El Ojo del Lago - July 2021 by El Ojo del Lago

Saw you in the Ojo

 D IRE C TOR Y 

Index...

PUBLISHER David Tingen

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Victoria A Schmidt

EDITOR EMERITUS Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez

44 COVER STORY In a compelling story, Bob Drynan shares the Courts Martial of a character in one of his latest books.

Tel: (01376) 765 3676, 765 2877 Fax: (01376) 765 3528 Graphic Design Roberto C. Rojas Reyes Diana Parra Morales Special Events Editor Carol D. Bradley Proofreader Jan Manning Theater Critic Michael Warren Book Review Panel Margaret Van Every Margaret Porter Clare Gearhart Roving Correspondent Dr. Lorin Swinehart

8: John Poncelli shares a tale of his eccentric land lady. The Final Enlightenment of “Mrs. Yates.” 10: “To All The Girls I Loved Before:” Tom Nussbaum shares his former passions. 12: In our opinion section, Fred Mittag challenges us to “Think Big” as he analyzes fiscal economics. 24: Sally Asante shares more of her “Word Salad” and the craziness of the English Language. 28: Bob Drynan Introduces one of his classic work tales in “El Gringo.” 36: Donna Mansfield shows a caring option in “Assisted Living in your own Home.” 40: “A Tale of Three Elephants and an Elephant’s Tail.” Dr. Lorin Swineheart.

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

50: Leslie Johansen Knack profiles “Elizabeth Sellars as “The Ginger on the Hill.” 51: “Dressed in all My Decades.” A poem by Susa Silverman. 53: “Sydney Gay” Tells us how “Haiti Saved My Life”. 54: Daria Hilton describes an adventure in Hawaii and taking the whole family, present and past, hiking through nature in Hawaii.

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.

El Ojo del Lago / July 2021

COVER IMAGE

VOLUME 37 NUMBER 11

Photo by Maloy Murdock

COLUMNS THIS MONTH

6 Editorial 14 Vexations and Conundrums 18 Verdant View 20 Profiling Tepehua 22 Ramblings from the Ranch 26 Fascinating Tales of Mexican Street Names 30 Lakeside Living 38 Unsung Heroes 52 Front Row Center

Saw you in the Ojo

COLUMNIST

Editor’s Page By Victoria A. Schmidt

wish to share with you some information about something that is near and dear to my heart. It is about sharing your time with your friends and family who live in nursing homes or assisted living homes. Specifically, your friends with memory problems. The process of losing one’s memory is confusing, humiliating, and lonely. Simply put, it is similar to the body rejecting your own life and memories. What happens to the personality is devastating. Of course, every case is different yet time and time again, I hear the patient repeating that “nobody likes me anymore” and they can become bitter and lonely. I asked people why it is they don’t visit their friends. It is complicated. Sometimes they feel embarrassed if they meet their friend for lunch or dinner. So, they stop the activity. Sometimes they are uncomfortable about what the patient will do or say. Maybe they will call you by the wrong name, or remember your face, but not your job or how they know each other. What we need to remember is that you are visiting your friend. So they use the wrong name. Simply say “Hi” ask how he or she is doing. Talk about general things, like sports, shared hobbies. There are endless things to talk about. Don’t worry if you cannot follow their train

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of thought. You are just going along for the ride. Laugh if you feel like it, cry if the mood is there. Be real with the person. It doesn’t matter what the subject is, what matters is the conversation. The interaction, the humanity. They are sick, it isn’t contagious, and the point is not the logic, it is the interaction. Letting the people know that they are missed. That they are cared about. My grandmother died from Alzheimer’s as did my mother. I found different things were helpful with each. My mother had early onset Alzheimer’s and when she lost her ability to communicate, we found that music would calm her. Especially Elvis Presley. Our friends, our family are still “in there.” Share and try to be near their mood. Eventually they will reach a point where they do change completely. But they are still able to respond to voices, sounds, and touch. They didn’t ask for this disease. Put your personal discomfort away for a while and you maybe even enjoy your time. And be proud of yourself for going out of your way to acknowledge your friend or family member. Victoria Schmidt

Saw you in the Ojo

The Final Enlightenment Of Mrs. Yates By John Porcelli

y last two years at Yale were spent happily ensconced in the 2nd floor back bedroom rented to me by my highly eccentric landlady, Mrs. Yates. I had a girlfriend Farida who came up on weekends from Sweetbriar, whom Mrs. Yates accommodated with the small front room at the other end of the hall. We had developed a ritual. When Farida and I came back from wherever we had been on Saturday night, usually about midnight or 1 am, we made sure to make sufficient noise entering the house and pounding up the stairs to let Mrs. Y know we were there. Then Farida entered her room, and I mine. And waited. Some 5 minutes or so later Mrs. Y, also making sure she was making enough noise to let us know she was coming, came up the stairs and knocked on Farida’s door.—“Oh, my dear, did I remember to leave you fresh pillowslips?” Or some such thing. Farida would feign a sleepy response, “Yes, thank you Mrs. Yates,” while I would then make an appearance at the other end of the hallway, “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Yates.” After Mrs. Yates retreated down the stairs, Farida would then of course slip quietly down the hall to my room. Thus honoring, at least in appearance, the Mrs. Yates Anti-Cohabitation Ordinance. As I said, those were happy times. Filled in part with the legends and

stories of other Yates house residents through the years. One of my favorites was about the midnight marauder. Kitty-corner to our house was another residence, in which an attractive female grad student had moved into a garden apartment. Someone was stalking her and would slip into our backyard to a vantage point from which he could watch the grad student. Mrs. Y was outraged. She tried calling the police, but they always arrived too late, or too noisily, and the marauder would slip away. So, Mrs. Y came up with her own solution. In the backyard where the stalker normally positioned himself, she dug up and built a pit, filling it with mud and water, interlaced at the top with cords on which she replaced the sod. She then alerted the police ahead of her intention to catch the marauder that night. And settled in by her phone to wait. Sure enough, about 11 he slipped into the back yard. Mrs. Y made the call, but as she was trying to explain the situation, she was interrupted by a ruckus at her front door. Yelling into the phone for the police to come NOW, she then went to and opened the front door and found two men there arguing, one of them naked. Seeing her appear, the other man tried to calm her down: “Don’t mind him, ma’am, he’s drunk.” “Well, I should hope so!” Mrs. Yates shrilled. At this point a policeman ap-

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peared, but instead of asking him to arrest the naked man at the front, Mrs. Y began trying to explain that she needed him in the backyard, where the marauder was. Shouting encouragement, “Constable! constable! do mind the law!”, Mrs Yates sent the cop into the backyard where, however, hearing all the shouting, the marauder had made his getaway without falling into the pit. But the policeman, chasing after him, tumbled in. While the two men at the front of the house also took their absence. Now this story was before my time, but I know it is true because two longtime residents of the house told it to me, and they were there. At least, I think I remember they told me they were. And it so fits in with all the other stories. I should mention again that the Yates household, adjacent campus, sat between Skull and Bones, where the Bushes and the Harrimans and others of their ilk plotted the overthrow of governments and the Cabal, or New World Order. While on the other side of the house, particularly pertinent to this tale, sat the residence of the Episcopal Ministry, the church to which Mrs. Yates belonged and where her two ministers lived. And, of course I could repeat the brief tale of the Night of the Aluminum ladder when, during a rainstorm Mrs. Yates, fearful that the aluminum might rust, had climbed the ladder at 5 am from the base of her house to the 2nd floor bathroom window of the ministers’ home as one of them, preparing for matins, had just emerged from the shower. That might also have particular relevance to the continuing story. In any case, after leaving New Haven, I had moved on to Chicago where I had joined The Revolution. Three years later I received notice from my old housemates that Mrs. Yates was failing. She was no longer living at the house, but in a residence for the elderly. If I ever wanted to see her again, I should come soon. I caught an Amtrak to New Haven,

