El Ojo del Lago - February 2022 by El Ojo del Lago

Saw you in the Ojo

 D IRE C TOR Y  PUBLISHER David Tingen

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Victoria A. Schmidt

EDITOR EMERITUS

Index... 12

COVER STORY

A MEXICAN STREET PARTY By Blue. Blue shares makings of a special street party in Six Corners.

Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez

Graphic Design Roberto C. Rojas Reyes Diana Parra Morales

Special Events Editor Carol D. Bradley Associate Editor Sally Asante Theater Critic Michael Warren Roving Correspondent Dr. Lorin Swinehart

Sales Manager Bruce Fraser Carmene Berner

ADVERTISING OFFICE Av. Hidalgo # 223, Chapala Mon. thru Fri. 9 am - 5 pm Sat. 9 am - 1 pm Tel. 01 (376) 765 2877, 765 3676 Fax 01 (376) 765 3528

Send all correspondence, subscriptions or advertising to: El Ojo del Lago www.chapala.com elojodellago@gmail.com

8 “The Rise of the New Know-Nothingism” by Dr. Lorin Swinehart presents a brief history of vaccines. 20 ” The Day I Met a Trivial Pursuit Answer and Lived to Tell The Story.” Don Beaudreau shares a story on his trip down under. 36 “El Dorado: Lope de Aguirre: Traitor, Hero, Mad Man?” Bob Drynan continues his series. 40 “A Matter of Perspective” – Kathy Koches gives us her point of view. 44 “Stunning Beauty” Fred Mittag sheds light on the singing career of Marian Anderson inhibited due to her race.

By José Maria Reyes

COLUMNS THIS MONTH

06 Editor’s Page 14 Vexations & Conundrums 16 If Pets Could Talk 18 Streets of Mexico 24 Verdant View

46 “Beto-The Extraordinary Rescued Dog” by Shannon Ford

26 Profiling Tepehua

48 “The Godfather” by Larry Kolcazak shares his experiences of becoming a Godfather in Mexico.

28 Front Row Center

50 “Pearl Harbor” by Jack Estes tells a story of one family during and after Pearl Harbor. 54 “Zsa,Zsa” by Patricia Hemingway introduces us to a cat who lived through war and peace.

Ave. Hidalgo 223 (or Apartado 279), 45900 Chapala, Jalisco Tels.: 376 765 3676, Fax 376 765 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.

COVER IMAGE

VOLUME 38 NUMBER 6

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

30 Lakeside Living 42 Astrolynx 48 “Shared Thoughts”

Saw you in the Ojo

COLUMNIST

Editor’s Page By Victoria Schmidt

Trying a different tactic

t’s been two years now, and everywhere I go I hear the “C” word. Get your minds out of the gutter! I am talking “COVID” or “CC” “Complaining about COVID.” I, personally have heard about all I care to hear. It is 2022 and they still haven’t found a cure for the common cold, so you should be grateful they even have vaccines for COVID! That is my cure, my attitude adjustment. I’m going to start being grateful. First, I’m grateful I haven’t gotten COVID. I am grateful that simple, uncomplicated things like washing my hands, and wearing a mask and social distancing are easy ways to help keep myself safe. I am grateful that the medical community has told us the ways in which we can stay safe. I’m grateful that somewhere along the line I was granted common sense and patience. I’m grateful that as a student of history I have seen how we survived the previous pandemics. I’d be really grateful if the naysayers would just keep their thoughts to themselves. Grandma always said, “If you don’t have anything nice to say about something, don’t say anything at all.” So, I’m grateful for grandma. Each day I’m going to start off

being grateful for something. Like today, getting out of bed feeling well, I was grateful for. Grateful that I have responsibilities and that I have reasons to get out of bed. I’m really grateful for the Internet every day because it makes my life so much easier. And I am grateful for my friend who gets me out of trouble with the Internet because the software designers keep insisting on upgrading everything. I might even be so grateful to those software designers if they gave me an “opt out of upgrade for this slight fee” option so I can pay to keep things the way I understand them. I’m going to be really grateful when I remember to tell my landlady about that dripping facet. And when I find that cockroach that has been hiding under the sofa finally shows itself, I will be grateful when showing it the door. When I am stuck in traffic I am grateful that I have a car to drive, even if it is just a loaner. And I will be thankful when I master knowing exactly which day of the week it is. I am grateful that my smart phone does know the correct day of the week. When you stop and think about it, there are a lot of things to be grateful for every day. We just have to change our mind set. I don’t know how all this COVID business will end up, but I am grateful for the doctors and scientists researching it. To the people treating it. For those who are no longer dying from it. And for the lessons we are learning from it. The goal is to learn so that we may be better prepared for the next thing that comes along. I’m very grateful for that. [Correction: Last month’s editorial was attributed to Sally Asante by my error. Sorry Sally. It really should have simply said Staff, as several contributions were made.]

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo

The Rise Of The New Know-Nothingism By Lorin Swinehart

“

O YOU BELIEVE THAT! DO YOU BELIEVE THAT!” Growled the huge man standing in line behind me in a North Carolina supermarket. He was overflowing with bellicosity and ignorance in response to a young clerk’s reminder that he maintain a six-foot distance between himself and others during what was the most dangerous period of the recent COVID pandemic. I could not help but think to myself, “Big, dumb, and menacing.” The anti-vac and anti-mask crowd are representative of a long tradition of know-nothingism that has characterized significant sectors of US society from the beginning, an attitude composed of anti-education, anti-science, anti-logic, anti-reason and on not a few occasions bigotry and racism. In the interest of accuracy, it needs to be said that knownothingism as such emerged as a primarily anti-Catholic and anti-immigrant political movement in the US during the 1850s. Over the years since, the term has come to have wider application. The purpose of education is the liquidation of ignorance, an exhausting challenge in an era when so many are proud of their ignorance. The know-nothings have always been with us. Not too many years ago, they attempted to convince us that such engineering feats as the launch of the Space Shuttle was changing our weather. And yet, the same sorts today will energetically, even vehemently, deny the very real menaces posed by global warming and rising ocean levels. More frightening, they now rant and rave against the immunizations that are saving countless lives. Vaccination has been a lifesaving procedure for decades, preceded by inoculation. Most of us take vaccination for granted. In the course of my own life, I have been immunized against diphtheria, hepatitis A, pertussis, smallpox, rotavirus, pneumococcal, pneumonia, rubella, polio, shingles and COVID, as well as tetanus on more than one occasion and influenza on an annual basis. The vaccines came along too late to spare me the miseries of measles, mumps, and

chickenpox. I had a good friend who spent his life on crutches because he had contracted polio in his early teens. Recently, it was reported that a man named Paul Alexander contracted polio in 1952 and has been in an iron lung for seventy years. I remember news reels showing a room lined with patients encapsulated in iron lungs, the stuff of nightmares for anyone at all claustrophobic. Some children in our neighborhood contracted polio. I wonder now if whenever my sister or I complained of a sore throat, a headache, a fever, particularly in the summertime, our parents didn’t inwardly panic. When Dr. Jonas Salk announced on March 3, 1953, that he had created a polio vaccine, we rushed to share in the lifesaving discovery. In 1962, Dr. Albert Sabin developed an oral vaccine, making immunization even easier. Thanks to vaccinations, a life inside an iron lung was no longer a threat. On February 5, 1777, General George Washington ordered all members of the Continental Army inoculated against smallpox, the first mass immunization in American history. Such early leaders as Washington and Franklin were products of the Enlightenment and accepted the discoveries and procedures of the science of their day. Much earlier, in 1721, the Reverend Cotton Mather and Dr. Zabdiel Boyston introduced inoculation to America during a smallpox epidemic in Boston. In its day, smallpox was as fearful a scourge as polio was in the 1950s or, more recently, the COVID pandemic. It was characterized by high fever, vomiting, and mouth and skin lesions. Eventually, fluid filled bumps would appear all over the skin. It was spread, as so many of the maladies that torment us do, by droplets from the noses and mouths of infected persons. Smallpox once killed an estimated 400,000 persons each year and caused blindness and other lasting debilitations in many others. For years, some had learned a few things about smallpox simply through observation. It had been widely known that farmers who worked closely with cattle never caught smallpox. Those who Continued on page 10

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo

From page 8 became infected with cow pox, a disease common among cattle, appeared to acquire immunity to the more deadly human variety. Benjamin Jesty, an English farmer, scratched the arms of his own wife and children with needles that had pierced cowpox pustules. While his neighbors raged against him, no one in his family caught smallpox. It may have been Lady Mary Montagu, who brought smallpox inoculation to Europe. While her husband was serving as Britain’s ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, Lady Montagu learned that the Turks used the procedure to prevent the dread disease. She had her children vaccinated sometime around 1717. The Turkish technique was to create immunity by inserting pus from an infected person into the vein of a healthy person. When Dr. Edward Jenner announced that smallpox could be prevented by injecting healthy people with cowpox pus from infected bovines, the reception was not universally favorable. Some clergy argued that inoculating people with pus from deceased animals was ungodly. The lure of profit underlies much of human misbehavior, and there were physicians who feared loss of revenue if smallpox was completely eliminated. On at least one occasion, demonstrators erupted into the streets, some wearing cow horns, burning Jenner in effigy. One newspaper argued that Jenner’s procedure would cause people to grow horns and give birth to calves. To prove his point, Jenner inoculated a milkmaid named Sara Helmes with pus from an infected cow named Blossom. Ms. Helmes never caught smallpox. One person who had little doubt regarding the dire consequences of smallpox was British commander Lord Jeffrey Amherst during the Seven Years War, 1756-1763. Lord Jeffery initiated one of the earliest forms of biological warfare by distributing as gifts to Pontiac’s people, his Native American adversaries, blankets that had been slept on by smallpox patients. In a 1763 letter to

