to find at Lakeside, including red moong dal (made into chicken mulligatawny soup), poppy seed (perfect for holiday baking), Chinese five spice powder (for Chinese pork bao dim sum), reasonably priced prepared horse radish, preserved black beans (great over steamed fish), and much more. Right next door to Abastos Gourmet, they had baby bok choy, regular Napa cabbage (for kimchee), okra, taro, and bitter melon, all hard to find at Lakeside. Jet was ecstatic. And I was redeemed. Ed. Note: Chuck Bolotin writes a monthly column exploring fun and lesser known places available to us here at Lakeside. If you have a suggestion for a place for Chuck to visit, write to him at Chuck.Bolotin@BestMexicoMovers.com.

Saw you in the Ojo 69

POETIC By Margaret Ann Porter

ean was running away from a storm and feared that all would be lost. The weather outside was clear and cool – her mind had conjured up the wind and lighting and thundering hail. Two kids were safe with grandparents, her babies, a boy not yet out of diapers and his attentive sister, only four. She had sold her wedding bands and cleared out her apartment, filled the Mercury’s tank and headed toward no-idea. Around sunset she spied a campground above the salt flats that lie north of El Paso. She stepped out of the Mercury and laid her tall, lean body on a cold picnic table. The sky was flung with stars and, out here they hung above her in three dimensions. She recognized a few constellations, Leo and Gemini, perhaps Cassiopeia, and wondered when her soul flew into the universe whether their shapes would appear different to her? Do our souls have eyes? The air grew thick with cold, as it does in the desert when the sun goes to the other side and there’s no blanket of clouds to warm the surface. Shivers took hold of her. “Perhaps I’ll die from hypothermia, a sleepy death,” she whispered into the night air. Jean suddenly felt poetic, one’s death as a dignified choice, that one last perfected act. Then the voices welled up inside of her and tiny fists beat at her heart, “Mommy! No!” Jean thought, how is it that a mistake in a woman’s life solidifies into inescapable obligation, merely because she has birthed two humans from her womb for one horrible man? Her hands flew up to either side of her head and she screamed, “God! Stop these hateful thoughts and give me back my life!” Headlights swung low off the highway and they bobbed in and out of view as they made their way up the hill. Jean’s tears dried and fear descended – her murder would not be poetic, it would be written up in the newspaper. She sat up and couldn’t decide whether to run to her car or hide perfectly still in the inky darkness. A truck camper stopped in front of her and a voice called out, “Is everything

all right here?” It was clear, concerned, and female. Boots on gravel and the woman appeared, suddenly, right beside Jean, who shrieked and fell. “You on drugs?” the woman asked. Jean jumped up, “You scared the hell outta me!” “Oh, I doubt that,” the woman said. She graveled her way back to her rig and returned with an electric lantern. “Mind if I sit with you awhile?” she asked. “I usually stop here.” She pulled a beer from each of her pockets and they sat down to sip. “Name’s Marty,” she said. “That’s my home over there. It’s small, but it’s all I’ve got. Been crisscrossing this dadgummed country for the last five years.” Her stubby hands came up and she rubbed her face. “I’m Jean.” Marty grabbed her hand, “Nice to meet ya, pretty gal!” Jean smiled and her green eyes sparkled something close to gratitude. “Well, I’m glad I can make someone happy. Feller yesterday in Springerville, Arizona, weren’t too happy. Tried to get sassy with me so I showed him my pistol and he couldn’t leave fast enough. Devil, pure and simple.” Marty’s personality filled the space around them, but she was a small woman with a compact body. Her hair was tabby grey and tiny black eyes nestled in time-puckered lids, her lips had disappeared into crevasses. “I bet you ain’t got nothin’ warm in your car, do you,” she said. Jean shook her head. Steps crunched away and Marty returned with a flannel shirt and a blanket. “Well, here you go. I want them back. Now, what are you doin’ out here all by yourself?” “Just thinking, I guess.” “So that means you’re runnin’ from something. Well, listen here … if you want to tell me about it, I’m all ears for the next eight hours. But I might fall asleep, so make it interesting.” A sudden urge to confess came over Jean and over the next two hours, she hung confidences on Marty that she’d never strung together for another person, not even her mother or Aunt Betty, or her best friend Sheila when she was