and a cab to her residence. Entering the communal bedroom which Mrs. Y now shared with seven other LOL’s (littleold-ladies), I quickly picked her out and went to her bedside: “Hi, Mrs. Yates, it’s John, I came to visit.”—She looked at me briefly, then turned her head away. I tried again: “You know, John who used to live with you.” I was wondering if her memory had begun to go. She turned back toward me: “YOU - are NOT - JOHN! John did NOT have a beard!” Taken aback, I tried to clear my throat, preparatory to trying to explain when I might have grown a beard, but before I could get anything out, she continued: “And if you ARE JOHN, I do not approve of your attempts to dig a tunnel under the city and blowup Mayor Daley!” Uh, well, no, that was not exactly what I had been trying to do in Chicago, but, um, — she pushed herself halfway up — “There is only one thing I can say to you! Go see Mr. Pitt!” Who was Mr. Pitt? Maybe, William Pitt the Elder? I really didn’t know much British history. I made one or two more attempts to communicate, but Mrs. Y remained obdurately turned away. Finally giving up, I turned and headed toward the door, then turned back as out of the corner of my eye I observed Mrs. Y push herself up into an almost fully erect position in her bed. Then her words rang out up and down the ward: “IT WAS A SEX CRIME, WASN’T IT!!!” Well, existence is a sex crime, isn’t it? I returned to Chicago. Some months later my New Haven friends shared their stories of Mrs. Yates’ final days. One of them had been with her when one of the two Episcopal Ministers, had come to visit. He had not been able to say much before Mrs. Y started talking. She thanked him profusely for a situation in which he had counseled her. He tried to interrupt by telling her it had not been him on that occasion, but she swept on past his weak protests. And went on and on to one occasion after another, attributing to him a plethora of virtues and a series of stories of his benevolent intercessions in her life. Finally, she drew to a close: “But most of all—I need to thank you—for being nothing at all—like that AWFUL Father Frank.”—Of course, it was Father Frank she’d been talking to. It wasn’t just me and Father Frank. With all of her visitors, Mrs. Y had discharged her grievances. My friend told me that two weeks before her end, she had stopped talking and spent her time humming scales: “la-la-la-La-LALA-LAH-LAH-La-la.” But in the last few days she had lain in bed, eyes closed, her mouth half open: “ommm mm mmmmm—“. Before her death, Mrs. Yates had achieved enlightenment.

Saw you in the Ojo

TO ALL THE GIRLS I LOVED BEFORE By Tom Nussbaum

emember the awardwinning Willie NelsonJulio Iglesias collaboration “To All the Girls I Loved Before?” I do. And, like them, I remember all the girls that I have loved before. What? I loved girls? Is that a shock? Well, I did. It was before I came out. I usually don’t talk about these past romances. It’s awkward. But I had them nonetheless and they involved deep, strong feelings. Situations changed, however. I changed. The feelings and the relationships changed. There was pain, shame, confusion, disappointment, and regrets. But now, after time has allowed me to look at these experiences from a distance, I understand them better and am ready to tell the world about them. One of these love affairs was with a beauty whose name caused friends

to joke that I must have picked her at the Grand Ole Opry. “Are you sure she wasn’t a Nashville back-up singer?” they’d ask. But Iris Pearl was anything but country. She was more pop-rock and disco. Even though her music— she not only played it, she often made it—seemed to accompany us everywhere, Iris Pearl also could talk. Man, she could discuss news, current affairs, or politics. Even sports. I, however, usually tuned her out when she started on

El Ojo del Lago / July 2021

the political chatter. It wasn’t that I disagreed with what she said; I just preferred her music. I was attracted to Iris Pearl the minute I laid eyes on her. She had me with “Hi.” That was the first thing she said to me. Well, technically she didn’t say “Hi.” I read it. It was on a picture of her. Ah, memories. Iris Pearl was great. She always was there for me. Reliable. Never complained. I loved her. She probably was my favorite, the one best suited for me. But it just wasn’t meant to be forever. As the years passed, her beauty and appeal faded. I lost interest. My eyes and heart began to stray. While I still had feelings for Iris Pearl, I got bored with her. She, after all, was getting older and not aging gracefully. Her medical bills were mounting. But she had been beautiful. A stunning silvery purple Plymouth Neon. The color was called Iris Pearl. Hence, her name. Oh, I still remember how we met. I was thumbing through a magazine and there was her picture. In an ad introducing her to the world. She was a new kinda girl. And she flirted with those headlight-like eyes and said “Hi.” The “Hi” was over her rear end. It was a great rear end. I wasn’t even looking to end my previous relationship. But I did. For Iris Pearl. And her eyes. And her rear end. And her “Hi.” She was my pride and joy through the late 1990s and into the new millennium. When Iris Pearl’s beauty faded and physical condition worsened, I found a younger, cuter gal, a Honda Civic. I named her Heather Honda. Imagine my surprise, though, when I discovered the size of her exhaust pipe and realized Heather was a he. I renamed him Henry Honda. I should have picked up on Henry’s gender when I saw his masculine dark blue color. But I fell hard and fast. Like they say, love is blind and love is love. That was the first time I had experienced that kind of attraction. With a Henry. I had other cars before Iris Pearl and Henry Honda. My first was a high school graduation present, a 15-yearold Pontiac. It had belonged to an elderly couple, friends of my parents, but they had become too old to drive. So Dad bought it for me and I inherited the well-maintained but out-of-style sedan. I don’t remember if it came with a name. But I doubt it. The previous owners weren’t the kind of people who named their cars. They preferred naming their kids instead. We just had different priorities. I didn’t name the old gal when I took over though. What was I gonna call the Pontiac? Petunia? Priscilla? The old lady “P” names just didn’t work for me. Besides, she wasn’t

a new car. But when I bought my first car in the early 1970s, it was new. And so that bronze Chevrolet Vega was christened Vicki, Vicki Vega. We, however, had problems from the start. She had a weak heart and bed-wetting issues; her engine was faulty and she dripped oil overnight. As a result, she was not in my life for a long time. It was longer than a fling, but hardly long enough to be considered a long-term relationship. When Chevrolet improved their Vegas, however, I traded her in for a new model, a gray one who served me much better. Because of her gray color, I thought of that Vega as a new-butolder gal and I named her Velma. Velma and I were together until the mid-1980s when I fell in love with a little redhead. She was an exciting gal, an adorable little Honda CRX. I kicked Velma to the curb and drove off with that hot Honda hatchback. She was a lot like me: small and sporty. And we lived together in Seattle, Portland, and back in Seattle again. I have wondered, though, in hindsight, if my time with that CRX was ever based on love at all, but merely physical attraction. Or a mid-life crisis. And then I saw that picture of Iris Pearl…and I forgot all about that CRX. Even her name. I know. That is despicable. I had, after all, been with her for nearly a decade. But I am not the first man to forget the name of someone he has been intimate with. In my mind, however, I hadn’t “been intimate with” her…or the others; I thought of our experiences as test driving, long Sunday drives, or errands. I look back now at my years with that CRX and I think, “We had a good ride, didn’t we, Honey? And then I just left you for…” Oh my God! Her name was Honey! I remembered her name. It’s Honey Honda! Oh, Honey. Dear sweet Honey. Now that I’ve remembered her name, I realize how much I have missed her. Maybe it was more than a physical attraction; maybe it was love after all. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry. I have to look up Honey and see if she is on Facebook. Or the Kelley Blue Book. Or some other form of automotive social media. I really would like to see her again. You know, now that I think about it, I loved her more than Iris Pearl. I’m not even sure I did love Iris Pearl. It might have just been the way she said “Hi” and batted those headlight eyes. Gee, I hope I find Honey. Maybe she’d be interested in going for a spin. Maybe she’d let me get in her again. Just for Tom Nussbaum old time’s sake.

Saw you in the Ojo 11

“Think Big”

OPINION OPINION

By Fred Mittag

he American Jobs Plan is a proposed $2 trillion infrastructure investment. The urgency is apparent. These projects will facilitate American commerce and promote prosperity. The plan will hire workers at good wages, so it is a winwin proposition. We are falling behind the rest of the world in significant areas. Several bridges have collapsed, killing people who happened to be on them. The American Society of Civil Engineers assigns a grade to our infrastructure every four years. A mark of C- is what they give us. That shoddy grade is an improvement over the previous D+. The American Road and Trans-

portation Builders Association identified more than 47,000 bridges across the United States deemed structurally deficient. They need renovations or repairs to upgrade them. In addition, we need to bring water systems up to date to get rid of lead pipes that can cause mental retardation in children. China is a strong competitor, and they are far ahead of us in high-speed rail. A World Bank report says, “The advent of high-speed rail in China has greatly reduced travel time and has transformed Chinese society and economy. A broad range of travelers of different income levels chooses highspeed rail for its comfort, convenience, safety, and punctuality.”