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Col. Henry Bouquet, Amherst suggested, “Could it not be contrived to send smallpox among those disaffected tribes of Indians. We must on occasion use every stratagem in our power to reduce them.” In a later communique, he further ordered, “We must try every other method that can serve to extirpate this execrable race.” Over the subsequent winter, 3/4 of the people of the Ohio Valley succumbed to the pox. Today, Amherstberg, Ontario, and Canada’s Amherst College are named in Lord Jeffrey’s “honor.” In 1989, the World Health Organization announced that the scourge of smallpox had been eliminated. A disease that had once wiped out entire populations in the Americas and across the islands of the Pacific is no more because of the availability of vaccinations. There have been epidemics, even pandemics, in the past. The Black Death of the Middle Ages and the 1918 influenza scourge come readily to mind, as do incidents of malaria and yellow fever. In those cases, medical science had not yet reached the sophistication of today, and most people lacked educational resources necessary for the comprehension of the causes and treatments for disease. In those cases, they cannot be blamed for falling back on folk medicine and even superstition. Those who compose today’s lumpen proletariat, however, more closely approximate the determined mindlessness of the snake oil advocates and witch burners of days of yore. Lacking the mental discipline or acumen to seriously attempt to learn much of anything of consequence, they fall back upon the rumblings of political or religious hacks and the pacifiers offered by pulp publications. Not unlike those villagers who attacked Jenner are those troglodytic individuals who today refuse to be vaccinated or to take reasonable precautions, such as mask wearing, in the face of the COVID pandemic, who turn to vaccine misinformation and attempt in their mulish way to refute irrefutable science. The current strain of know-nothingism exists at the end of a long line stretching backward in time into the very darkest corners of the human story. While there may be reasons why some who suffer from rare medical conditions should not receive vaccinations, others simply prefer to risk their lives and the lives of others in their stubborn refusal to behave as responsible members of civil society. But perhaps that is the computer chip injected into my arm by the kindly nurse who administered my vaccination talking. Lorin Swinehart

Saw you in the Ojo 11

A Village Street Party In Mexico By Blue (circa Feb 2000)

ast week my good friend Linda Samuels celebrated her sixtieth birthday with a oncein-a lifetime street party near Six Corners in the Village of Ajijic. Linda moved here four years ago after a thirtyfour year career with the New York City Board of Education on the Upper West Side/West Harlem in Manhattan. A real city girl, she headed towards the lights of Guadalajara. She stopped enroute to breathe the fresh air and listen to the sounds of Ajijic. She never reached Guadalajara. Linda chose a home in the village on a street often used for parades and village celebrations. Her home is built around a courtyard. It is an old, Mexican

style home, filled with treasures from various parts of Mexico. You have to walk through the garage to get into the house and you can’t get into the garage on the nights the lady across the street opens her doors to sell homemade tamales because the street is filled with parked cars. Linda speaks fairly fluent Spanish from her many years of working with Latin children in New York and has made many friends in the local community. At six a.m. on the morning of her birthday someone knocked on her door. Musicians sang her the traditional birthday song which begins “How lovely is the morning that we come to greet you…” The singers also brought the hot

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

cinnamon drink called canela with just a touch of tequila to warm up the early morning. Everyone entered her home and stayed for an hour, singing, dancing and making merry. Plans for her party began in earnest about two months before her January 19th birthday celebration. She wanted a memorable one which would make both her foreign and Mexican friends comfortable but didn’t know how to go about it until she heard about friend of mine in Jocotopec who had planned a street party. Originally she counted on about 100 people. A week before the party, she planned between 250 and 300. She checked with our equivalent of the City Hall and got permission to close down one block of the street. The police offered to provide a guard for the occasion. Free beer, is what I’m sure they were thinking. The company she bought beer from provided tables and chairs advertising their beer, of course. The neighbors pitched in and hung paper decorations across the street above the tables. Offers to help with the food poured in from everywhere. The tamale ladies prepared 300 tamales. Linda ordered 85 kilos of beef. A Cuban friend provided Cuban black beans and rice, and other neigh-

bors fixed up traditional Mexican beans and rice. Her maid put together a huge prickly pear cactus salad. The Mexican food was enjoyed by all. Served with beer, spiked punch or soft drinks, we all ate and chatted and listened to the music, served up by a local Mexican disc jockey. Linda declared: “I want salsa. I want dancing music. I want my guests to get up in the street and work up a sweat.” It warmed my heart to see children dancing with parents, Mexicans with Gringos, and everybody having a great time. The party started at six p.m. Folks came and went, but I stayed until the ultimate event. Linda had ordered a three-story structure made of bamboo, called a castillo. Castillo means castle. The structure is covered with fireworks that, when lit, start spinning and shooting into the air. They light each other. After the four sides of the structure have performed their magic in the starry evening skies, the finale begins. The top of the castillo spins in a dizzying array of fireworks, causing the children to squeal with glee and run around under the spray, protecting themselves under empty cardboard boxes. After dinner, the birthday cake was presented among cheers of Mordida! Mordida! I normally think of mordida as being what you pay the police when you don’t want a ticket. As she leaned over to bite off the corner of the cake, they pushed her face in to it. I guess there are always new traditions to learn about. The part of the cake indented with her face was cut off and saved for her own personal use. Linda served a hot canela (cinnamon) drink with the cake and the party ended about 10:30. Of the 250+ folks there, maybe 150 were invited and, in the traditional Mexican way, those who were invited, invited their relatives and friends to come along and join in the fun. This will be a difficult act to follow when I turn sixty.

Saw you in the Ojo 13

Delayed Response

blew the whistle on the Covid reprieve too early. Omicron sprang up and surprised everyone. The governments around the planet seemed short on tests, short on medications, short on hospital beds. They underestimated how many frontline employees would catch the virus and be unable to report for duty. I watched the news in horror, as all my plans for returning to my prior life were delayed again. This isolation feels unending. My holidays had been very unusual. I took vaccination polls from anyone who was coming over to deliver gifts. “Are you boosted?” replaced “Are you vaccinated?” One of my family members answered incorrectly, and we had to delay Christmas until the curve dies down. I had phone visits with unvaccinated people. Yes, I know a very few people who still won’t vaccinate. Some friends offered to take me out to lunch for my holiday birthday, a couple of weeks before the actual birth date. I put my foot down that we had to dine outside. It was sunny, and very windy. One friend asked, “Why aren’t we eating inside?” I could only answer that I wasn’t doing that right now. I sensed their judgement that I was paranoid, over-reacting. They obviously weren’t studying world case counts like I was. Two weeks later, as Omicron exploded on the scene, I sensed a changing tide as everyone knew multiple people with the virus. I felt a change in attitudes as I received text after text that either they or family members were stricken. Right before Christmas I started noticing something unusual for me. I’m a list maker, enjoying checking off what I have accomplished. My lists, on sticky notes, sat all over my work area. Nothing got checked. I started each day scanning the lists, thinking about what I should be doing, then walking away to check the news or think about food. I have exercises I am supposed to be doing for a bad hip. I’d look at the photo examples of the moves, stare at the

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

yellow exercise band, think about the reps…and turn away to some mundane tasks. Thank you notes, which I write the old-fashioned way, on note cards, were not being written. I thought about my tardiness in acknowledging the generosity of my friends. What was going on here? I gave it a name: Covid Procrastination Syndrome (CPS, for brevity) I think this virus has robbed me of my ambition. Thank goodness I am not still working at a job. I’d get fired. I asked my sister who was visiting and observing my overflowing, unproductive work area if she had experienced anything like this. “Every day,” she responded. Perhaps there are others of us out there, worn down, exhausted from bad news, trying like crazy to stay upbeat. I don’t think CPS is contagious. My husband has lost twenty pounds and walks a measured 10,000 steps a day. His phone is recording the steps. I sit on my chair and watch him walk. I haven’t shared his joyful weight loss. However, there is hope. When I truly started worrying where I was sliding down to, I picked up a pen and convinced myself to write just one note. Once the ink started to flow, and I offered positive messages of gratitude to beloved contacts, something tipped inside of me. One note became six and the next day I was able to write seven. I only have one more note to write and it isn’t late, as the others were. I think the key cure to this syndrome is gratitude. If any of you have been struck by an inexplicable desire to freeze in time, you may want to search for the good things in the moment. I assure you, no matter how rough things are, there are still tiny sparks of good, waiting for you to ignite them, and yourself in the process. Katina Pontikes

Saw you in the Ojo 15

COLUMNIST

If Our Pets Could Talk By Jackie Kellum

our family pet is with you for a brief time. They really are here on earth to teach us about living our best lives. If you think of your pet’s presence as being a ‘spiritual guide’ whose purpose is to enlighten you about life’s lessons and making the most of your lives, watch their behavior. They can teach us a lot. As to survival skills, pets are usually good judges of character, and follow their instincts. As humans we sometimes over-analyze things and make ourselves a bit nuts. Animals listen, and go cautiously when they get some kind of internal warning signal when approaching a person or situation that may prove harmful to them. The only exception possibly is when they repeatedly trust a human who has done them harm, but they keep hoping that this trusted person will not repeat this hurtful behavior. Animals like humans in this case, sometimes stay in ‘abusive’ relationships, until they realize they need to get out of it for their own good health of mind and body. I am sure each of us has seen a dog running down the road with a half chew rope attached to his collar, or a cat who has moved in to your property to get away from his previous situation. What pets rely on—and what we should rely on also—learn to separate the ‘good’ humans from the ‘bad ones’, simply observe the person’s personality traits and actions, not necessarily what they say. It’s okay to not like someone. That’s the simple truth. Some cats and dogs do not like some of their own species. You probably have observed at times that a cat or a dog, may not like a particular human person either. The amazing part

is, is how little the pet lets it affect them. They don’t feel guilty about it afterwards, don’t lose sleep over it, or make excuses about their personal feelings. They also don’t pretend to like the other animal or person, they just let their true feelings be known. As humans we do not necessarily do this – not sure why we feel we have to like everyone. If the other person is having a toxic affect or is always negative, evaluate what they are contributing to your life. You do not need to be rude in your behavior, but it is your choice to have a person involved or not in your life. Dogs and cats prefer to be around kind and positive people in their lives – look how happy they are with that decision. Be open to adventure. Pets adapt to new situations and environments most times more easily than humans, who sometimes struggle with change. Pets teach us how to overcome our fears. As we know in life, things don’t always work out as you had planned. When we learn to adapt to a new or different situation as soon as possible, the more time we can spend enjoying it. Allowing yourself patience, not demanding perfection, setting your own standards and not those of others, acknowledging self-appreciation—all this gives you the courage to try new things. When you replace fear and self-criticism with trust in yourself, it helps you handle new and different situations, and makes life a bit easier. That’s what pets do... another life lesson... We may never completely understand our pets. But, by letting them educate and inspire us, they can teach us how to have a simpler life, full of love and happiness. The kind of life we long for, for ourselves. This is going to be a threepart article... there is so much to learn from our pets. See you in April.... Jackie Kellum