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still alive. “Goodness, now that there’s a story,” Marty commented. “Well, I can’t match you blow-for-blow. But, my husband was a good man yet the numb nuts never kept a job for long and so we never had nothin’ …” Out her own story unspooled, like coarse thread weaving itself into durable cloth. “Now I’m waitin’ for a town to call out to me and say, ‘I want you to live here, Marty,’ but it ain’t happened yet. If it don’t, then I’ll just keep wandering until this old truck gives out, and as soon as it does, I hope my heart gives out, too.” She smiled broadly and patted Jean’s hand. “You know, with all the crap we women put up with in life, the heartaches and damage, there’s always a lot of sweet left over when those things die. And they do because they’re more fragile than us.” They had another beer and Jean wandered off to find a place to pee. She called out to Marty that she was tired and begged off to bed. The next morning, the sun crept over the salt-dusted plains and it hit Jean in the eye at the very moment that the Marty tapped on her rear window. “Mornin,’ friend!” she chortled. “I was just about to fry some eggs and wondered how many you wanted.” Jean signaled ‘two’ and the old woman returned to the campfire. In the morning light, she watched as Marty wobbled from side to side as she moved around, confidently, coffee pot here, frying pan to the side, bread in the bacon fat and placed on the grill just so. Funny about darkness, Jean thought, and how it hangs heavy on your head, and then the sun comes along and clears it away. She threw on her jeans and walked to the fire, “Can I help you?” “Oh god no, child. You’d put me off my rhythm. Sit down and drink your coffee,” Marty said, motioning to the table where a blue cup sat steaming. They ate. Marty spoke past some egg yolk dribbling down her chin, “Well, I was gonna ply you with hopeful comments, but I have figured out that life is what you make of it, and you’re the only one who can do that for you.” Jean nodded and changed the subject. “How old are you?” then immediately apologized for her rudeness. “No offense. Let’s see, I’m 84 next Thursday.” Jean’s eyes opened wide. Marty growled, “I hope that expression doesn’t mean ‘wow, and you’re still kicking around.’” “Oh, no. I mean, I’m impressed that you’re in such good condition!” Marty chuckled, “Oh, you’re a charm-

er.”

“Nah, I’m fucked up, seriously,” Jean sighed. Marty stared at her for a moment. “We all are in some way, honey.” Jean’s eyes filled with tears, “Well, I better get on down the road. Thanks for the eggs.” She stood to leave and Marty caught her by the wrist. “Listen, there’s no need to kill yourself,” she said, “it’s not the right thing … those two kids you got, they gotta grow up and live out their destiny. And they’re gonna need Mama to cheer them on and wave goodbye to them when they’re ready. They ain’t ready yet.” “I’ve heard that before,” Jean clipped, “from a pastor, a counselor, my parents, and I know it’s true. But everything I touch turns to shit. And I’m gonna stick around and do that to them?” “Wait right here,” Marty said. She stood up and waddled to her truck, dug around behind the seat, and returned with her pistol. “Listen up all you devils! Whatever one of you is stuck inside Jean, get thee behind her!” She fired the six-shooter in the air until the cylinder was emptied, hollering “Be gone!” as the retorts echoed off the cliffs. Then she reached into her pocket, refilled the chambers, fired and cried “Hallelujah!” Jean cowered beneath the picnic table. Marty leaned down to peer at her. “Did I scare you? Don’t like the actual sound of death, do you …” “Please! Stop shooting!” “In a minute,” Marty said, reloaded, and shot another six into the air, shouting, “Amen!” She waddled back to her truck, put the gun in its case and returned to pour them more coffee. Jean stood up, shaking. Marty winked, “Takes three rounds of six to get the job done. How you feelin’?” Jean checked herself and blinked a few times. “Um, you know what? I actually … think … I feel better.” Marty chuckled. “Works every time. Hey, now listen, I’m goin’ down around Marfa, Texas, to camp and have my birthday with some old friends. You wanna come along?” Jean thought for a minute. Die, or a birthday party in Marfa. She turned toward the east and a blue sky beckoned her. All would not be lost, if she were with Marty. And if all were to be lost, at least it would go out with a Margaret Ann bang. Porter

Saw you in the Ojo 71

Trump Voters Anonymous By Fred Mittag

i. My name is Wally. I’m a recovering Trump voter and I’m here tonight to tell my story. This is part of my recovery and I thank Trump Voters Anonymous for being here. This group is a place where a grown man can cry and will find understanding. I don’t know why I hated Hillary Clinton so much. A lot of my friends did, too, and I guess I just fell in with them. And besides, Donald Trump said he was for the working guy and would bring back the jobs that went overseas and he would create jobs, jobs, and more jobs in America – good paying jobs. My pay has not kept up with inflation, but Trump gave the billionaires big money. What happened is continuing