El Ojo del Lago / July 2021

The opposition to President Biden’s plan asks, “How will you pay for it?” The Biden plan would raise taxes on those making more than $400,000 a year and on corporations. On the other hand, this project will pay dividends immediately and into the next generation. In Texas, there are more trucks than cars. They represent every commercial interest. But who pays for the roads these companies use for their trucking needs? The Walton family gets billions of dollars in tax breaks. The six siblings have more wealth than 49 million American families. The middle class subsidizes the Waltons by providing food stamps and Medicaid to their low-pay employees. This subsidy for such a wealthy family costs taxpayers $6.2 billion a year. Jeff Bezos paid zero taxes in 2007 and again in 2011. Forbes lists him as the richest person in the world at $189 billion. So how does his merchandise get to his customers? Yep, by UPS trucks that travel on roads and bridges paid by our taxes—not his. The problem with the American economy is wealth distribution. America has plenty of money to pay for everything and anything. But too much is in the hands of too few people. As a result, billionaires and corporations hide their wealth from American taxes in places like the Cayman Islands. That concentrated wealth does not circulate; it does not create demand for goods and services. People must exchange money to create a vibrant economy. The poor and the middle class spend all their money and save little. They are the ones who drive the economy. There is something in economics called the “ripple effect” or the “multiplier effect.” Suppose Lydia works at a factory where the manager gave her a $1,000 bonus. Her propensity to save is 20%; her propensity to consume is 80%. Lydia puts $200 in her savings and spends $800 on new landscaping for her yard. Bob, the landscaper, earns $800 from Lydia. Bob saves $200 and pays $600

at Frank’s farm store for supplies. Frank needs tools from the hardware supply owned by Dave. Frank saves $100 and spends $500 at Dave’s hardware. This process continues until the savings at each step finally uses up Lydia’s original $800 purchase. Due to the multiplier effect, Lydia’s $1,000 bonus generated a total of $2,900, three times her bonus. President Biden understands the multiplier effect. For example, suppose the government finances an upgrade on a bridge and pays $2 million in good wages. In that case, the multiplier effect will generate $6 million of economic activity and prosperity spreads. That $6 million will be subject to taxes, and revenue will flow back to the Treasury. There is another crucial point. It is not so important how much money the government borrows; what is important is who the government borrows it from. We borrowed from Japan and especially China to finance the Iraq War. That means money will leave our economy when we repay China. If the government borrows it from American investors, the money never departs the country. It goes back to American investors. Extensive experience, including the Great Depression of the 1930s, proves that lowering taxes on the rich will not inspire them to invest in factory expansion, thus creating jobs. If they get billions in tax breaks, that money goes to the Cayman Islands, not to American economic growth. The Biden American Jobs Plan will generate economic prosperity for the most substantial number of people. It is the middle class that creates the demand that stimulates investment in factories and jobs. The middleclass sets in motion the multiplier effect, not wealth hidden in the Cayman Islands. President Biden has a good grasp of economic science. America needs his American Jobs Plan. Fred Mittag

Saw you in the Ojo 13

Vaccination Unknown

haven’t had this much desire to party since my college days. I eagerly plan something colorful and exciting to wear to dinner. No more yoga pants and tank tops from dusk until dawn, no more days running through the house in pajamas. I am replacing my makeup, as it is well over a year old, dry and decaying. I opt for glimmering, glowing shades that will put life back into my pale visage. I plan which friends to have over, small groups of vaccinated individuals. They throw their masks off exuberantly as they cross the threshold of our condo unit, celebrating this newfound freedom. The scene is so dramatic, it would make a great opening to a play. The setting is contemplated no less. I have candles burning everywhere. Fresh flowers dance in vases. I burn essential oils so that the environment is spa-like, creating an ambiance something like an exotic Indian palace. I had about three such events before we hit a social challenge. A friend extended a reciprocal invitation to us for a dinner party. I responded that the idea was great. I was up for more conversation, laughter, and maybe music. Then my husband reminded me once again that vaccination status of attendees is unknown. We must know the people well, so that we know if they are vaccinated. I agonize over whether we can accept or not. My husband is just as happy to stay home and watch another murder mystery on television. Has anyone else noticed there seems to be a proliferation of movies about killers and whodunnits since the pandemic started. Old serial killers such as Ted Bundy and Son of Sam are having their cases

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re-examined in new movies. Could we be preoccupied with our mortality and the seeming randomness of death? I can only watch so much about killing, then I long for the romance of getting out. Today I saw a cartoon in The New Yorker magazine. Two girls had created algebraic equations to determine whether it was safe to go out with a mix of vaccinated, unvaccinated and vaccine status unknown people or whether they should just stay home and read. I related. There is a great deal of controversy over what is referred to as “vaccine passports.” These clear up the questions and uncertainty of people’s vaccine status. They are viewed by some as an invasion of privacy. Some countries are going to require them to cross their borders. Travel is a great vaccine motivator for those undecided persons. There is a third group worth mentioning: Those persons who had Covid and survived. They have antibodies. One recent study claimed the antibodies may last a year. If these people get even one shot, they will become highly immune and won’t have to take annual booster shots like regularly vaccinated people. Even that hasn’t persuaded some of these people to run for the needle. However, these people can make the dinner invitation list, temporarily. Soon I am hoping this entire issue disappears. We will all be able to gather without concern. This period of worry and paranoia will resemble an Alfred Hitchcock episode. We will look back on it as a surreal memory, relieved that it has ended. Katina Pontikes

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Our Remaining Time By Sue Schools

n January 13, 1840, a tall, bearded man ran down the pier to catch the steamboat Lexington which was to leave from Long Island, New York cruising to Stonington, Connecticut, where he could have caught a train returning to his Boston home and family. He had been delayed by an argument with his editor and cursed when he saw the ship pulling away from the dock. He was almost tempted to leap across the divide but knew the almost zero temperatures of the Sound would mean almost instant death if he fell below the restless waves. Gripping his carpetbag closer and pulling the collar of his thick coat tighter, he reluctantly turned to retrace his steps and secure a hotel room until the ship returned. The next day, he bought an extra edition of the late morning newspaper as he sat down to breakfast and ordered a cup of coffee. He was astonished to learn that ironically 150 men, women and children had either drowned, been frozen and left drifting in the swift currents or burned on board the Lexington when 150 bales of highly inflammable cotton had been stacked within a foot of the smokestack casing. Only four men survived during the frigid night, most having stretched out along floating bales of cotton and only

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seven bodies of the unfortunates were recovered for burial. The Lexington was touted to be the swiftest and most luxurious of all steamboats at the time and thought to be the safest, if not for human error. Whether through blind luck or divine intervention, the man who missed his ship was almost 33 years old at the time and lived to be widowed twice and to sire six children before his demise at age 75. He cherished the opportunity to live where so many had fallen and went on to be acclaimed worldwide and remembered for his talent. He was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and 15 years after his lucky day authored The Song of Hiawatha and some 7 years later wrote Paul Revere’s Ride, among other classics. He was a Professor of Modern Languages at Harvard, where he mentored other talents. The additional 42 years fate handed him were not squandered. Now in 2020, most of us are past our childbearing years and probably won’t become famous for our achievements. Most of us have many friends who are widows or are widowed. But that doesn’t make our time left on this earth less productive or valuable. Whether we have an additional 5 minutes, 5 years or 50 years, we can count our blessings at being survivors and can look forward to accomplishing what we wish and choose … whether it’s finishing a novel or changing the sheets. The choices are ours to be cherished. Enjoy and make them count!

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Verdant View By Francisco Nava

Effective Communication With Your Gardener

few tips I’ve learned along the way. Many people ask what is the primary difference between gardeners at Lakeside and gardeners north of the border? Aside from language, we primarily see two types of gardening jobs. First is the garden maintenance of an existing garden. Second is landscaping/renovation garden work, which may include maintenance. Most clients do not tell their gardener what they want. They expect the gardener to know or guess accurately what is needed and then do the job. For a gardener this can be stressful and trying. Sit down with your gardener, offer them a glass of iced tea and really try to tell them what you expect, what you envision. Make a plan and then execute it. Take time to exchange ideas and skill sets. The more details the better. A photo of what you have in mind is extremely helpful. Get to know your gardener. A little bit of Spanish helps the gardener...a lot! Even understanding 10% of spoken Spanish will work. Ser amables. Be respectful and kind to the gardener, even with items outside of gardening. “We are not handymen. Please do not expect us to do jobs outside of our gardener’s agreement. We will be happy to consider other work. Speak to us about this other work as if it were another job.” Most gardeners here are aware of what gardeners are paid up north, and feel that their work should be fairly compensated. “Why is there such a discrepancy between salaries here and there?” they ask. Mexican gardeners should have a knowledge base of local plants, seasons, conditions, pests, etc. Most gardeners have experience in other fields of work. Most did not work exclusively as garden-

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ers…they may have been construction workers, handymen, etc. Keep this in mind as you utilize your gardeners for work around your property. Perhaps these other skills will prove helpful in your garden. Honesty is primary and key. Tip your gardener when they do an exceptional job or when they go that “extra mile.” Even a small tip of $20 pesos is greatly appreciated. This tells the gardener that they are doing a good job and that it is noticed. Get from and give feedback to your gardeners, be it positive or negative. Let them know if they do a job well or if the job is not being done to your liking. This helps them learn your preferences, your likes, etc. July Unlike May, regular rains come in the month of July which means things are perhaps too wet for some plants to thrive. Let your geraniums dry out between watering, if possible, and herbs too. At the viveros, you will find dahlias, gazanias, zinnias and lisianthus. You may have to protect some things from too much water, particularly new seedlings in flower and vegetable gardens. And it’s still quite hot. Keep up with the garden pests and beware of diseases like powdery mildew. Think about planting asters, balloon flower, cone flower, lobelia and freesia. You can still plant Swiss chard, peppers, eggplant, leeks and okra. Container gardening gives you an opportunity to add more interest to your patios and terraces and also to move things out of heavy rains and hot sun. With the heavy rains, fertilizers leach out of the soil very quickly. Compost helps. Francisco Nava