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 17

COLUMNIST

Antonio López de Santa Anna By David Ellison

ntonio López de Santa Anna was Mexico’s first caudillo, or great national leader. He dominated the country’s politics for more than thirty years after the war for independence, a period now known as the Age of Santa Anna. He served as president eleven brief times. Finally, like Caesar, he declared himself dictator for life. Indeed, he called himself “The Savior of the Nation,” “The Napoleon of the West,” and “His Most Serene Highness”; but he abdicated or was deposed/exiled several times as well. Santa Anna was at times an inspiring, albeit ruthless general. In one battle, his horse was shot out beneath him three times. He rebuffed Spain’s attempt to reconquer its former colony and led his country’s defense against the first French invasion, sacrificing a leg for his troubles. Even so, he lost the Texan Revolution (captured ignominiously afterward attempting to escape dressed as a peasant) as well as The Mexican-American War (stubbornly dragging out the lost cause resulting in horrific losses on both sides; and, at the end, shamelessly abandoning Los Niños Héroes to their tragic fate). Thus, Santa Anna delivered half his country to The United States. Santa Anna did not rule well, either. With no apparent ideology except selfaggrandizement, he changed sides repeatedly, first opposing independence, then joining Iturbide in achieving it; supporting Iturbide’s monarchy, then rising in revolt against it; enabling liberal/federal reforms, then casting them aside to pursue conservative no-

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

tions of a strong, central government, powerful military, and dominating church. Along with Guerrero, he established the tragic Mexican legacy of responding to electoral defeats with military coups. Santa Anna’s final debacle involved selling yet more land to the United States, the Gadsden Purchase, a narrow strip the US needed for the transcontinental railroad. Santa Anna claimed the $10 million payment was essential to rebuild the army, but he squandered or pocketed most of it, and was soon overthrown/exiled for the last time in the Revolution of Ayutla (which began La Reforma). Santa Anna’s amputated leg makes for a colorful story. He dug it up and brought it back to Mexico City in a parade, reburying it with full military honors. (He wept during the sycophantic eulogies.) Later, during the MexicanAmerican war, he lost his prosthetic replacement as well. It is still on display as a war prize in the Illinois State Military Museum. Santa Anna died a poor, blind, castaside cripple...having left Mexico broke and in political disarray.

Saw you in the Ojo 19

THE DAY I MET A TRIVIAL PURSUIT ANSWER AND LIVED TO TELL THE STORY

Dinky, the Singing Dingo of the Outback By Don Beaudreau wbeaudreau@aol.com

“

’day mates!” boomed the big and burly, white-bearded man. “Welcome to Stuarts Well Roadhouse, here in the middle of the Australian Outback! My name’s Jim, and me and my wife Mardi who’s working the cash register over there by the exit (she will handcuff you if you steal something and attempt to leave with it), are the proprietors of this dusty and dry, out-of -the way place, just 80 kilometers south of Alice Springs. But then again, Alice Springs itself is not exactly a glittering

metropolis now, is it? At least for you big-city types.” We laughed. We were 19 tourists on a bus who were on our way back to “Alice” after spending a wonderful day viewing the iconic Ayers Rock. It was a major accomplishment crossed off my bucket list. I was the only American in the group. “Anyhow,” continued our host, “we are delighted you had one too many pints or cuppas and needed to utilize our very own dunny! Or rather, your bus driver needed to!” More laughter from our group. Jim continued. “And I hope that in addition to relieving your bodily necessi-

ties with us, you will help my hard-working sheila and me to pay our bills, by buying a new pint or cuppa; and hopefully a bickie, avo, chook, or any of the diversified variety of treats we are trying to sell you! But, let’s get right to business, ‘cause I know you weary travelers need to get back on your bus and continue your trip! So, let me ask you: might there be a volunteer amongst you who plays the piano?” I quickly raised my hand, not waiting for any competition. After all, I was still on my four-month sabbatical and there I was in this bus stop in the Northern Territory of a continent 14,000 miles from where I lived, so I was very eager to have any new experience that offered itself to me. Santa Claus eyed me with satisfaction. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Sure, I’m sure. Been playing the piano since I was a kid.” The others in our group laughed. “But do you play it well? And do I detect an American accent?” “Not too many complaints,” I answered, adding: “Yes, I am an American, residing in Florida.” “How many complaints?” Jim continued. “Including that guy in the bar in Pago Pago?” More laughter from the group.

“Yeah, that one! The one who pulled a gun on you, right?” “You got it!” I answered, going along with Jim’s routine, and starting to wonder what I had gotten myself into. “So, you’re used to danger!” said Jim. At least when you play the piano. Not that I’m saying there will be any of it in the next few minutes, but only that there might be.” “That’s comforting,” I said. “But if you do get roughed up a bit, you don’t have to worry because Mardi and I paid our insurance last month!” Jim turned in the direction of his beloved who was guarding the cash register and asked her, “Didn’t we, old gal?” Mardi looked at Jim and shrugged her shoulders in a display of her not being sure. The room swirled with conviviality, perhaps at my future expense of being a patient in an Intensive Care Unit — unconscious, and hooked up to a ventilator. Jim turned back to me. “So, my lad from the land of swamps and gators, I hope you aren’t lying about playing the piano well. Or at least well enough to prevent our performer from doing some damage to you. He won’t like it if you aren’t up to his standards. He is a divo, you know. So, are you ready to meet this world-famous performer?” Without waiting for my response, Continued on page 22

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 21

From page 20 Jim asked me to be seated at the piano bench in front of the upright piano that looked as if he had fallen off one of the big, speeding trucks in the middle-ofthe-night as it thundered its way over the Stewart Highway attempting not to hit a ‘roo or two. The piano exhibited various indentations and scratches. I hoped that I would not resemble the piano if the singer disapproved of me. Jim continued. “Now, folks, just so you know, when our performer enters the room, do not make any sudden movement! And do not talk, scream, whisper, burp, sneeze, or … well, do anything else that might want to come out of you. Okay? Otherwise, we might have to evacuate all of you by helicopter to a hospital — that is if we can find a helicopter or a hospital here in the midst of our beloved wasteland. You folks got that?” There was a smattering of vocal agreement and a nodding of heads. “Remember, my friends: Swamp Man from the Everglades could be in danger if you fart!” I hoped that Jim was merely playing the showman in an attempt to sell his pints and bickies. He looked at me with a concerned look, as if I were a condemned prisoner awaiting execution, and asked me, “So, my friend from across the seas, are you ready to meet your fate?” But before I could say, “yea” or “nay” to Santa’s query, Jim was inviting the main attraction to enter the room: “It’s time, Dink! Do your thing!” Not having been prepared to meet such a performer, although apparently most everyone else in the room knew who he was — thereby showing this American’s lack of knowledge of Australian culture — out trotted a mediumsized, short-haired dog with a yellowish-ginger coat, white feet, a very busy tail, and a look that meant serious business. The wild beast looked at me with more than mere curiosity. A look more like rage in those piercing eyes, as if to threaten me; as if he were asking: “Who in the hell do you think you are, invading my territory?” Jim informs Dinky that I am just some passing guy from the swamps who says he plays the piano, so Jim pleads for Dinky not to be too rough with me, like he had been with the last guy. Then he assures the dog with a bad attitude that I will be getting back on the bus soon. I swear I saw Dinky give Jim even more attitude, as if the man needed to realize that nobody could tell The Dink what to do. Yes, I am sure I heard a low snarling and saw attack

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

teeth starting to appear, indications to me at least that Dinky knew that Dinky was really in charge of the situation. Not the cocky Kris Kringle. Then Jim informs the group that Dinky the Singing Dingo is the most famous Dingo of all time, complete with his personal website, fans, talent agents, canine back-up singers when he is “on the road” and bank account. “Dinky” is also the answer to a question in the game Trivial Pursuit. That although he is descended from rough-and-tumble descendants that go back 10,000 years, the Dink’s primitive self only rarely is unleashed, and we should hope (pray silently if we want) that Dink’s ancient genetic code will not appear from its atavistic past and demand the blood of the enemy. At this point, Jim looks at me as if I were the enemy whose blood would soon be all over the piano keys. “Anyhow, Dink, are you ready to perform?” asked Saint Nicholas. The dog looked at Jim, hoping for a bickie, which Jim readily supplied him from seemingly out-of-nowhere. Dink grabbed it without a sign of appreciation, gulped the treat down with one big swallow, hopped onto a little table next to the piano, and then hopped on to the piano keys. “Play something he can sing!” Jim demanded. “For the sake of all of us, don’t piss him off!” I decided that given the present situation, the most appropriate thing I could offer to Wild Man Dink would be either “How Much is that Doggie in the Window?” or “March of the Gladiators.” I decided the former ditty seemed less likely to elevate Dinky’s primitive desires to maul me until the gore spewed and spurted from my every orifice — an offering to the Great Dingo Daddio Deity. And as soon as I played my first note, dog wailing commenced, with Dinky’s head lifted high and backward, with his feet firmly planted atop the road-kill piano keys! “Sing, Dink, sing!” shouted the big guy. The Superstar of the Outback was alive with energy. And I lived to tell the tale of my accompanying a superstar. I have the photo to prove it.

Saw you in the Ojo 23

COLUMNIST

Verdant View By Francisco Nava

The Language of Plants

ver dinner recently at Jardin Plaza Restaurant I noticed the rebirth of the surrounding foliage and knew that my friend Steve was diligently working to resurrect the local greenery. Steve has what I like to call an abrupt manner with plants, as evidenced during his latest potting demo. He pulls and drops and directs soil and plants into pots with abandon; a little too forceful for my tastes, but as you can see at Jardin Plaza, the plants like it. My thoughts drifted to the way we communicate with plants and other species that do not speak our languages. Given enough time and

attention the connection with animals is evident; cows nudge their owners for affection, goats paw at their human friends to rub their bellies, birds wait at water fountains for a human to turn on the water flow, etc. So what about plants? How do we communicate with plants? Since sounds are basically vibrations, human conversation to plants may cause possible changes affecting plant growth and health. Language, for example, doesn’t seem to be limited to humans. Prairie dogs use adjectives (lots of them) and Alston’s singing mice, a species found in Central America, chirp “politely.” Ravens have demonstrated

advanced planning, another blow to human exceptionalism, by bartering for food and selecting the best tools for future use. Leaf-cutter ants not only invented farming a couple million years before we did, but they have their own landfills . . . and garbage men. We’re still trying to decipher and understand these amazing creatures and their effect on our gardens. Tony Trewavas, professor emeritus at the University of Edinburgh, states “All life is intelligent because if it wasn’t, it simply wouldn’t be here.” It’s certainly thought-provoking. Is survival, by definition, proof of intelligence? From Do Plants Have Something To Say? (The New York Times) by Ellie Shechet published Aug. 26, 2019, updated Aug. 28, 2019: Dr. Monica Gagliano from the University of Sydney in Australia, said, “Learning from plants is a longdocumented ceremonial practice (if not one typically endorsed by scientists).” As environmental collapse looms, we’ve never known so much about life on earth—how extraordinary and intricate it all is, and how loose the boundary where ‘it’ ends and ‘we’ begin.” Michael Pollan, author of The