wage stagnation that falls behind the cost of living. We sacrifice so the Koch brothers can have an annual tax savings of $1.5 billion. They can donate $100 million and more to Republican candidates and still be $900 million ahead. And then the Republicans will give them more tax cuts in appreciation. What do you say when you realize somebody made a fool of you, that they really took you for a ride? Instead of bringing back jobs, Trump is sending more jobs out of America, often to places with a horrible human rights record. His own daughter Ivanka’s line of women’s shoes will now be made in Ethiopia, a country in Africa that has one of the worst human rights records in the world. But hey, if labor is cheap in China, it’s even cheaper in Ethiopia, so Ivanka can make a really nice profit from the human misery at the shoe factory. I’ve been mad for a long time, because it seems like you vote for somebody and then they get to Washington and forget all about you. You don’t exist anymore. Trump promised he would not forget us, and he would put Wall Street in their place. He said Wall Street owns Hillary. Trump said, “I know Wall Street. I’m not going to let Wall Street get away with murder. Wall Street has caused tremendous problems for us.” But then he packed his administration with Wall Street executives who are billionaires.

But I believed Trump so now I’ve gota bad case of “buyer’s remorse.” My mistake may cost Medicaid $800 billion dollars. That’s money that will be taken from the old, sick, and dying, and become a gift for Trump’s extremely rich friends. My mother is in a nursing home supported by Medicaid. If they kick her out, what am I going to do? My daughter has juvenile diabetes, a serious, expensive – and hell yes, a pre-existing condition. If Trump repeals Obamacare, is my daughter just supposed to die? I’m worried about the old people who live across the street from me. They’re nice people on a limited income. He served his country in the Korean War. But the Trump budget wants to eliminate the “Meals on Wheels” program that they really need. Yeah, Trump fooled me, all right, and I’m mad as hell. But hey, I’m just as mad at myself for believing all his lies – and that’s what they were – just a bunch of lies. I can’t afford to travel much, but I did take the kids to Yellowstone one time. They loved it, and I don’t like the idea that Trump wants to turn our parks over to big companies so they can exploit them for a big profit. He wants to end the moratorium on mining for coal on public lands and give away the coal at way below market value. This cheats America out of owed royalties. Trump also wants gas and oil drilling on our public lands and parks. I’m an underpaid worker and Trump’s Labor Secretary is against labor and is all out for the big corporations. He’s opposed even to a minimum wage. Trump turned his back on the workers he promised to help – and we believed him. Trump’s director of the EPA has a sick fetish for big pollution. He loves pollution and calls it progress. He wants to get rid of the very agency he now heads. This is no good. It’s bad enough my daughter has juvenile diabetes and might be cut from health coverage because of her pre-existing condition. She should not have to breathe dirty air, too. I thank God for this program of recovery. Tonight I worked on Step Eight: “Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.” I mentioned my mother, my daughter and the old people across the street. I don’t have money. All I can do is say, “I’m sorry. I truly apologize for voting for Trump. It was the biggest mistake of my adult life.” Thank you for hearing my story and helping with my recovery. Fred Mittag

El Ojo del Lago / February 2019

Saw you in the Ojo 73

The Ways I Do Not Love You I do not want to count the ways I do not love you. To do so casts me too solidly in your image without your excuses for doing what you did: that you were crazy-jealous, crazy-in love, crazy-in rejection, crazy period. I had always wanted to be loved to distraction, but being loved to craziness is another thing: your deep truck tracks carving artless Nazca lines into the fresh sod of my yard, the new mailbox snapped off at its base, the queries from strangers who had met you in a bar and heard all of the intimate details of your insane version of our love affair. The letters to every member of the school board, every administrator in the district, every lawyer, every preacher in our town of 50,000, telling of the wild schoolteacher and outing her gay friends. I do not want to count the ways you proved the heartbreak of your love for me, those ways that now delineate the ways I do not love you. I do not even love the memory of you at Vedauwoo, standing on the monolithic rock, your sun-shy son crouched in its shade. I do not love the memory of driving to Jackson Hole, the twelve-foot-high banks of snow on either side of the highway that made it impossible to slide off the road. The dark, split by our headlights, pixilated by the mesmerizing onslaught of snow; and suddenly, the miraculous glimpse of the giant elk arcing from the left hand snow mass, high above us, over to the bank on the other side, leaving us spellbound and mute, as though this was a miracle neither of us had the words to describe. What are you, about 21? You asked