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COLUMNIST

PROFILING TEPEHUA By Moonyeen King President of the Board for Tepehua

moonie1935@yahoo.com

he change in Tepehua is not always gradual. In 2021 alone the roads have been repaired, not one at a time but several, creating confusing navigation through the broken streets. Electric poles have been changed and Telmex is available in most areas. Reception not always good in the mountain range, but the standard of communication is definitely catching up to the rest of the world. On the South Side massive homes and condominiums are being built. Sewer lines have been laid following the other Governmentrun utilities like water and electricity and could even be made available to the masses...if not for cost. One of the changes has been the release of the grip the Churches held on the people, especially women who now have certain choices if they decide to exercise them. Although femicide and abuse is still viewed as a family affair, in some cases steps are taken to apprehend the offender. There was a time, according to the Church, a man had a right to chastise an erring wife and he was less of a man if he didn’t. His manhood was judged by how many children he sired, not by the way he treated his family. Women have the right of choice now as to how many children they will have. Some priests encourage women to take control, some still call it an abomination and an affront to God. Laws are in place for women but, unfortunately, seldom enforced. Jalisco has among the highest rates for femicide and abuse where 7 out of 10 women experience domestic abuse by husband or partner despite Mexico being a member of a world-wide agreement to stop offenses against women. The abuse rose drastically at the beginning of 2020 with the isolation of Covid. The Independent News states “The appalling increase in the number of murdered and abused women in Mexico since the start of 2020 should be seized on as a water shed moment in which Government steps up to address the

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root causes of harm against women” unquote. The root causes for violence are too many to list. It has no socioeconomic borders. One would think poverty incites abuse out of the sheer struggle to survive, but it really isn’t the case. Femicide continues to rise world wide, usually very brutal crimes and 93 percent are not reported or investigated. Very few women come forward in abusive situations and very few can leave...where will they go? The Tepehua Community Center has private counseling by appointment only. Total discretion for help with birth control for all over 18, and we have a gynecologist at the medical center every Wednesday. DIF has an emergency program for all women in abusive situations who need a ‘safe house’, which is in Guadalajara. The rules are the women can take nothing with them not even an overnight bag. They have to be prepared to leave everything behind, including their children. This is another reason a woman seldom leaves. How can she leave her babies in a dangerous environment if she has no extended family to leave them with? A brutal decision that can become an ‘until death do us part’ situation. Because laws to protect women are new in Mexico, the safe houses are few. It is another thing that has to be planned and put on the bucket list. If only unused houses could be donated for this cause, the program could be run by the women themselves. It would solve a huge humanitarian problem. Let’s hope the winds of change are still blowing and the cries of those senselessly murdered will be heard. It is time. One of Mexico’s greatest strengths are its women. This is not a feminist ‘put down’ of men. We all have a part to play and when you oppress one part of the chain, you lose the strength of the whole. Meanwhile...change is coming.

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COLUMNIST

RAMBLINGS FROM THE RANCH By Christina Bennett

How to Find Your Next Best Friend

hen we exit the car for our volunteer shift at The Ranch, we hear the barking. It’s our friends, waiting to see us. We fill our pockets with the biscuits we have brought and start saying hello. The first kennel is full of puppies! Ten, I think. They are starting to get big. When you don’t know the puppies’ parents, you can only guess what they will turn into. These might end up being German Shepherds. Next to the puppies, are the two scared black dogs and their friendly spotted kennel-mate. Those two wouldn’t come out of their dog house for weeks, but now one of them is taking treats from my hand. The time and patience of the Ranch staff and volunteers work magic with terrified dogs. Hopefully, these two will soon be going for walks

and will be ready to join a family. We pass by more kennels of puppies. How I wish more people would spay and neuter their pets! The fortunate puppies end up here and with other rescues. The others don’t fare so well. After we walk through all the kennels, giving out treats and pets, we grab our

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leashes. We greet the staff and other volunteers who are busy picking up poop, filling water buckets, giving medicines, or walking dogs. We get caught up on any news—new dogs, sick dogs, adoptions. Some days there is great news: ten dogs are flying this week! Or a long-term Ranch doggie got adopted! Other days, there is bad news: a vandal cut the water pipe last night and staff are trying to fix it! Or three sick dogs were abandoned at the gate and had to be rushed to the vet! After catching up on news, we look at the clothes pins on the dogs’ names cards to see who has been walked recently and who needs a walk. We tend to focus on the bigger dogs who might be too strong or unruly for some of the other dog walkers. Today, one of my dogs is Matilda. She is so tall I don’t have to bend down to pet her. She hasn’t been at The Ranch very long and is still too skinny. Another walkee today is Romeo. He’s a strong guy but walks super-nice on a leash once he’s out of the kennel area. Prada needs a walk, too. She’s a pudgy one and needs a bit of exercise … kind of like me. She gives me lots of kisses. I take sweet Kendall out for a walk, too. She’s a little pittie mix who was abandoned at The Ranch shortly after having puppies. She’s a friendly happy girl who is ready for her forever family.

After all the walking, it’s time for feeding. Many of the dogs have come from situations where they had to fight for their food, so they need to be tied up for their lunch. They readily comply with this as they know the food is coming! All hands are on deck for the feeding process—one person putting the kibble in bowls, another ladling on some homemade soup, and then several carrying the bowls to the kennels. Feeding the puppies is the most challenging! It’s important to make sure they all get to eat, as many litters have a bully who prevents some of the small ones from eating. It can be chaotic and comedic as they run from bowl to bowl, gobbling up their lunch. After lunch, dogs are untied, bowls are picked up and washed. A volunteer or staff member makes a final pass through the kennels with a bucket of cookies. Everybody gets a cookie and we make sure they all look good, and their water buckets are filled. The dogs are sated and the volunteers’ hearts are full, knowing we have each brought some joy to over onehundred dogs waiting for their forever homes. To learn more about volunteering or to make a donation please go to theranchchapala.com or email us at adoptaranchdog@outlook.com

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Word Salad By Sally Asante

Crazy English Part 7

[Directory blurb: A final look at the comical vagaries of the English language.] In the rigid expressions that wear tonal grooves in the record of our language, beck can appear only with call, cranny with nook, hue with cry, main with might, fettle only with fine, aback with taken, caboodle with kit, and spick and span only with each other. Why must all shrifts be short, all lucre filthy, all bystanders innocent, and all bedfellows strange? I’m convinced that some shrifts are lengthy and that some lucre is squeaky-clean, and I’ve certainly met guilty bystanders and perfectly normal bedfellows. Why is it that only swoops are fell? Sure, the verbivorous William Shakespeare invented the expression “one

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fell swoop,” but why can’t strokes, swings, acts, and the like also be fell? Why are we allowed to vent our spleens but never our kidneys or livers? Why must it be only our minds that are boggled and never our eyes or our hearts? Why can’t eyes and jars be ajar, as well as doors? Why must aspersions always be cast and never hurled or lobbed? Doesn’t it seem just a little wifty that we can make amends but never just one amend; that no matter how carefully we comb through the annals of history, we can never discover just one annal; that we can never pull a shenanigan, be in a doldrum, eat an egg Benedict, or get just one jitter, a willy, a delirium tremen, or a heebie-jeebie? Why, sifting through the wreckage of a disaster, can we never find just one smithereen? Indeed, this whole business of plurals that don’t have matching singulars reminds me to ask this burning question, one that has puzzled scholars for decades: If you have a bunch of odds and ends and you get rid of or sell off all but one of them, what do you call that doohickey with which you’re left? What do you make of the fact that we can talk about certain things and ideas only when they are absent? Once they appear, our blessed English doesn’t allow us to describe them. Have you ever seen a horseful carriage or a strapful gown? Have you ever run into someone who was combobu-

lated, sheveled, gruntled, chalant, plussed, ruly, gainly, maculate, pecunious, or peccable? Have you ever met a sung hero or experienced requited love? I know people who are no spring chickens, but where, pray tell, are the people who are spring chickens? Where are the people who actually would hurt a fly? All the time I meet people who are great shakes, who can cut the mustard, who can fight City Hall, who are my cup of tea, who would lift a finger to help, who would give you the time of day, and whom I would touch with a ten-foot pole, but I can’t talk about them in English—and that is a laughing matter. If the truth be told, all languages are a little crazy. As Walt Whitman might proclaim, they contradict themselves. That’s because language is invented, not discovered, by boys and girls and men and women, not computers. As such, language reflects the creative and fearful asymmetry of the human race, which, of course, isn’t really a race at all. That’s why we wear a pair of pants but, except on very cold days, not a pair of shirts. That’s why men wear a bathing suit and bathing trunks at the same time. That’s why brassiere is singular but panties is plural. That’s why there’s a team in Toronto called the Maple Leafs and another in Minnesota called the Timberwolves. That’s why six, seven, eight, and nine change to sixty, seventy, eighty, and ninety, but two, three, four, and five do not become twoty, threety, fourty, and fivety. That’s why lead rhymes with read and also lead rhymes with read. (Think about that one.) That’s why first-degree murder is more serious than third-degree murder, but a third-degree burn is more serious than a first-degree burn. That’s why you can turn a light on and you can turn a light off and you can turn a light out, but you can’t turn a light in; in which the sun comes up and goes down, but prices go up and come down. And that’s why your house can simultaneously burn up and burn down and your car can slow up and slow down, in which you fill in a form by filling out a form, in which your alarm clock goes off by going on, in which you are inoculated for measles by being inoculated against measles, in which you add up a column of figures by adding them down, and in which you first chop a tree down— and then you chop it up. (Many thanks to humorist and linguist Richard Lederer for these gems. Reprinted Sally Asante with permission.)