Botany of Desire said in an interview, “Humans do tend to underestimate plants, and Dr. Gagliano is one of a small group of scientists who are trying to change that story.” My friend Dionne speaks to her plants and they answer her, letting her know what they need. I sing to the plants in my garden and they respond by being healthier and happier. My mother, Rebecca, was a plant whisperer and her gardens were always lovely and fruitful. Perhaps this is why I always feel better after having spent time in my garden with my friends. Until we know and learn more, why not sing and talk to your plants? It couldn’t hurt and everyone will be the better for it. What to plant in February Do you want to grow tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants? Start these indoors around February. Then, around April you should start watching the weather and, as soon as it is warm enough, go ahead and transplant those into the ground. It is still cold at night, but warmer in the morning. Pruning now will bring back many plants that are looking a little sad, encouraging new growth. Look for iris, heliotrope, pentas, primrose, and snapdragons at the viveros. Now is the time to put radishes, carrots, Swiss chard, kohl rabi, leeks, and beans (wax, runner, and bush) in the garden. For flower growers, start morning glory, evening primrose, liatris, clarkia, and tuberous begonias in pots. It’s an excellent time to get the garden cleaned up and ready for the hot, dry months and the new things you will be planting. Don’t forget to deadhead and water and keep up with your compost. Francisco Nava

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 25

COLUMNIST

PROFILING TEPEHUA By Moonyeen King

President of the Board for Tepehua

moonie1935@yahoo.com

nfortunately, the year has started off in a state of confusion. The new COVID variant and its tendency to spread rapidly is bringing the old rules back along with a stricter compliance to them. Nothing wrong with that as to comply is not to spread. An interesting theory that seems to make a little sense, is that this new strain, because it can rapidly spread and is not so severe in its symptoms unless you have an existing problem, could cause herd immunity because of the volume of people it will affect some of whom do not even know they have it. We are so ready to believe the theories of doom and gloom that spreads fear, why don’t we believe this theory of positivity? Perhaps this year will see the end. Inflation is hitting the people hard, and although there has been a raise in the minimum wage, inflation is still forcing people under the poverty line. Not everyone is getting that raise because so many are casual laborers, neither the boss nor the employed declare their earnings, and to keep it that way they accept a much lower wage. The Tepehua Community Center is run strictly on volunteerism.

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

The volunteers are compensated in many ways that are worth more than the minimum wage. Instead of money, they get help sending their children to school and on to higher education. For the first time, their children can actually have a shot at going to the university of their choice. They also receive free medical service and dispensers of food twice a month that feeds most families for the month. Free English lessons are also available and any other program that is happening at the center at that time. The enclosed photo is of the dispenser line at the center Jan. 7th. Donated by Lynda Anderson and her group of merry women, the packages are distributed twice a month. The Tepehua Team is busy cleaning up the rag-ends of 2021, perfecting as much as possible the things accomplished last year. Plus, shuffling around Board members so that we have a team ready to take on the challenge of this year. Yes, it is only January, so let’s give it a chance. Think positive. The Team still have great expectations for this year, especially looking back at the support that Lakeside gave us to keep going. Until the government straightens up, the food lines will always be there until the people earn that which is relative to the price of bread. Change in Tepehua is coming really fast, as Chapalenses and Tapatios buy land in the south side of Tepehua because of its splendid view. This will bring work to the local people in the form of housekeepers and gardeners and the little shops will do well. But unfortunately, those who earn below the poverty line will be pushed further into the valley where you will see them living on the sides of the mountain with no utilities. There are always victims of progress.

Saw you in the Ojo 27

COLUMNIST

FRONT ROW CENTER By Michael Warren This Random World by Steven Dietz Directed by M.A. Bruneau

his is a recent play by Steven Dietz, a prolific playwright who might be described as the Norm Foster of America. Since 1981 he has written at least 40 plays, which mostly get produced in community or regional theaters. So here we are at our little local theater, a captive audience hoping for an interesting story and some entertainment. Not so lucky. What the author seems to have done is take some random audition pieces for two actors and hope that the play makes some sense. Or not. Life doesn’t make sense anyway. The opening scene features “Beth Ward” and her brother “Tim” and Beth is writing her own obituary before she heads off on a dangerous trip to Nepal. After all, she might die over there. Tim doesn’t think much of this idea, but then he foolishly writes his own obituary and posts it online. This sets up the running joke that Tim can’t remove his obit, nor can he convince anyone that he is really alive. Louise Ritchie plays Beth with some vigor, while Shawn Sherwood deadpans his role as the hapless Tim. Meanwhile their mother “Scottie”—who believes it’s her maternal duty to ignore her children—is planning a trip to Japan. She likes to travel and Japan is on her bucket list. She needs to take her companion “Bernadette” along to help with the reservations and the baggage. Barbara Pruitt

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

is excellent as Scottie, and Roxanne Rosenblatt is a low-key Bernadette. For some reason Bernadette’s sister “Rhonda” goes to Japan instead. By the way, Rhonda (played by Linda Goman) works as an assistant at the mortuary where Tim is an unwilling corpse. Finally, there is a crazy scene at a cheap restaurant where “Gary” is dumping his girl-friend “Claire”. This seems to be an audition scene from another play. Mark Nichols plays Gary as a typical confused and self-centered male, while Dani Suder has a lot of fun being the hysterical Claire. Later she reads Tim’s obit, and remembers him fondly from way back in college. Too bad he’s now dead. There are some other non sequitur scenes in Nepal or at the airport. It seems that Scottie (who seemed remarkably healthy) is going to die, so why waste time on the plane. Subsequently there is a touching scene (probably also from another play) at a shrine in Japan. I found this play to be disjointed and confusing. The director Aimee Bruneau confesses in the program that she is also confused. Maybe the play is about uncertainty. The cast worked hard and came across convincingly, although there were times when the pace was too slow or the lines were not projected to the back of the auditorium. The staging was clever, with an effective backscreen telling us where we are in each scene. I should also mention that five of the actors were new to the LLT stage—I hope that we will see them again. Sally Jo Bartlett was Stage Manager and Joy Cook was her Assistant. Thanks to the director, cast and crew for all your hard work. Michael Warren

Saw you in the Ojo 29

Carol D. Bradley

Email: cdbradleymex@gmail.com Phone: 33-2506-7525 “Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.” ~Desmond Tutu The Lake Chapala Society hosts Open Circle every Sunday at 10AM, a popular community gathering in Ajijic, to enjoy a diverse range of presentations. The presentations will be on the south lawn, close to the gazebo, the entrance will be by the side door on Ramón Corona, chairs will be socially distanced. Gate opens at 9:30. We recommend bringing a hat and bottled water, and please remove containers upon departure. Attendance is limited to 80 persons, please make your reservation if you want to attend https://opencircleajijic.org/reservation_form.php Use of masks and temperature checks on entry is mandatory. Lake Chapala Society LCS, is seeking to update its list of charitable, social, and support organizations. These groups could include environmental, social issues, animal welfare, support groups, etc. -- any group that contributes and gives back to the Lakeside area. If you are involved with a group and want to ensure the group’s inclusion in LCS’ inventory, please contact Diana Ayala, LCS Development Director development@lakechapalasociety.com February presentations include: David Bryen Please consult Opencircleajijic.org for specific dates and details unavailable at press time. David Bryen: Intolerance, Polarization and the Longing for Community Loretta Downs: Grief, Gratitude and Grace: Healing form Loss. Dr. Todd Stong Todd Stong: Dr Stong is well-known in our area for his involvement in studies and projects related to the Lake Chapala, local wells, water treatment and related matters. He donates his expertise and is widely considered our region’s most objective and informed advocate for Lake Chapala. Richard Diehl. Check the Open Circle website for definite date and topic. is:

Bare Stage Theatre’s February production

The Savannah Sipping Society by Jessie Jones, Nicholas Hope & Jamie Wooten and runs February 25th, 26th & 27th. In this delightful, laugh-a-minute comedy, four unique South-

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

ern women, all needing to escape the sameness of their day-to-day routines, are drawn together by Fate—and an impromptu happy hour—and decide it’s high time to reclaim the enthusiasm for life they’ve lost through the years. Over the course of six months, hilarious misadventures, and the occasional liquid refreshment, these middle-aged women successfully bond and find the confidence to jumpstart their new lives. Roxanne Rosenblatt directs. Linda Goman, Kathleen Morris, Kathleen Pharis & Barbara Pruitt make up our stellar cast. Tickets are $200 to join in the fun. Seating is limited so reserve now at barestagetheatre2018@gmail.com. We are located at #261 on the mountain side of the Carretera in Riberas del Pilar across from the Catholic Church. Door and Bar open at 3:00 pm. Seats are held till 3:50 pm, show at 4:00 pm. All Covid 19 protocols will

new music director and has put together a program full of sambas, salsa’s, bossa nova’s and many more Latina styles. “Many favorites will be part of the set list including The Girl from Ipanema, Oye ComoVa, Besame Mucho, Brazil and, of course,

Cast: (sitting) Kathleen Pharis, Barbara Pruitt, (standing) Kathleen Morris & Linda Goman be in place: Audience limited in size; Masks are mandatory; And curtains will be open for air flow. Please Like, Follow & Share our Facebook Page: www.facebook. com/barestagetheatre2018/ Once again Los Amigos Big Band and 4to Sentido Restaurant team up for what promises to be one spectacular event. Fiesta Latina takes place on Friday March 4 at 5pm where area residents can enjoy an evening of Latin influenced music along with food and beverages to match the theme! The 17 piece Los Amigos Big Band features some of Guadalajara and Lake Chapala’s finest musicians and this dynamic ensemble has garnered unanimous praise for their innovative and spectacular performances. Michael Reason has just accepted the appointment as the

Saw you in the Ojo 31

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 33

Tequila” says Reason.“In fact with so many foot tapping numbers I expect the dance floor to be packed!” he continues. Joining the band will be the acclaimed singer Mariana Vigueras. Mariana is well known to Lakeside audiences but this will be her debut with the Amigos Big Band. Mariana, however, is no stranger to jazz styling and sings regularly with the KM Big Band in Guadalajara. Doug Voet will be joining Mariana as vocalist and will host the performance as the most charming and witty EmCee. 4tro Sentido Restaurant has a large covered venue with wonderful views of both lake and mountains and is situated on the Carretera in San Antonio directly opposite the Chula Vista Golf Club. The event is timed to coincide with the famous Rio Carnival which will be in full swing on March 4! So dine, drink and dance to celebrate Carnival time with the Los Amigos Big Band at Fiesta Latina!