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that first night at the Ramada. The music was starting and I thought you were there to ask me for a dance. When I answered 26, you smiled that crooked smile and walked away. That unpredictable mystery of you was what kept me intrigued. I never could stand the ordinary. Not that I love the memory of this. And not that I know how long the list would be of why I do not love you anymore. My mind wanders through the memory of you like a lazy woman picking chocolates: testing one and discarding it. Choosing another. Finally deciding perhaps it is the brand of chocolates that does not suit. Oh, my once-darling, I despise the thought of you. Even these intrusive memories cannot win me back. You told me once, “Babe, you are so good that you don’t even realize your powers.” You’d lost your job and most of your friends and blamed it all on me. Even your friends had chosen my side, you said, blaming me when I didn’t even know there was a game, let alone its rules or its consequences. I do not want to number all the ways I do not love you anymore. Suffice it to say that once over, love might as well have never been. Like a snowflake on a sun-warmed sidewalk, there is no evidence of its ever having existed. Better to exhaust one’s efforts on a new love, for there is no way to list the ways you do not love. No way to bring to light now that list that you have never written. That list. That list that you keep hidden in the back of your heart with all of your life’s other impossibilities.

—By Judy Dykstra-Brown—

Saw you in the Ojo 75

Giving Thanks By Janice Kimball MFA

ur lives are filled with twists and bends, joys and tragedies; events happen that cannot be foretold on any roadmap. But every day is a new beginning, another opportunity for us to make an expression of who we are. I am a writer, so I guess it comes with the territory that I think of my life as a book. Every good book has a quest, and I guess mine is a search for love. Its theme, survival, was not my idea, or was it? Anyway, my book, laced with many life passages, consists of chapters. In the chapter I am in right now I feel I have reached the mountaintop. I am at peace with myself and I do feel loved, and I am no longer in survival mode. I like the age where I am at and enjoy most being among those who have learned who they are,

what they believe and who are no longer struggling with self-identity. Like many of you, this acceptance of self and circumstance did not come easy. As a matter of fact, no matter how much care I took in writing my chapters, some of them did not have a happy ending. In the wise place where I am now, I realize that too many happy endings lead to dull books. It was not the happy times, but the pitfalls I fell into that I have learned the most. From them I have learned the value of simple gifts, the gift of friendship, a sunny day, the sunset, a smile, the wag of a tail, and the freedom to create. But they do not satisfy me completely. I still have a need to prove myself, prove that I am worthy, that I deserve my spot on this earth. More books, more articles,

more designs, more weavings, the need to develop a blog. My ambition sounds daunting, but it’s not. My goal is to take a step forward in living this life fully every day, no matter how small. Since there are 365 days in a year, those steps add up. In reality I deal with exhaustion, physical exhaustion, as my motor neurons are dying off, a condition many of us who had polio during America’s epidemic in the early 1950’s but were rehabilitated enough to lead a seemingly normal life. Like a battery I have just so many units of energy to spend each day and I have learned how to harvest and use them to my best advantage. There are many of us at Lakeside that deal with handicaps. And deal with losses, terrible losses of loved ones, and losses of memory, and issues of pain management. When I was younger I had no idea that getting older was such a challenge. But it is. Sometimes, when we have taken a punch to the stomach we have to take time out to recover. Writing our book can be put on hold, but you know what? After that, we just have to deal with it and move on. Life is too short not to live it. What I find most healing is laughter. You might say I am a laughter junkie. I place a high value on it, and for me, life without fun would be not worth living. Yet there are times when I go too long without it. So it is good that I reflect back sometimes to realize that I need to put laughter at the top of my list of priorities. But I am happier than I have ever been, how can you knock that? My handicap’s don’t interfere with or limit my creativity, my life expression, my ambition or my output. As I have always lived with handicaps I find adaptation to them easier than most people. I have been given my share of hard times. From them I have learned that hard times often have silver linings. As a matter of fact, I can thank some of my most difficult times for leading me to this period in my life where I live in paradise. I believe that in every challenge we face, not matter how heart wrenching

it may be at the time is a growing experience, one that adds to our understanding of life and other people, and one that if we take the effort, in which we can find a silver lining. I am blessed with my extended Mexican families, Unitarian family, writing family and friends and those who believe in our art and collect our work, our neighbors, the trash collectors, and Jesus at the corner store that gives us credit at the end of the month. OH, my god, how often I have sat like a lump and taken all of you for granted! After twenty years here in paradise at times I had even forgotten to appreciate, or indeed hardly look at, the views of the mountains and the lakes from my verandas. I never want to take Francisco for granted. He is not only my weaver, he is my best friend and my right arm. But perhaps in my passion for writing, I was beginning to do that. So we went to the Blue Fin palapa restaurant in San Juan Cosala’s Riviera, a big splurge for us. I drank wine and Francisco Coke as we sat under a Palapa that hung over Lake Chapala. We ordered a Parrilla for two. We had no idea what it was. A platter with lamb, Arrecherra, chicken and shrimp with a variety of vegetables arrived. We watched the sky- scape change hue as the sun lowered over the soft blue violet of the mountaintops listening to the melodious sounds of Mexican diners in the restaurant next to us, young and the old, laughing together. It is through expression of self, regardless of our circumstances or our handicaps, that we are, that we will be remembered, that we will one day leave our mark upon our loved ones, our community and the world. As humans we are given the gift of expressing all of who we are. We must stay in touch with all that makes us human, and above all, remember that each day is a possibility for a Janice Kimball new beginning.