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COLUMNIST

Sor (Sister) Juana Inés de la Cruz By David Ellison

uana Inés was an illegitimate child and, what was far worse, a woman. Even so, she emerged as the greatest American intellect of the 17th Century. Juana Inés could read and write by the age of 3. At 16, she begged to masquerade as a man to attend university but had to continue to educate herself. She became a lady-in-waiting at the court of the colonial viceroy, who was so impressed with her intelligence that he convened a panel of 40 doctors of theology; philosophy, and humanities to test her. She astounded them all with the breadth of her knowledge, the depth of her thinking. Citing her “total disinclination to marriage” and her desire “to have no fixed occupation which might curtail my freedom to study,” Juana Inés left the court for a convent, and soon distinguished herself as a writer, philosopher, theologian, composer and poet. Her quarters, housing the continent’s largest library, became a solon, a meeting place for other artists and intellectuals. Sor Juana Inés unabashedly challenged church teaching and argued passionately for the rights of women: “Who has forbidden women to engage in private and individual studies? Have they not a rational soul as men do? ...I have this inclination to study and, if it is evil, I am not the one

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who formed me thus. I was born with it and with it I shall die.” And, “Foolish men who accuse women mindlessly... you cannot see you cause what you abuse.” When her defenders, the Marquis and Marquise de la Laguna, left for Spain, the bishop pounced, forcing Sor Juana Inés to cease writing, sell her library as well as her musical/mathematical instruments, and devote herself only to penance and charity. There may have been another reason Sor Juana became a nun: her affection for other women. She became the intimate friend of the Marquise de la Laguna, sometimes extolling her in poetry: “That you’re a woman far away is no hindrance to my love: for the soul, as you well know, distance and sex don’t count.…” And, “Let my love be ever doomed if guilty in its intent, for loving you is a crime of which I will never repent.” Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz died after ministering to her fellow nuns during a plague. Today she is featured on the Mexican 100 peso note and in a wonderful Netflix Spanish-language (with subtitles) miniseries, Juana Inés. This is a selection from Ellison’s book-in-progress: Niños Héroes: The Fascinating Stories Behind Mexican Street Names.

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EL GRINGO By Juan Mata

By Robert Bruce Drynan

hey sent us another gringo. The gringo jefes in Caracas don’t trust the new jefe Guaicaipuro. Maybe they send this gringo to watch him. Not so stupid after all. The other gringo jefes they sent before Guaicaipuro were hard to understand. Now they send Guaicaipuro as the jefe and he doesn’t talk to us. This gringo is the segundo, but he speaks Spanish. Sometimes he sounds awkward but we understand him. He doesn’t always understand what we say. He acts as if he likes us, but maybe he’s just stupid. We’ll find out soon, he comes early and stays late. He comes into the mill and talks. He went down into the ship and shoveled wheat in the heat and swirling dust. He learns what our work is like. Guaicaipuro acts like a Gran Criollo Venezolano, doesn’t like to go into the mill. It is hot and dirty. He leaves

the mill to the gringo and takes the telephone girl to his apartment to please him. He won’t come to the Primero de Mayo Fiesta, but the gringo will be there. *** ¿Que Pasa? Domingo and Orlando are fighting! Too much cerveza, no they brought aguardiente. Pendejos! They act like big machos, but they won’t kill. All show; they don’t have the cojones. There goes the gringo! Señor Ro-

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berto, don’t be stupid! He is angry. He steps between them, takes the knife from Lando, then makes Mingo give him the scissors. He tells them they are fired, to come into the office in the morning and he will pay them. This gringo has cojones, but he is stupid. He should look away. Mingo and Lando will lose their jobs over a stupid macho show. Ten live in Mingo’s choza on his wages. Lando has a woman and two niños. What will they do? I will explain to this gringo. *** I walk up behind the gringo. He is urinating behind the bushes. I piss also. “Señor Roberto,” I say, “You should not have interfered with Mingo and Lando. No harm would have come of the show.” He looks at me. “You are Juan Mata,” he says. “They say you have killed in a knife fight.” “Two times,” I say. “But Lando and Mingo are pendejos; all colored feathers and no rooster. They would not kill. Sober, they are friends. They have families; women and children depend on them. We are all poor. Now you have fired them.” The gringo looks at me as he closes his trousers, and I continue to relieve myself, “How should I know this,” he asks. “I cannot allow our workers to stab each other at a company sponsored party. You say you have killed men, yet you tell me they won’t do the same.” I look him in the eye, “Yes, I know. They are not like me.” Then I ask, “What will you do?” He looks back into my eyes, but saying nothing for a moment. Then the gringo says, “They have to go, because the others saw me stop the fight. I can’t let the other workers think that I will tolerate fighting among our employees.” The gringo turned to go, then stopped and told me, “Gracias, Juan Mata,” he shook his head, “I will not fire them. I will allow them to quit and pay them full severance. I may be able to assist Orlando to find employment somewhere else. I have seen he is a good worker, but he can’t stay with us. Domingo shirks hard work and leaves it for others to do. I will not recommend him.” This gringo observes. He sees us. Maybe he is not so stupid. *** Eulalia works in the office. She sweeps and mops the floors, cleans the bathrooms, empties the trash and many small things. She comes at four ‘clock and leaves when they close the office at six. But for a while the gringo changed her hours, because her work while the office was busy annoyed him. He changed her hours to come in

when the office was closed and work until eight. Here it is always dark by eight o’clock at night. I think Eulalia is pretty. She is young and lives in a barrio outside of the city. No bus goes there. She has a long walk to return to the choza where she lives with her children, her mother, her sisters and a cousin. She talks to me sometimes. I have been with her once; during the Carnival Fiesta two years ago. We met at the parade with all the floats, costumes, music and we danced and drank some aguardiente. No one bothered her while she was with me, because it is known that I have killed two men. She came to my casa with me that night. I have a house, but I am alone. Nobody will live with me, maybe because I have killed, maybe because I am ugly. When the gringo changed her working hours Eulalia became pregnant with her third child. She was with many men, but none of her choosing. They would wait for her to return from work and take her, sometimes more than one. This she told me many months later when she was about to have the third baby. She said she was afraid to complain to the gringo, because her family needed the money from her job. I told her to speak to the gringo, because he would listen. I told her how he had listened to me, how he had learned from the fight between Lando and Mingo. He would not allow such things to happen to her if he knew. She was afraid, so I told her I would speak for her. She said no, but she would think about telling the gringo. After she had the baby, she went back to work and asked the gringo to change her hours back to the way they were. She said his face changed when she told him why and she thought he had become very angry with her. He was angry, but not with her, and he was ashamed. He wanted to do something to those men who had attacked her. She said it was too late for that. The police would do nothing. And those who had assaulted her would make it bad for her and her family, if she brought trouble to them. But, she could not afford to have any more children. I think she likes me. I can fight men with knives. Of them I am not afraid, but . . . I would like to ask Eulalia to bring her family and live with me in my casa. I can make her safe there and maybe . . . she won’t see me as ugly. Robert Bruce Drynan

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Carol D. Bradley

Email: cdbradleymex@gmail.com Phone: 33-2506-7525 “ We have to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.“ D.H. Lawrence The Lake Chapala Society hosts Open Circle every Sunday at 10AM, a popular community gathering in Ajijic, to enjoy a diverse range of presentations. For more information and to make reservations, see their website: opencircleajijic.org. In order to follow State of Jalisco safety precautions, 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. During this period, 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. Open Circle Talks July 4, 2021 Presentation by Steve Nousen: Interpreting Benjamin Franklin for 21st Century Audiences YouTube link: Coming Soon Dr. Benjamin Franklin of Philadelphia will present his interpretation of the Declaration of Independence on the 245th anniversary of the creation of the United States of America as a free and independent nation. You will be transported back in place and time to Philadelphia on July 4, 1787. Dr. Franklin is currently at work in the State House, along with delegates from 12 of the 13 states, revising the Articles of Confederation. Although Dr. Franklin is prohibited from talking about the secret work of these delegates, he is at liberty to discuss how he and 55 other men came to declare independence from Great Britain 11 years earlier. Steve Nousen July 11, 2021 Presentation by Anthony Bogart: Yoga for Stress Relief YouTube link: Coming Soon Anthony will speak about applying the techniques of traditional spiritual discipline in a practical manner to deal with the negative effects of stress in the modern context. He will offer simple ideas you can start to use immediately. Anthony Bogart began practicing Hatha Yoga in 1972 after fracturing a cervical vertebrae in a surfing accident. Yoga seemed to give some relief from pain, rebuild strength and surprisingly provided some peace of mind. Anthony Bogart