Audience enjoying a reading from Lakeside author Mel Goldberg. ing a live Q+A at the end of each reader. Authors will have copies of their books for signing. This event will take place the second Wednesday of every month. Next one: February 9th. Readings start at 11. Come early for coffee and enjoy live music by Sergio Casas playing from his Personal Selections. Meeting held in the lovely salon of Estrellita’s Bed & Breakfast. (Where El Gato Feo Cafe is located) Open to the public.

Los Amigos Big Band Los Amigos Big Band concerts always sell out fast so early booking is highly recommended The show starts at 5pm and due to Covid protocols seating is limited to 125. Tickets for the performance are $350 and must be reserved in advance by email at LABBtickets@gmail.com

Speaking of Writers, the longstanding Ajijic Writers Group meets in the garden of La Nueva Posada on the first and third Friday of each month at 11AM. Local writers read from their works in progress. The audience is invited to offer constructive feedback and comments. Stay for lunch to meet the writers and enjoy the inspiration. Sign up to read your original work. La Nueva Posada is located on the lake at #9, Donato Guerra in Ajijic. Open to all levels of writers.

Casa de Cultura, Jocotepec presents Jocotepec International Art Exhibit. 15 + artists & artisans. Something for everyone. Grand Opening: Feb 4 2022, 6 PM. Exhibit is open until Feb 25th. Refreshments, meet the artists and more. Lakeside Published Writer’s Group is back at El Gato Feo Cafe + Roastery with their “Meet the Authors” event. There will be 3 authors reading from their works and answer-

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

La Nueva Posada

Saw you in the Ojo 35

Mirage de el Dorado Lope de Aguirre: Traitor, Hero, Madman? By Robert Drynan

ope de Aguirre was born into an impoverished family of petty Spanish nobility in the province of Oñate in 1511. When Pizarro arrived in Spain to obtain permission from Charles I to launch his third expedition, Aguirre got wind of the stories of the riches to be had. Six years later Aguirre landed in Perú. In 1538 he participated in the Battle of Salinas that led to the death of Diego Almagro. In 1544 first viceroy of Peru, Blasco Núñez Vela arrived from Spain with orders to implement new laws to end the abuse and enslavement of the natives. Deeply resentful of the arrival of a bureaucrat of the Spanish court, Gonzalo Pizarro organized an army. Capturing Núñez in 1546 he abolished the new

laws. Aguirre participated in the campaign that freed the imprisoned viceroy but failed to restore him to power. Aguirre and others fled back to Central America. In 1551 Aguirre returned to Perú, but a magistrate, Francisco de Esquivel, ironically accused him of violating laws protecting the Indians. Arrested and by Esquivel’s order, publicly flogged,

Aguirre swore vengeance. Legend has it that Aguirre pursued Esquivel on foot for three years and four months, finally confronting and killing the magistrate in his mansion in Cuzco. Under sentence of death for the murder of Esquivel, Aguirre evaded the penalty for the next several years in uprisings against the rulers of Perú. He occasionally fought on the royalist side, but apparently the judgment was ignored in exchange for his military services. He was again accused of the murder of a provincial governor, but pardoned when he joined forces with royalists to put down another rebellion. At the battle of Chuquinga in 1554, Aguirre was badly wounded and he walked with a limp for the rest of his life. By the late 1550’s bitter and unstable, close to fifty years old, Aguirre had fought in countless battles, been crippled and had nothing to show for it but a mestiza daughter, Elvira, and a reputation as a tough fighting man. His erratic, violent behavior earned him the nickname Aguirre El Loco. He bore a deep sense of betrayal and resentment for the Spanish crown. In 1559 Aguirre thought his moment had come. The Viceroy of Peru approved an expedition to search for El Dorado. He placed about 370 Spanish soldiers and a few hundred Indians under the command of a young nobleman, Pedro de Ursúa. Aguirre’s reputation as a soldier secured him a senior position in the military leadership of the venture. Aguirre resented Ursúa. A younger man, less qualified as a soldier than Aguirre, but with powerful family connections. Ursúa brought along his mistress, distracting him from his responsibility as leader of the expedition. Descending into the dense rainforest of the Amazon Basin, the endeavor soon foundered. They raided indigenous settlements for food and ransacked them for valuables, slaughtering the inhabitants without mercy. They found no city of gold and little food. Word of their depredations preceded them and they were met only by hostile natives. Disease and malnutrition depleted their numbers. Aguirre became the leader of disgruntled soldiers who survived the first stages of the expedition. He overthrew Ursúa, and installed Fernando de Guzman, the second in command, as a puppet and stopping long enough to build two small vessels, continued eastward on the river. Then in a gesture of defiance, Aguirre declared their independence from Spain, naming Guzman “Prince of Peru and Chile.” Becoming increasingly paranoid, Aguirre ordered the death of the priest accompanying the expedition, followed by Ursúa’s lover, Inés de

Atienza, and then even murdered Guzman. Finally, Aguirre executed Pedro de Ursúa, who, though removed from command, had been under Guzman’s protection. There is some question whether Aguirre continued down the Amazon River to the Atlantic or somehow managed to cross the wilderness north of the great river and descend the Orinoco River to the Atlantic from Venezuela. The latter course is suspect, because the expedition would have to ascend rivers traveling against their current to reach the Orinoco, an unlikely prospect. It is more probable that he followed the same route as Francisco de Orellana who arrived fifteen years earlier on the small island of Cubagua, not far from the later permanent Spanish settlement on the Island of Margarita, Aguirre’s landfall. The inhabitants of Margarita Island welcomed the ragged survivors and offered them refuge. Aguirre instead attacked the settlement, looting it and hanging its governor and as many as fifty locals, including women. Aguirre and his badly decimated force remained for several months on Margarita recovering from their long journey. On Margarita Aguirre wrote and sent his famous letter to Spanish King Philip II, who had replaced King Charles I in 1558. Aguirre’s letter to King Philip explained his reasons for declaring independence. He felt betrayed by Spain. After so many hard years in service to the crown, he had nothing to show for it. He complained of judges who had executed many loyal men for false “crimes.” He railed about priests and colonial bureaucrats who came after the conquest to strip the explorers and soldiers of the fruits of their services. He described himself as a loyal subject, driven to rebel by royal indifference. The reaction of Philip II to this histrionic document is unknown, although Aguirre was almost certainly dead by the time he received it. Royalist forces from the mainland attempted to undermine Aguirre by urging his men to desert, offering them royal pardon. Several did, even before their leader made his assault on the mainland. Landing in the small coastal town of Borburata, (near present day Puerto Cabello) Aguirre marched to the larger settlement of Barquisimeto, where pursuing Spanish forces loyal to the king cornered him. His remaining men deserted, leaving him alone with his daughter Elvira. Surrounded and facing capture, Aguirre killed his daughter, to spare her the horrors that awaited her as the daughter of a penniless traitor. Aguirre’s own men shot him before Spanish troops could capture him. Spanish soldiers dismembered Aguirre’s body

Continued on page 38

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 37

From page 36 and distributed his parts among the surrounding towns. Lope de Aguirre’s revolt was but a footnote to Spanish rule in the Americas, but he did leave an interesting legacy. Aguirre was neither the first nor the only conquistador to go rogue and attempt to escape rule of the Spanish crown in the New World. Cristóbal de Olid had nearly carved out a kingdom for himself in Honduras in 1523-1524. Most modern narratives have preferred to characterize Lope de Aguirre a paranoid madman or a megalomaniac. Nevertheless, a few researchers have reached a different conclusion. The few records that remain, apart from Aguirre’s letter to the king, were written by participants in his abortive rebellion. Scholars such as Hernán Neira, Institute of Philosophy and Educational Studies, Universidad Austral de Chile; Juan Manuel Fierro, Department of Languages, Literature and Communications, Universidad de la Frontera: and Fernando Viveros, doctoral candidate of Humanity Sciences, Universidad Austral de Chile, have argued that Aguirre was unfairly maligned by contemporaries who accompanied the expedition and published memoirs intended to save their own skins.

They argue persuasively that Aguirre was driven to his acts of defiance by the oppression of the late arriving bureaucrats into the Americas representing the Spanish crown and imposing an oligarchy that dispossessed the soldiers and explorers who had earned a share of the wealth they had discovered and extracted with their own blood and sweat. Lope de Aguirre they assert was one of the earliest voices to speak out on behalf of the liberation of HispanoAmerica from Spanish oppression. NOTE: And what of the indigenous peoples who were dispossessed of their lands, wealth and freedom? How can we inhabitants of the twenty-first century possibly understand the natives’ perception of the events that fell so catastrophically upon them? Some welcomed the Spaniards as gods, at least until the acquaintance became more intimate. They fought back desperately and valiantly. And they saw their world end forever. In 1938 Orson Welles aired on the radio a dramatization of H.G. Welles’ War of the Worlds. Many of the public who tuned in believed that the invasion of the earth by aliens was real and a national panic occurred. Those were more innocent days, but close enough to our own time, that we might appreciate a little better the sense of dismay

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

of the Amerindian people who encountered the invading Europeans. Since that time the imaginations of film makers and fantasy novelists have attempted to describe what might be the events if in fact an alien force of distinctly higher technical accomplishment were to invade our planet. Others have speculated that aliens’ may have already visited the Earth. Why wouldn’t the harquebus and musket, the crossbow, the metallurgy of armor, tempered steel swords, mounted men and horses have a similar impact upon indigenous populations? Wouldn’t the galleons under full sail seem to those simple folk, as space ships and UFOs might have to early twentieth century Americans? And how to communicate: languages or other means? What would be the consequences to us of a twentieth century alien invasion . . . eradication . . . enslavement? Should we extend the hand of friendship or attack, fight back with all our strength and will? The Amerindians must have puzzled over these issues. They were realities to them, not fantasies of novels or films. If we were to face an alien invasion, should we hide our treasures? And what might be the real treasure the aliens would seek; the treasure that is most important to our civilization or

something of unimagined importance to them? The indigenous peoples of the Americans didn’t place the kind value on gold and silver, or even gem stones, that their European invaders did. What was the real El Dorado? What did the Amerindian peoples of the Amazon possess that might have transcended the value of gold, silver and gem stones the Spanish invaders sought? Robert Drynan