MID-MONTH BONUS! Fernando Garcia’s Paper-Back Novels is a charming look back at his discovering the opposite sex while still in his pre-teens in a small town in California. You can find the story at http://chapala.com/elojo/index.php/mid-month-articles Each mid-month, we offer superb articles that while a bit too long for our print version are perfect for our digital format. Check it out!

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The Ojo Crossword

El Ojo del Lago / February 2019

ACROSS

DOWN

1 Rich cake 6 Resort 9 Festival 13 Purr 14 Toddler 15 Household cleaner brand 16 Helper 17 Spoil 18 Drug 19 Knob 20 Strangely 22 Spots 23 Young Woman 24 Condensation 25 Group 27 Asian nation 29 Most unattractive 33 Hellos 34 Disks 35 Colors 36 Nabs 39 Spelling contest 40 Housekeeping task 41 Lotion ingredient 42 Food and Agriculture Organization (abbr.) 43 Yes 44 Derby (2 wds) 46 Gulf 49 Crush 50 Wrath 51 Choose 53 TravelerÂ´s aid 56 Abandon 58 Soybean 59 Cove 61 Not young 62 End 63 Inscribed stone 64 British thermal unit 65 Concerning 66 Thailand 67 Goddess 68 Worsted fabric

1 Pull 2 Buckeye State resident 3 Pierce many times 4 Linden 5 Be incorrect 6 Spread 7 Bankrupt 8 Disposition 9 Cheat 10 Continent 11 Deafening 12 Charity 15 Faithful 20 Snaky fish 21 Body appendages 24 Pulpit 26 Halfway 28 Equanimity 30 Leer 31 Espy 32 Cooking measurement 34 Executive director 36 Slumber 37 Entire 38 Promissory note 39 Post shower garb 40 Southeast by east 42 Rapid 43 Piece of land 45 Rush 47 Earlier 48 Eavesdropping 50 River valley 52 Nibble 53 Long 54 Opposed 55 Entreaty 57 Singing voice 58 CosineÂ´s partner 60 Shade tree 62 Foreign Agricultural Service

Practicing Patience! By Kathy Koches

hose who know me, know that patience has never been, nor will it ever be, my strong suit. It is something I have had to work on my whole life. I don’t like waiting for surprises, Christmas or trips. I want the answers to questions NOW (the Internet has been a real help to me in this regard, although I DO know I can’t believe everything I look up! Have you ever received a letter that made you want to write an instant response? Of course now, in the computer era, it is very, very easy to send that response immediately. Unfortunately that is not always a good idea. In the “olden days” before computers, we had more of an opportunity to carefully consider a response, could write several drafts before finally sending off our missive in the mail. Many times I have written an angry response, only to re-read it the next day and tear it up. In fact I wrote a letter to the Editor which was published in El Ojo del Lago (the first and only time I ever did so) in response to an article that I felt misrepresented something I strongly believe in, but I wrote and rewrote it several times before I sent it in. Now, however, we can read an email and whip out a response within seconds, and just click “send” to instantly respond. Often this does not give us time to digest the information sent or really consider the implications of our response. If I have been upset or hurt by something I’ve received, I make it a practice NOT to respond immediately. Oh, I sit at the keyboard and bang out a response, but the key

is, I do NOT send it out – rather I wait a minimum of 24 hours, re-read it, edit it, and if I still feel it is appropriate, then I send it. One of the funniest jokes I have seen recently asked the question: “If aliens came to earth what would be the most difficult thing to explain to them about our 21st century technology?” The answer was: “How I carry a device in my pocket that puts me in touch with all the collective knowledge of mankind, and I use it to look at pictures of kittens and get in arguments with strangers!” It amazes me how many people get worked up and argue with complete strangers on things like FaceBook and Twitter, or even with someone they know via instant messaging. I try not to engage in this, but, should it ever happen, there is something I want you to know: I type 110 wpm. Never get into an argument with someone who types faster than you! Kathy Koches

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