He practiced for 17 years before teaching his first class. Within 3 years he had become a full-time professional teacher in 1991. During the next 30 years Anthony opened three yoga centers in Colorado and became a teacher trainer. He traveled to teach in seven countries including giving workshops coast to coast in the United States. He is the author of “Moving Toward Health and Freedom” a guide to the practice of Hatha Yoga. A new book, Shiva Dance will be complete this fall. July 11, 2021 Presentation by Michael McLaughlin: Reefer Madness YouTube link: Coming Soon Cannabis legalization has exploded in the United States, Canada and around the world. More and more US states are legalizing medical and recreational use. Projected sales in the US are expected to hit 23 billion dollars by 2023. For Canada, a much smaller country, it is 8 billion this year alone and now reefer madness comes to Mexico. Soon Mexico will become the world’s largest free cannabis market by population. What does this mean for Mexico Michael McLaughlin and the world industry? Michael will present a fastpaced overview of the plant, the US and Canadian industry and possible scenarios for legal marijuana in Mexico. Michael has lived in Ajijic for 17 years with his artist wife. Lakeside Little Theatre: Ajijic Readers Theatre (ART) - Performance LIGHT SENSITIVE, by Jim Geoghan, directed by Dave McIntosh. Show Dates: July 16, 17, 18, 2021, 4:00 pm, Angel Terrace Tickets 150 pesos, available online at www.lakesidelittletheatre.com, or at the Box Office one hour before the show. A funny, bitter-sweet love story follows two lost souls who meet in Hell’s Kitchen. Tom is a blind, bitter former cabbie who meets Edna, a disabled woman who has isolated herself, and is hired to take care of Tom by Tom’s only friend, Lou. Lakeside Little Theatre: Season 57 MainStage - Auditions EDWARD ALBEE’S EVERYTHING IN THE GARDEN, from the play by Giles Cooper, directed by Peggy Lord Chilton Auditions: Thursday & Friday, July 22 & 23, 2021, 10:00 am (Registration 9:30) at LLT Show Dates: October 1 – 10, 2021 A Broadway success, this brilliant, biting play blends humor, irony and suspense in its scathing examinations of contemporary suburban mores. The show needs a wide variety of actors. 2 men & 2 women, one with a good British accent 1 male or female who can play 15-16 years old 3 men & 3 women for small parts; little or no experience OK Email Peggy at auditionsMS@lakesidelittletheatre.com for scripts and more information. No photo available REPURPOSING/RECYCLING WORKSHOPS WITH ANA LUISA Every Wednesday starting in July, 11am – 1pm Transform discarded items into useful, decorative pieces of handicraft. Have fun learning how to give new life to bottles, cans, boxes, frames, small furniture, etc. Cost: 4 workshops for $900 pesos or 8 workshops for $1500; workshops you attend do not need be consecutive.

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DREAM-CATCHERS/EMPOWERMENT SHIELDS Friday July 23 (Full Moon Day) 2-4pm Join us for a special afternoon of weaving our dreams into a piece of hanging art. No experience needed. Cost: 300 pesos (materials included) Contact: Faye Freed, faysfreed@gmail.com

Materials and recyclable items provided; please bring any articles you would like to work on. Contact: Ana Luisa, ajijic10chapala@yahoo.com.mx 3 AFTERNOONS WITH LOCAL ARTIST FAY FREED COLLAGE Friday July 9 (New Moon Day) and Friday, July 16, 2-4pm Discover and enjoy the wonderful medium of collage! Use colors, design, words, and images to express yourself. No experience needed. Cost: 250 pesos (materials included)

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POETRY PERFORMANCE WITH SUSA SILVERMARIE Saturday, July 10, 3-5:30pm Contact: Susa Silvermarie, ssilvermarie@ gmail.com VISUAL ART JOURNALING CLASS WITH ELAINE FRENETT July 23-August 27, Fridays 10am-12pm This series of 6 classes will equip you with the skills for journaling using basic water coloring combined with flowing text. Some drawing and watercolor skills needed. Cost: 1800 pesos for 6 sessions, materials kits for purchase Contact: elainefrenett@live.com, www.elainefrenett.com, www.visualartjournaling.wordpress.com

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MEXICO: Assisted Living in Your Own Home By Donna Mansfield

y husband died last January. He had MADSAM (Multifocal Acquired Demylinating Sensory and Motor Neuropathy) and had been in declining health for 12 years. With the onset of COVID restrictions, and his further deterioration to the point of being unable to walk even with his rollator, we had to create a cadre of helpers to allow him to live at home. First, he was able to change his daily shower from evening to afternoon and Martin came every day except Sunday to assist him. He would also bring the heavy water bottles from the garage where they

were delivered and bring the groceries from the car. We paid $2000p a month for this because he would also ride along to doctor and dentist appointments and help get him inside and back home. Next, we had Cokie do his pedicures at home for $100p. The only thing he missed from this was his regular holiday designs painted on his big toes…such as the Mexican flag on one toe and the American flag on the other for Memorial Day. Juana did his haircuts and beard trims on the patio and swept up the hair before leaving. Our pharmacy delivered as did Pancho’s and Walmart and Costco

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when it came to groceries. We had food delivered from our favorite restaurants and his doctor made a house call to glue the cut on his face when he turned his scooter over. He was delighted that she used glue as it left no stitch marks on his face. Because we live in Chapala where our street is paved and the curb cuts are normal, he could go to restaurants and coffee shops on his scooter and even had a favorite store near the plaza where he could sit outside on his scooter and they would wait on him there. We live a block from a laboratory where he went for the regular INR blood tests that accompany the blood thinner Warfarin. Again, he would sit on the sidewalk and wave his prescription and the nurse would come and take his blood with children passing by on their way to school. This cost 100p. He knew every dog in Chapala and their schedules. He would buy a side order of bacon for Steve who had a Mexican name but was known in the Gringo community as Steve. He came by at 9:30. Some bacon would also have to be saved for Barbara Jake the cat. She was originally named Jake until it was discovered she was a girl.

The three dogs who came to the Legion with their owner would start to salivate when Chuck entered the Legion gate on his scooter. They knew dog treats were in order. My husband was also the duty officer one day a week at the Legion until the cold weather drove him out. He always said, living in Mexico gave him an extra ten good years because he didn’t have to cope with snow. Having celebrated 48 years in Alcoholics Anonymous, he helped start two meetings at the Legion and a third was started by others so he was able to attend three meetings a week. He started to fade six weeks before he died. He said he was tired of being a cripple. But he had very vivid memories of hiking to the top of all the mountains surrounding the lakes and he enjoyed reminiscing about those times with other hikers. He was having trouble transferring from his scooter to the bed and I had to help him once. It took all my strength to do that. He noticed and said, “Is it time to put me in a home?” I told him I didn’t think we were there yet, he would lose more than he gained. But the night he died, he said before bed, “I think I have only one more transfer in me”. He was right, he died at 2:00am that night. But I look at all he gained from having assisted living at home: interacting with dogs, AA friends, storekeepers, waiters, a sense of self-sufficiency, being able to sharpen knives in the kitchen and turn on the dishwasher (I didn’t learn to do it until after he died), being a volunteer, and sitting in his scooter at the open gate to watch the parade of neighbors and delivery people pass by. Truly, Mexico and Chapala offer the opportunity to continue living until the end. And we probably spent no more than $200USD.