Saw you in the Ojo 39

A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE By Kathy Koches

ince my birthday is on January 5th I always keep my Christmas tree up until at least the 6th or 7th. I used to get teased about this a lot when I was a kid, but I didn’t care—after all not everyone can have a Christmas tree on their birthday, right? Then I moved to Mexico and discovered the wonderful tradition of Three Kings Day. January 6th is believed to be the day the three magi arrived in Bethlehem, bringing gifts to the baby Jesus. In Mexico, and many other parts of the world, this is the day when presents are exchanged. Christmas is a purely religious holiday and the children wait anxiously for Three Kings Day when their shoes are filled with candies and presents are received. No one here in Mexico thinks it strange that I have my Christmas tree still up! We always get a Rosca de Reyes (Three Kings cake) which is the Mexican equivalent of fruit cake (but much better.) A plastic baby Jesus is baked into the cake and whoever gets the piece with the baby has to bring tamales to the fiesta on Candelaria, February 2nd. There are parades and fireworks and lots of parties. However, on January 6, 2021 a horrific event took place in the United States. At the instigation of the defeated former President, a riotous

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

mob stormed the U.S. Capitol building, breaking in and desecrating its halls. Congressmen and women were afraid for their lives as the mob surged into the building, threatening to kill the Speaker of the House and hang the Vice President. Fortunately, the many brave law enforcement officers were able to keep them from reaching their intended targets and the ballots from each states’ electors were kept safe. At 3:30 am Congress returned and completed their duty to certify the election of the new President. Democracy was threatened and the Capitol was breached. This date will always be remembered as a date that will live in infamy in the minds of U.S. citizens, just like December 7th and September 11th are now. It will never be “just another day.” As I sit here on my patio in the sunshine of Mexico, looking out at beautiful Lake Chapala, finishing up the Rosca de Reyes and writing this story, I am glad that the date January 6th means something entirely different here, and is a date to be celebrated and enjoyed. I suppose, after all, it is just a matter of perspective. Kathy Koches

Saw you in the Ojo 41

ASTROLYNX By Juan Sacelli

The Pluto Return

hy Pluto? According to contemporary astronomers, it isn’t even a planet, and never was. And yet a lot of us astrologers really love our Pluto. The US is having its Pluto Return, Pluto appearing in the same place in the sky it occupied at the birth of the US—this month, Feb. 20 ’22, according to the most commonly used US chart. We, the astrologers, think that’s a BIG DEAL. Ok, but why? And even if it’s significant for the US, what does it have to do with the rest of the world? Maybe because the US is now ‘The Empire`? The contemporary Rome? Most historians attribute the

start of the Roman Empire to the coronation of Augustus in 27 BCE. From that point it expanded for approximately the next 250 years (a Pluto cycle of 248 years); then it began to collapse. Read the columnists now: is the US (us) beginning to collapse? Will the autocrats capture the government (or, according to your political perspective, have they already?) And of course what happens to the US is going to profoundly affect what happens in the world at large. In the West the astrological system is set up something like this: the seven visible ‘inner planets’, including Sun and Moon, govern personal

existence. The three invisible outer bodies, Uranus-Neptune-Pluto, govern the spiritual territories. Uranus, the Yang principle, is a bit Star-Trekky—explore new realms, escape the limitations of physical earthly existence. Neptune, which in a nonmale-dominated culture would be Neptuna, or Neptunia, is the Yin: no matter where you go, you are spirit, you are already and always part of all that is. Given that we now have a Yang and Yin, that leaves the job of being the Tao to Pluto. Which many astrologers interpret as being the Soul, or Tao in relation to the personal self. As our soul, Pluto is thus our fate. So, Pluto rules the underworld, which is actually the Inner-World. The point being, at a Pluto Return such as we are having now, the question being asked is: have we, as a collective (no one has a personal Pluto Return as no one lives 248 years), graduated from the attempt to rule and control the outer world to the attempt to rule ourselves? Are we ready for an Age of Aquarius, a Great Awakening (or, if you prefer some sort of Messianic event?). Has the ‘Spirit of ’76’ actually learned to become spiritual (spear it, or share it, to(with) you all)? Or is the spear in ‘spear-it’ going to be some sort of global pandemicwar-planetary overheat? At some point in mythological evolution Pluto (Greek Plouton) became confused with Ploutos, the god of wealth or greed. So—which Pluto return are we having? As always, our choice. One more cautionary point: though the precise point of the Pluto return comes this February, the energy has been building for awhile, and will continue swirling around us into and through 2023, due to the slow retrograde (review) process. Whichever way you think it’s going, toward Heaven- or Hell-onEarth, we’re still here and the normal shifts and rumblings of the in-

ner planets continue, as they do every month, telling the same stories in different ways. So let’s look at a few of those for February. The Sun of course moved into Aquarius in late January, hence bringing up the theme of the hope and ideals of a better future, a better year. There will be a New Moon Feb 1 (12:45 am Central; if you live in Mountain or West, the New Moon will be Jan 31). This one will highlight the ambiguity of our situation, as the SunMoon together in mid-Aquarius are also conjunct Saturn, a few degrees ahead, pointing out the obstacles ahead of us in attaining our hopes for ourselves and our world. The New Moon is also square Uranus, the ruler of Aquarius. With Uranus presently in Taurus (the Earth), this pattern overall is a rather spectacular illustration of everything I have been talking about—in a nutshell, where are we headed collectively, politically, economically, as the dominant species on the planet? Mercury retro conjunct Pluto (ach! Pluto again!) will be testing the plans we have made for ourselves—again both personally and collectively (are electric cars really the solution? should we migrate to Mars? Is ecology irrelevant to the 2nd Coming? Will Russia invade Ukraine? Is Covid getting worse or better? Will Allah ever be able to get along with Krishna?) In sum, how can we emerge from this maelstrom of chaos and conflicted beliefs? Ha! By the Full Moon of February 16, things look somewhat different. That is, some of the conflicts are coming to a head, while others are squirting out the tail. With the Moon in Leo (everybody cheering on their favorite team), the Full Moon is square the Nodes: that is, we are shifting and sorting our identifications, our tribes. Can we really be different nations, races, beliefs, religions, sexual orientations, political affiliations—and survive on inter dimensional variations of the same planet? Can white-racist anti-capitalist atheist-fundamentalists find a way to allow buddhist-voodooconfucian vegans a right to be? Can the US ship Asian Carp filets back to China, in exchange for lithium-ion batteries? With Jupiter approaching Neptune, we’re looking for new ways to rearrange the pieces that might, just might, bring some semblance of Peace on Earth. Brief bio: John Sacelli has been an astrologer, poet, dreamer, idealist, seeker and rebel for 79 years (don’t we all have birth trauma?). He can be reached at salynx@me.com.

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 43

“Stunning Beauty” By Fred Mittag

arian Anderson (18971993) was born in Philadelphia, where she began singing in her church choir at age six. When she was eight, her father bought her a piano but could not afford piano lessons. So, Marian taught herself by ear. Her father died when she was 12, leaving their mother to rear Marian and her two sisters. Their mother worked in a tobacco factory, took in laundry, and scrubbed floors in a department store. After her father’s death, Marian became more dedicated to her church choir and would often learn the hymnal lines of four-part harmony: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass and sing each of the parts for her family—in the case of bass and tenor, an octave higher, of course. Her dedication to her church choir impressed the church members. They raised $500 for her to study voice under the highly respected voice coach Gi-

useppe Boghetti. After two years with him, she won a chance to sing at the Lewisohn Stadium after entering a New York Philharmonic Society contest. One thing led to another, and by the late 1930s, she had become famous on both sides of the Atlantic. More so on the European side because of American racial attitudes. Still, President and Eleanor Roosevelt invited her to sing at the White House, the first time an African American had ever re-

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

ceived such an honor. However, Marian’s talent was not enough to pierce the racism of many Americans. When her manager set up a performance at Constitution Hall in Washington, the Daughters of the American Revolution refused to permit her to sing. That was the largest concert hall in Washington, and the D.A.R. owned it. They had a written policy that only whites could perform there. The D.A.R.’s rejection of Marian’s talent led to a public uproar, a more subtle parallel to earlier abolitionists and proslavery factions in America. Eleanor Roosevelt resigned from the D.A.R. in protest. Indeed, she was the leader of the clamor against the Daughters of the American Revolution. She and President Roosevelt were quite a contrast to a president who calls white nationalists “nice people.” Roosevelt invited Marian to sing at the Lincoln Memorial on Easter morning. The symbolism of Anderson singing before the Great Emancipator was powerful. Harold Ickes, the Secretary of the Interior, introduced Anderson with the words, “In this great auditorium under the sky, all of us are free.” He also said, “Genius, like justice, is blind... Genius draws no color line.” When Marian Anderson began her recital, Senators, Cabinet members, and Supreme Court Justices sat just below her. Martin Luther King was ten at the time, and when he was 15, he entered a speaking contest. Even as a teenager, his soaring oratory was becoming evident. In his competition speech, he referenced Marian Anderson and said, “She sang as never before, with tears in her eyes. When the words of ‘America’ and ‘Nobody Knows de Trouble I Seen’ rang out over that great gathering, there was a hush on the sea of uplifted faces, black and white, and a new baptism of liberty, equality, and fraternity.” Marian drew a crowd of 75,000 to the Lincoln Memorial. Radio stations broadcast her performance to millions of people, and critics called her performance “riveting.” Back then, movies always began with a newsreel. One newsreel heralded the

event across the movie screen with the words “Nation’s Capital Gets Lesson in Tolerance.”That was 1939, 25 years before the Civil Rights Act of 1964. It’s a measure of how slow social progress can be. Marian suffered all the indignities of any other black person. When a hotel refused her a room, none other than Albert Einstein invited her to stay overnight in his home. Besides the world’s foremost genius in theoretical physics, he was an amateur violinist. He admired Marian’s talent and was a democratic socialist, a seeker of justice. Marian Anderson performed with some of the most famed music directors and conductors of her time, including Arturo Toscanini and Leopold Stokowski. Toscanini regarded her as the best contralto in the world. He said, “Hers was the kind of voice that comes along only once in a century. Finland’s foremost composer was Jean Sibelius. He welcomed her to his home, saying, “My roof is too low for you.” Leopold Stokowski took the worldrenowned Philadelphia Orchestra on an American tour, featuring Marian Anderson as the orchestra’s soloist. The sophisticated New Yorker wrote of Anderson’s racially restricted performance opportunities, “There was no rational reason for a serious venue to refuse entry to such a phenomenon. No clearer demonstration of prejudice could be found.” President Dwight D. Eisenhower invited her to sing the National Anthem at his inaugural, and John F. Kennedy did the same for his inaugural. Musicians use timbre, phrasing, vocal range, bright, dark, and many more terms to describe music. Timbre can get highly technical and is a term that belongs to physics as much as to music. In music, it refers to tone color caused by harmonics or overtones. It’s what enables us to distinguish a flute from a violin even though they’re playing the same note. It also determines the quality of a singer’s voice. In this, Marian Anderson had no equal in beauty of timbre. She had an astonishing vocal range, able to dip well into the tenor range without taking on a husky timbre. She reached well into the soprano range without sounding shrill or strained. Unfortunately, the quality of recording when she was at her peak did not equal her vocal quality. We have to rely on descriptions by masters such as Arturo Toscanini and Leopold Stokowski to imagine the beauty of performance in her operatic roles. Although lacking the desired quality, several videos on the Internet and YouTube can give us an idea of the stunning beauty of her voice. Fred Mittag

Saw you in the Ojo 45

BETO—An Extraordinary Rescued Dog By Shannon Ford

BEFORE

AFTER

ometimes a rescued dog surprises even veteran shelter volunteers. Beto, a handsome and hefty five-yearold Pit Bull, is one of those dogs. A victim of horrific abuse, Beto had apparently been used for illegal dogfighting activities. After he was no longer needed, he was severely beaten, suffered serious head injuries, and was left to die. When Beto was rescued and brought to SOS Chapala Dog Rescue, his wounds were badly infected and he could barely walk. Amazingly, he survived. But even more amazing than Beto’s survival was his obvious love for life and his willingness to trust people. Beto spent nearly a year being cared for at SOS Chapala Dog Rescue, and it was obvious that he adored the shelter staff. A gentle, intelligent, and observant dog, Beto seemed to just thoroughly enjoy watching all the shelter activities, and he enthusiastically socialized with other dogs and shelter volunteers. Beto’s zest for life endeared him to everyone who met him, and he quickly became a shelter favorite. When volunteers visited Beto, gave him treats, or took him for walks, he could barely contain his joy. He would do a little happy dance, alternately lifting his front paws whenever he was happy and excited. And that was often! He loved being walked, and as one shelter volunteer put it, whenever Beto was taken for a walk, he was “smil-

ing from ear to ear.” Due to Beto’s background, size, and age, he was considered an unlikely candidate for adoption. But fortuitously, a partner rescue group in Bend, Oregon thought they could find him a forever home. So Beto made the trip on the Bone Voyage bus to the Street Dog Hero shelter. He must have been doing his happy dance on the bus all the way to Oregon! Beto is now being fostered, still has his extraordinary zest for life, and we’re told he’ll likely be adopted by his foster family. Beto’s story had a happy ending. But there are many rescued dogs in Lakeside shelters still waiting for their own happy endings. SOS Chapala Dog Rescue, the newest Lakeside shelter, endeavors to end animal cruelty. Rescued dogs are cared for under the supervision of the shelter’s onsite veterinarian. Many are adopted locally, and some—like Beto—travel north to partner shelters for adoption. On Sunday, March 20th, SOS Chapala Dog Rescue will hold its First Annual Silent Auction fundraising event at the Cultural Center in the Ajijic Plaza. SOS will welcome donations of items and services for auction from Lakeside businesses and individuals— for more information, contact Shannon Ford, sford@inbox.com. To learn about adoption, fostering, and volunteer opportunities, visit the shelter’s webpage, www. soschapaladogrescue.org.

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 47

The Godfather By Larry Kolczak

he good news is, our gardener’s daughter had a baby three months ago. She asked my wife and I to be the Godparents. We happily agreed. The bad news is that, before you can become a Godparent, you have to attend three one-hour lectures on Catholicism at the parish church. No exceptions. They take attendance. Considering the fact that I had not gone to mass since Vatican II— that’s six Popes ago—I figured a little refresher course might be in order. I’d heard rumors that the Mass was no longer being said in Latin. And that the altar had been turned around so the priest could face the people. Really, what next? Women serving communion? When we arrived for the first session, there were about 50 other people, all Mexicans, ready to suffer through the same indoctrination. So there we sat, listening to the priest drone on—in Spanish. Not just Spanish – Biblical Spanish— Ecclesiastical Spanish. We barely understand restaurant Spanish. When the soft-spoken priest started, my wife leaned over to me and whispered she was having trouble hearing him. I leaned back and said, “What’s the difference?” This went on for three evenings. Two petunias in the onion patch hoping nobody would notice that we didn’t understand a word of what was being said. Sitting there, I began to realize what the Indians must have felt like when the Spanish missionaries first arrived. They had no idea what the guy in the funny clothes was saying, but they knew they had to sit there. So, probably like them, I just entertained myself looking around the church at all the colorful statues, paintings and gold-plated ornaments. When the last session was over, I turned to my wife and asked, “Any questions?” For all this religious enlightenment, we were issued an official Godparent’s Permit. Of course it is

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

all in Spanish, so I don’t really know what it says. But, I noticed this. They are quite environmentally conscious down here. The permit was printed on 100% recycled paper. I don’t mean stationery with a watermark saying it was recycled. I mean the permit was printed on the back of some old document they had fished out of the wastebasket. Unfortunately, I couldn’t understand what was printed on that side either. As the big day approached, I began to worry. I’m sure when they asked me to become a Godfather, they didn’t know that I have somehow managed to get through an entire lifetime without ever actually holding a baby. My wife’s children were all grown before we met, and our grandchildren all had the good sense to be born and raised out of state. I started imagining all kinds of problems. I could picture the baby having a crying jag while I was trying to hear the words of the priest. I might miss my cue. I could picture the little guy starting to squirm just as I held him over the baptismal font. And, worse yet, he might be slippery when wet. Artificial resuscitation was not part of the training course. When the day of the baptism arrived, things went pretty much as expected. The baby had a crying jag. I missed my cue. But, at least nobody had to call 911. Well, now that we’ve got this baby off to a good start, I have the highest hopes that he will grow up strong, and smart, live long and prosper. Though I’m a little worried about something. I can only hope that when his time on Earth is over, and he ultimately shows up at the Pearly Gates, he will not be turned away because I had an improperly issued Godfather’s Permit. Surely, there is a special place in heaven for the “undocumented?”

Saw you in the Ojo 49

Pearl Harbor By Jack Estes

he sky was blue that summer day in June, as Claire Hurly stepped off the Portland Trolley in front of Meier Franks, crossed underneath the green awning and pushed through the double doors. The store was packed. The Rose Festival ships were in town tied along the Willamette riverbanks and the city was buzzing with promise and excitement. This was exhilarating for a girl who grew up on a small dairy farm in Salem. Blond and blued eyed with full lips, Claire had a Grace Kelly kind of beauty. She lived in the city then and worked as a sales clerk. It was 1941, she was 22, and in love. Much of the world was at war in 1940. Germany with Europe and Japan with China and French Indochina. The United States was staying out, but worried about this aggression. In May that same year, main elements of the US Navy were strategically transferred from San Diego to the Hawaiian Island of Oahu and Pearl Harbor. Its Navy yard had a dry dock capable of holding the largest warships. It’s massive docking, was called Battleship Row. In or near the harbor were a submarine base, hospital, Hickam and Wheeler airfields, the Schofield barracks and bases at Ford Island. This made Pearl Harbor a formidable target. Tensions were high as President Franklin Roosevelt tried to negotiate with Japan and avoid the US being sucked into war. Pat O’Callaghan was tall, broad shouldered and a handsome man. He boxed out of the Multnomah Athletic Club and in 1936 won the Oregon Golden Gloves Heavyweight Championship. His smile rang as true and as honest as his powerful punch or firm handshake. He attended Oregon State College, left school early and joined the Army Corps of Engineers, specializing in constructing airfields and fortifications. Pat met Claire for the first time in February of 41, on the dance floor at the Thai Ping Terrace on Barbur Blvd. Both knew immediately something

huge was stirring. The next day he left a dozen red roses on her doorstep. But by the end of March Pat was in Hawaii assigned to work at Pearl Harbor. Even though they had seen each other fewer than a dozen times Pat wrote Claire in a letter home “If you come to Hawaii I’ll ask you to marry me.” So, Claire’s heart was bursting that summer day at Meier and Franks, reading his note again and again, at lunch and on the trolley going home. Soon Pat sent her a steamship ticket for Hawaii. By the end of July Claire, against her mother’s wishes, was on a train to San Francisco, where she boarded ship and left port, steaming across the Pacific. Pat stood on the dock, tanned in a white linen suit, wearing a pink, Plumeria lei. When Claire reached him, he placed the lei over her head, bent down on one knee and asked her to marry him. They were married on August 2, 1941 in a small white church surrounded by palm and mango trees, that looked down on Pearl Harbor. They settled into a modest home at Hickam AirField, in direct line with Battleship Row. September melted into October as Claire worked at the library or volunteered at the hospital. Pat spent long days near Hickam, lying tarmac, building bunkers and repairing roads. On weekends they stretched out on the beach or explored the island, climbing through trails in the jungle. At night they would meet young Army or Naval officers and their wives, listen to music and play cards on their front porch. Often, they discussed that war was looming. On November 26 the Japanese attack fleet left its northern borders with six aircraft carriers, over 400 fighter planes, 33 war ships, and submarines carrying on piggyback five, two-man midget submarines. They were headed toward Pearl Harbor. On December 1st Japanese Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo received orders to attack the harbor on December 7th. They moved their ships closer to the island and Continued on page 52