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Unsung Heroes The Butcher Shop By Herbert W. Piekow

y Guadalajara neighborhood is typical, twenty blocks either way are sixty-year-old two-story houses one built against the other, each neighbor sharing a common wall. Some have businesses on the ground floor with a residence above. Once my house had a street level warehouse while the owners resided upstairs. Today Gustavo and I live on the remodeled ground floor and rent out the three-bedroom, two bath second story. The renters and we both have small private rooftop patios where we do our laundry, enjoy a meal and I have my office. Our colonia is typical, a variety of small businesses, printers, corner grocery stores, evening taco stands mixed with family restaurants. A few blocks away is a large Catholic church and the ubiquitous Farmacia Guadalajara and

OXXO. Within this twenty-block radius are parks, schools, bus routes, and a couple of small glorietas. My western boarder is the Jalisco Stadium and Plaza de Toros. Thirteen years ago Jesùs Cervantes opened his carniceria, El Huracán III which is named after his father and brother´s El Huracán and El Huracán II, the name which is in honor of a bull the family had years ago. Jesús known

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as Chuy is my neighborhood butcher. He serves his clientele with a smile. Like all Guadalajara colonias our neighborhood is more than good citizens and small merchants. El Huracán III is a local business providing a needed commodity, but it is the personal attention of Chuy and his family that make this butcher shop the place, over others, to purchase our fresh meats and groceries. Chuy says, “I like my work a lot, although, it is having my family helping me that makes this such a joy.” His wife Patricia Aguilera is the official greeter and cashier, Chuy, visits with his customers while he sharpens his butchers’ knives between each order. His broad smile and jokes make each customer feel they are the most important client of the day, no matter how small their order. Eighteen-year-old Maria Fernanda, who hopes to one day go into aviation, takes phone orders while doing her homework. Javier, who is fourteen, is either doing homework or making home deliveries on his sturdy bicycle. Shy Adrian, the youngest, when not doing homework greets customers with a smile or sweeps up around the shop. Each of these children seems to have a responsibility and when not helping out in the shop they are usually doing homework, even this past year

when education has been remote they would sit over a notebook, pencil in hand. Recently home deliveries nearly ended when a young man came into the butcher´s shop, visited a few moments asking random questions and on his way out grabbed the mountain bike and began to pedal off with his stolen delivery vehicle. Chuy, whose shop has two rolling metal doors to allow in fresh air and natural light, spied the action and ran to the small street side patio shouting, “Ladron, ladron, detenganlo.” Within moments several neighbors corralled the would-be thief and returned the bicycle to the shop. After a stern, short lecture Chuy asked his neighbors to release the trembling young man who promised to look for work and refrain from stealing. Like so many small businesses his has changed over the years. In the beginning El Huracán III was solely a butcher shop. However, Chuy realized that his customers needed chicken, sausages, cheese, fresh vegetables, dried beans and canned goods; slowly he began to incorporate these items into his establishment until today it is a family corner business supplying most household grocery items, where a smile and sometimes a joke is a plus. Chuy and I talked about the importance of family and the joy of having good friends. “Although my business provides my family economic security, it is more important for me to have a happy family and to live amongst so many friends.” One day I mentioned how I used to bake a whole stuffed boneless chicken until my arthritic fingers can no longer debone a chicken. Chuy, who had never boned a chicken asked me to return on Saturday when he presented me with a whole chicken sans bones. His smile told me how much he enjoyed the challenge and when I roasted this stuffed bird it was better than any I could ever recall. I think the pride and love that Chuy put into serving me, or any customer, made the chicken even tastier.

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A Tale of Three Elephants and an Elephant’s Tail Dr. Lorin Swinehart

his is a story of three groups of elephants, one in Thailand, one in Botswana and a third in the US. The elephant in Thailand, along with his fellows, has been rescued from a life of hard work and cruelty by local humanitarians. The Botswana elephant and another member of his herd were reduced to target practice by a pair of cruel egotists. The third majestic animal continues to be forced to entertain clueless mobs by performing unnatural tricks. A gory video has recently been released by New Yorker magazine of Wayne LaPierre, President of the National Rifle Association, brutally shooting three times but failing to kill a majestic African savannah elephant. A guide finally had to put the suffering animal out of its misery. This incident occurred back in 2013. It took eight years for the video to be released. One suspects that the delay had much less to do with LaPierre’s desire to cover up his shameless act as it did fear of embarrassment when it is learned by his followers that the president of the NRA is such a pathetically poor shot. To date, the NRA has only issued a whiny response that New Yorker Magazine leaked the story and the accompanying video in order to embarrass Mr. LaPierre. If one does not engage in embarrassing behavior, one need not fear embarrassment. Mrs. Lapierre, not to be outdone by her husband, shot a second elephant between its eyes. The Guides instructed her to shoot it again, this time between the legs, to affirm that it was dead. If only Sigmund Freud were still around to explain that to us. To her credit, she had at least dispatched her victim with a single head shot, proving herself to be a better marksman than Mr. LaPierre. She then severed her victim’s tail and paraded around with it as a sort of gruesome trophy, while proclaiming, “Victory! That’s my elephant tail. Way cool!” The family that slays together

stays together, or so one presumes. The LaPierre’s have received richly deserved condemnation for their heinous actions. The question always looms as to what motivates such persons as Mr. and Mrs. LaPierre to cause such suffering and destruction to an innocent creature. Does killing a large animal provide a sort of emotional aphrodisiac for one who experiences some insecurity with regard to his masculinity. Perhaps, but that does not explain Mrs. LaPierre’s behavior. Without a doubt, the two of them suffer some dark abyss within their souls, a vacancy that they imagine can only be assuaged by the destruction of beautiful, innocent creatures. At a time when the survival of wild elephants, as well as that of many other species, is imperiled, when the International Union for the Conservation of Nature has placed the savannah elephant, the very same variety that the LaPierre’s targeted, on the endangered list, what would motivate two people to kill them. Mr. and Mrs. Lapierre exhibit no hint of any ethic one would associate with true sportsmen. Rather, they bear a resemblance to butchers, lacking in courage, sensitivity, empathy or compassion. They would be more comfortable, perhaps, laboring in a slaughterhouse among squealing pigs and bellowing cattle, all protesting their upcoming bloody deaths. The defenses of elephant hunting come across as, at best, lame. The government of Zimbabwe, for instance, has recently authorized the hunting and killing of up to 500 elephants, arguing that such butchery is necessary to heal a national economy ravaged by the COVID pandemic. It is more likely that Zimbabwe’s economy suffers from decades of incompetence and corruption under the governance of the late President Robert Mugabe than it does the ravages of COVID. Another argument is that elephant hunting provides meat for malnourished local villagers. Those same Continued on page 42

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From page 40

unfortunate villagers will need to secure another protein source once the last wild elephant has been devoured. On the same day that LaPierre’s bloody act became public, another story appeared in the press. Paul Barton, a retired British concert pianist now living in Thailand, has discovered that rescued elephants that are now safely sequestered inside a sanctuary named Elephants World love music, in fact, love Beethoven. And so this good man sits out beneath the trees playing Beethoven’s compositions to the joyous ears of the rescued pachyderms who crowd around to listen. You can bring him up on the internet, a kindly man playing for friendly elephants. His listeners have endured lives of misery, pain and mistreatment at the hands of humans. Many were worked pitifully in the logging industry. Some have even had their tusks removed in procedures too torturous to imagine. And yet, having every reason to mistrust, even hate, humans, they crowd around to find solace in the tunes of one of the greatest of composers brought to them by a kindly piano player. So, there we have it, a perfect metaphor for the human condition. One man exemplifying kindness and another concerned only with the destruction of an innocent creature in order to satisfy some empty headed craving for bragging rights. A woman eagerly flaunting her destruction of life by triumphantly waving her victim’s severed tail. Humanity revealed, the good guys and the bad guys. However, the metaphor is incomplete. The two stories brought to mind another memory from a few years back. The scene was the annual county fair back in my hometown in Ohio. According to reliable eyewitnesses, a man had trained an adult elephant to stand with all four feet bunched together atop a small stool. No one in the audience seems to have

given a thought to the discomfort of the elephant. Then, to make matters worse, the trainer forced the sad-eyed beast to stand balanced on one foot with its trunk outstretched. This final act sent the audience into paroxysms of glee. Not a soul protested. What purpose did this pathetic scene serve. Perhaps, like the LaPierre’s, the trainer possessed some dark impulse to exhibit dominance. Maybe his actions may have provided some momentary sick entertainment for the unthinking audience. All too often, people find entertainment in perverse ways, as when throngs cheered the bloody exhibitions in the Roman colosseum or during the feeding of Madam la Guillotine in the streets of Paris during the Reign of Terror. Many, it seems, take sadistic delight in the barbaric displays inside the world’s bull rings. It is well known that elephants are highly sensitive creatures and that all too many live torturous lives at the hands of humans only interested in profit. Elephants spend years in captivity, tethered to chains and forced to perform exhausting work, even to do tricks for the delight of clueless audiences. Humanity, it so often seems, falls into three categories. The first, those like the LaPierre’s, are the perpetrators of cruelty, destruction, crime and vandalism. The second are the healers, the humanitarians, those who spend their lives, their energies, their treasure while attempting to assuage the acts of the perpetrators. In between lurks the great mass of humanity, going about their lives unconcerned, indifferent, uninformed, ignorant of all the cruelties and injustices at their doorstep. To fain ignorance of evil is to acquiesce in evil. To acquiesce is to be complicit. I once knew a man who presented such a rosy optimism to the world that I suspected he would have walked among the heaps of corpses at Auschwitz and assured all within earshot, “Oh, I am sure no one would ever do anything like this.” Each of us must ask ourselves which category of humanity we choose to represent: Like the LaPierre’s; a perpetrator of foul deeds; like Paul Barton, a healer or protector of the victims; like the crowd at the county fair, an indifferent automaton among the masses, indifferent to the pain and injustice at our doorstep. Lorin Swinehart