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 51

From page 50

settled in 200 miles from shore. On the night of December 6th the midget subs were released, hoping to hide on the harbor floor. That same evening, Pat and Claire O’Callaghan threw a party at their house. Friends came to eat and drink, a few were officers and sailors from the battleship Arizona. They partied into the night and some folks wandered home but a few sailors slept on couches, or the floor as ships lay quietly in the harbor. Early in the morning on December 7th Pat awoke to the sounds of airplane engines grinding. He sat up, turned to Claire and said, “Those aren’t our planes.” The first wave of Japanese dive bombers hit Pearl Harbor at 7:53am. Enemy fighters with red suns on their wings flew so close to the ground, Pat and Claire could see the pilot’s faces. Hundreds of dive-bombers strafed the ships, machine guns ripping, bombs and torpedoes dropping. The sailors that stayed that night rushed desperately toward the harbor. The Arizona was one of the first ships hit. A 1700-pound bomb struck its forward magazines, exploding into 200-foot high balls of flames and pillars of black smoke. Claire felt the concussion in her feet and Pat said, “Now we’re in hell.” 1100 men were killed instantly. 300 survivors, some of them on fire, dove from the ship into the oilburning harbor. They could see Battleship Row being hit again and again as sailors and Marines fought back from their flaming ships, with anti-aircraft guns and machine guns firing. The USS Oklahoma was hit by torpedoes, capsized and 400 men died, trapped inside. At Hickam Field a direct hit on the mess hall killed 35 eating breakfast and more bombs destroyed sitting planes there and at Wheeler. 183 planes were destroyed and only five US planes made it off the ground. 12 battleships were sunk or damaged. In two hours over 2400 Military and civil-

ians were killed and 1200 wounded. The last enemy planes pulled away and disappeared over Diamond Head and the aerial attack was over. The island was in full panic expecting an invasion. Dead and wounded lay on walkways, in fields and floated on the water. Cars, trucks and rescue vehicles jammed at every corner. Pat and Claire moved toward the hills but were stopped at a roadblock. A shaken Colonel talked to Pat then immediately commissioned him as a 2nd Lieutenant. He handed him a 22 Colt pistol and that night Pat was sent out with thirty native Hawaiians to forge a perimeter, dig fighting trenches and build bunkers. Claire was back at the hospital terrified, tending to the wounded. On December 8th the United States and Britain declared war on Japan. Pat and Claire stayed on in Hawaii. Their first child Lani, was born in October of 42. In December Pat was assigned to Camp Butler, North Carolina for training and Claire was shipped back to the mainland. She lived in a wartime housing project, called Kellogg Park in Milwaukie, Oregon. Pat was attached to the 389th Engineer Regiment and volunteered to lead a platoon of all black soldiers. These good men came from the poorest farmlands. Many were illiterate and had never worn shoes. But they were gravely needed. There were about 70 white officers and 1300 black troops. Pat’s Regiment traveled by train to New York in December of 1943 and shipped out to England. For the rest of the war Pat build bridges and roads and his regiment was attacked by German planes, Buzz bombs and V-2 rockets. When the war ended Pat came home and became a successful contractor but never talked much about the war. Claire meanwhile, did quite well in real estate investment. They had five more children. Michael, Colleen, Molly, Patrick and Peggy. They were married for over fifty years living most of their life in Tualatin. When my father-in-law Pat died, Claire spread his ashes over a peaceful bay in Hawaii, along with pink petals of Plumaria. Year’s later Claire’s ashes followed. Jack Estes is a writer and lives in West Linn, Oregon He served in Vietnam with the Marines in 68/69 He can be reached at jackestes@ comcast.net Semper Fi

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

Saw you in the Ojo 53

ZsaZsa By Patricia Hemingway

saZsa belonged to Luisa, and Luisa belonged to the war. The second World War. Although Luisa had been born in Austria, she spent her girlhood in London during the bombings. Luisa’s inner world, and her nervous system, were overtaken with the devastating memory of returning from an air raid to find a pile of smoldering bricks where home had been. She had never quite been able to free herself from flickers of anxiety. They crept quietly and without warning to the surface of her life as Luisa, always beautifully dressed and driving her Mercedes, kept them at bay. ZsaZsa, the cat that shared Luisa’s sunny, top floor apartment, was a white cat splashed with black, like an inkpot turned over on fine stationery. She was aloof, never friendly. ZsaZsa could not be trusted. Even though the two lived on the third floor, Luisa had to drape a soft-green mesh around her terrace, disguised among the potted flowers, to keep ZsaZsa from leaping to the concrete below. I pondered what drove the cat to escape such opulent surroundings, and an owner who loved her so deeply. Did Luisa’s tucked away anxiety permeate the remains of the lunches she faithfully brought home to ZsaZsa, awaiting her share as Luisa put her key in the lock? One day ZsaZsa disappeared. Had Luisa left the front door open

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

while she sorted the mail? She wasn’t sure. She typically held it shut with her foot while she leafed quickly through the envelopes with clear windows, searching for the hand-addressed ones with the sender’s name in the upper corner. Letters which, in another time, had arrived on the thinnest pale blue paper. I had seen them bundled in storage boxes in Luisa’s garage. Each was as light as a butterfly, and would have required the use of a letter opener to avoid destroying the contents. ZsaZsa was gone down three flights of stairs, and had managed to make herself invisible to the small collection of neighbors who called one another by their first names. No one had seen ZsaZsa’s familiar black and white form not that that would have been likely, as I well knew. I had fed the cat during Luisa’s trips overseas and never once saw her. I suspected ZsaZsa had a hiding place in Luisa’s closet, stuffed with garment bags and piles of shawls and expensive shoes. (I read the designer names on the ends of the boxes: Etienne Aigner, Schiaparelli, Ferragamo.) Each afternoon, I sat at the elegant dining table and stared out at the patio, awash in flowers. The cat did not desire my company. We searched the downstairs shrubs and the garage, even though its door had been closed at the time of ZsaZsa’s disappearance. “We” included an aging beauty named Evelyn who had lived across from Luisa for a dozen years. Evelyn was my upstairs neighbor who wore high heels whenever she left the apartment. I heard the click click clicks on my ceiling, and when I opened my door to greet her on the stairs, Evelyn was always attired in a coordinated outfit. This time, Evelyn wore casual clothing, intending to circle the complex calling out for ZsaZsa. “After all,” she said in her soft voice, “she’s part of the family.” After a few days it became obvious that ZsaZsa had ventured into the nearby hills of the village-like town, filled with evergreens and those that turned red in Fall. Each day, Luisa walked the steep grade that wound upward

for a half mile beyond our parking lot, calling out to ZsaZsa. The cat could be anywhere. And if she did not want to be found, she would not be. Luisa refused this explanation. Her beloved ZsaZsa had wanted an adventure and needed only to hear the sound of her voice to be induced to return. Two weeks passed, and no ZsaZsa. I felt sorry for Luisa and cursed the ungrateful cat. One morning Luisa phoned to tell me, in a flurry of Austrian-toned syllables, that she had hired a woman who talked to animals. For a fee the woman had tuned in to ZsaZsa and Luisa’s emotional connection, and would find the cat. I wisely kept my opinion to myself. This exercise might make Luisa feel better, like participating in a séance where, for a few precious moments, one embraces the presence of a loved one, and pays in cash. Here is how Luisa related to me her session with Natasha, the psychic: Natasha aas vound my ZsaZsa! Zhee es in the woods ahnd khannat vind me. My poor dahling is all alone! Natasha aas calmed her down for da moment, and tonight at midnight she vill explain to ZsaZsa dat she must follow the zound of my voice. I must sit on my bed—dat is vhereZsaZsa and I sleep togeder, you know—and keep talking vor an hour. Tomorrow morning,

ZsaZsa vill be at the bottom of the stairs. And that is exactly what happened. Luisa slipped down the stairs at daybreak, scooped up ZsaZsa as if she had been gone for fifteen minutes, and carried her back to the apartment. I suppose this event could have been explained away, if any one of us had been coarse enough to do so. But there were follow-up episodes that indicated a new ZsaZsa, and no one who knew ZsaZsa could deny her remarkable transformation. The cat’s demeanor was changed from the day of her return. She leaped into my lap each time I visited Luisa. ZsaZsa now seemed to crave human companionship, and kept up her end of the conversation with a dialogue of sweet meows. Luisa’s ongoing sessions with the psychic were full of useful information. ZsaZsa told Natasha that the entire apartment—the bed in particular—was full of spirits who recited like a chorus the sounds of shells landing. The spirits clung to one another, and took up all the space in Luisa’s narrow bed. The cat detested them. The psychic had a talk with these spirits on ZsaZsa’s behalf: ZsaZsa had first dibs on Luisa’s bed, and they must shut up, move to the chair, and make room for her. Apparently, they acquiesced.

Saw you in the Ojo 55

The Ojo Crossword

Shared Thoughts By Margie Keane

WINE This is for my friends who enjoy a glass of wine and those who don’t, but are always seen with a bottle of water in their hand. Ben Franklin said: “In wine there is wisdom. In beer there is freedom. In water there is bacteria.”

ACROSS 1 General office worker 6 Assert 10 Actor Alda 14 Hot sandwich 15 Crippled 16 Go at it alone 17 Scent 18 First letter of the Arabic alphabet 19 Broke 20 U.N.´s European home 22 Decorative needle case 24 Total 25 Resign 27 Smelled 29 Shedding outer layer 32 Two 33 Caviar 34 Leaders (It.) 37 Central points 41 Upset 43 Zig’s partner 44 Attention-Deficit Hyperactive Disorder (abbr.) 45 Opposed 46 What a cat is 48 Petroleum 49 Cutting tool 51 Greek muse of music 54 Active 56 Map collection 57 Skit 58 Towards 60 Travel with 64 Soft cheese 66 Flying animal 68 Banned 69 Drink 70 Parlay 71 Folklore tales 72 Association (abbr.) 73 Baseball’s Nolan 74 Stinks

DOWN 1 Cliff 2 Bait 3 Black 4 Rectify 5 Rogues 6 Wing 7 Parker 8 Give off 9 Rebates 10 Viper 11 Wobbly 12 Out loud 13 Standard 21 Among 23 Note of debt 26 Car manufacturer 28 Couch 29 Writer Bombeck 30 Dime 31 Adroit 35 Sedan 36 Heron 38 Aroma 39 Snack food 40 Lazy 42 Command 46 Nice bar decorated with ferns and other plants 47 Christmas 50 Roman twelve 52 QC person 53 Break out of prison 54 Land measurements 55 Pig pens 56 Main artery 57 Father 59 Little 61 Off-Broadway award 62 Sway 63 Stir up 65 White-tailed sea eagle 67 Cozy room

El Ojo del Lago / February 2022

WATER In a number of carefully controlled trials, scientists have demonstrated that if we drink one liter of water every day, at the end of the year we would have absorbed more than one kilo of Escherichia coli (E. coli bacteria found in feces). In other words, we are consuming a kilo of poop annually. HOWEVER We do not run the risk when drinking wine or any other liquor because alcohol has to go through a process of distilling, filtering, and purification. Remember Water = Poop Wine = Health Therefore, it is better to drink wine and talk stupid than to drink water and be full of poop! VERIFICATION Both the House and the Senate drink a lot of water while in session. This explains the results therein. There is no need to thank me for this valuable information. I am doing it as a public service.

Saw you in the Ojo 57

Service * ADVERTISING / DIRECTORY - EL OJO DEL LAGO Tel. 376 765-3676

* ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS - ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS WhatsApp ONLY 331-219-6987

Pag: 54

EMERGENCY NUMBERS

directory.chapala.com

El Ojo del Lago - February 2022

Articles inside

Astrolynx

Profiling Tepehua

Streets of Mexico

Verdant View

Editor’s Page

Front Row Center

Lakeside Living

Vexations & Conundrums

If Pets Could Talk