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CONTEMPT By Robert Bruce Drynan

Closed Senate HearingArmed Services Committee

“

or the record, will you please state your name and present occupation?” “Lt. Coronel JoAnne Rae Hazlet, United States Army. I have recently returned from Iraq and I have received orders to report to the Military Police Training Command at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.” “Ms. Hazlet, you have been called here before this committee in response to your public statement that female soldiers and marines have been actively engaged in combat in Iraq.“ The senator from a southeastern state pronounced it “EYE-RAK”. That is in direct contravention of the rules imposed by the Congress of the United States in 1994 that women were not to serve in a combat role. What brought about this impertinent public statement?” “First sir, I am normally addressed as ‘Colonel’ or ‘Lieutenant Colonel Hazlet’ and I have earned that rank. I will not accept sneering or patronization, as your tone of voice implied. Secondly, I was on post-deployment le…” The chairman interrupted, “Lieutenant Colonel Hazlet, I am not in the habit of answering to anyone for my, as you stated it, tone of voice, but your tone-ofvoice and attitude could provoke a Contempt of Congress citation.” Colonel Hazlet continued without acknowledgement of the chairman’s interjection, “I was on post-deployment leave with my mother and father in the town where I was born and raised. My father, who is a decorated marine veteran of World War Two and the Korean conflict and an officer of the local American Legion Post, organized a public gathering in my honor. One of my high school mates, we shared a mutual dislike, stood up and disparaged my service as a soldier, stating that women had no place in combat, that they don’t have the strength, the aggressiveness or the courage to engage in combat. That last set me off. My reaction hit AP from our regional newspaper and . . . at first I regretted my spontaneous outburst, but later, after I cooled down and discussed it with

my father, who told me how proud he was of my response, I’m glad I made the statement I did.” A second senator requested the floor. He was one of the few war veterans in the congress, he had been awarded two purple hearts in Vietnam, “Colonel Hazlet, I’ve read the AP article, but would you please paraphrase your public statement for the record?” “‘Courage,’ I said, ‘are you aware that over one hundred women have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan and several hundred more have received wounds, many permanently debilitating?’ He interrupted me, ‘That has nothing to do with courage, they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, probably sticking their nose in where they didn’t belong, collateral damage,’ he scoffed. “I hadn’t seen him since I went away to college, so I can’t image what got into him, but later my father told me he was an important player in the state legislature and had bigger ambitions. He had gone to great lengths to avoid service in Vietnam. In any case my response apparently did little good for his political ambitions.” “Please forget the editorializing Colonel and elaborate on your response, it is important to this inquiry.” “Please forgive my digression, Senator. I asked the man if he was aware that two women, one a medic in Afghanistan and a woman from my own unit, Sgt Leigh Ann Hester, had been awarded silver stars for valor under fire. As far as aggressiveness is concerned, Sgt Hester was part of a supply convoy escort when it was ambushed by insurgents in Iraq. She was in command of her vehicle. Instead of taking cover this timorous . . . sorry sir, more editorializing . . . she ordered her driver to move into a flanking position that would prevent the attackers from withdrawing and with her team assaulted and killed 27, wounded six and captured one of them. She personally accounted for three of the dead attackers. Finally, I told him, ‘That accounts for Continued on page 46

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From page 44 your aspersions related to courage and aggressiveness, now as for strength,’ I told him and the audience, ‘there are many forms of strength, one would be weight carrying. An infantryman goes into battle, carrying an 83 lb assault load, then for example you might account for the weight of M-19 machinegun, 83 lbs or its tripod, 44 lbs. Standard body armor weighs 43 lbs. And consider that the average soldier, soaking wet weighs 165 lbs and if he were wounded and required assistance out of the line-of-fire, with or without wounded man’s combat load, he would be moving about 300 pounds. I agree that a 120 lb woman would be unlikely to handle that. But another form of strength would be carrying the weight of responsibility which certainly Sgt, Hester demonstrated, but to my way of thinking the most important would be strength of character.” Hazlet paused for effect, then finished with, “Mr. Chairman, of the qualifications listed by my critic, which would you consider the most important?” “You are not here to question my viewpoint, but to respond to our questions.” “The question was rhetorical, sir.” The only woman senator on the panel broke in, “Mister Chairman, I would like to address an inquiry to the colonel.” First she addressed her fellow panel members, “Colonel Hazlet is not here as the enemy, but as a friend of the court so to speak. Wouldn’t you agree Mr. Chairman?” The man shifted uncomfortably and frowned, but said nothing. She continued, “I believe this panel has gotten off on the wrong track. As I understand it, the colonel herself has been decorated for valor under fire, during the same tour of duty with Sgt Hester; Bronze Star with “V” device, if I’m not mistaken.” She directed her attention to Hazlet. “Yes ma’am.” “Colonel, I am most interested in your response to the underlying issue, the one we have yet to address this morning. Why were you and later Sgt. Hester ordered to missions that would take you in harm’s way? “Considering the clearly stated congressional policy of keeping women out of combat roles and even zones of combat, and taking into account the general masculine bias in the military against tasking women into hazardous duties, why didn’t you refuse orders contradictive to established policy and custom?” “Ma’am, there are several factors. I was a captain at the time. I was not being ordered to do something inimical to the rules of land warfare, nor against the basic moral tenets of our society. In fact I

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was ordered to fill a need that otherwise could not be met.” “Please amplify, Colonel.” “You are asking me to walk into a professional minefield . . . but at this moment I have decided to take the first step, so please forgive me if I falter occasionally. I have not mentally prepared myself for this and it’s far above my pay grade. But from the ground up I have a point of view based on experience and I’m angry enough state it.” Hazlet paused gathering her thoughts and the panel gave her the benefit of time to reflect. The chairman, clearly unhappy with the direction of the inquiry, fidgeted and huffed. “Many of you will remember when army Chief of Staff, General Eric Shinseki strongly and publicly differed with Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld and Deputy Secretary Wolfowitz on the numbers of troops that would be required to invade and secure Iraq. The assault on Shinseki was vigorous and in my view as a soldier vicious. They thought they could have their war on the cheap. It hasn’t turned out cheap and you and the American public have no idea yet what the true cost will be, but it can’t be hidden much longer.” The chairman sat forward, clearly angered, “You’ll address what this panel wants you to address. Address the senator’s question and nothing more.” “Yes sir. Our combat units were plunging into Iraq, toward Baghdad at mind boggling pace, but our support units, short of personnel and rolling stock couldn’t keep pace: our supply train was desperate to keep our combat troops in ammunition, food and of course, medical supplies.” She glared at the chairman, “We were critically shorthanded.” Military police were drawn into service as escorts, manning fifty-cal machineguns on humvees, driving trucks and even riding shotgun. Women medics were drawn from field hospitals and put on the line with forward combat units. “PFC Monica Brown, a medic assigned to a combat unit of the 82nd Airborne that was ambushed in Afghanistan, under fire rescued wounded and dragged them to nearby arroyo. When the arroyo came under fire she prostrated her own body over the injured men to protect them. If there had been sufficient boots on the ground, we women would have been kept out of the combat zone.” Without a glance at the chairman, the woman senator shot back, “But you were still violating official rules of engagement and established policy, yet you went without protest?” “Ma’am, I know you are being rhetorical, but I will answer. The simplest answer is Duty, Honor and Country, but that doesn’t tell the whole story. We in Continued on page 48

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From page 46 the army, or the marines, and special ops folks, notwithstanding all the bad press about sexual abuse by a minority in the services, we are a family, a team. Up country they desperately needed what we could bring. Later after the initial victory it got worse, not better. How could we have done otherwise?” The woman senator smiled with satisfaction, and the Vietnam veteran clapped. The red faced chairman growled and gaveled. “I think we have just about exhausted this matter . . .” “A senator, a man of the same party as the chairman who had remained silent throughout the hearing, spoke out, “Mister Chairman, I have a question before we adjourn.” The chairman peered down to that end of the panel and likely concluding that the man wanted to put his stamp on the transcript and would follow party line. He gestured with his hand. “Colonel Hazlet, you made reference to a hidden cost in this war that cannot remain hidden much longer. What is being hidden and what do you mean by cost?” “Hazlet, if you answer this, you could put paid to your career,” the chairman interjected. She didn’t even glance at him, and fixing her eyes on the questioner, “Sir, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have escalated into a guerrilla war employing IEDs, improvised explosive devices.” “We know what they are,” growled the chairman, “get on with it if you must.” “I’m not going to report my source, he also has much to lose,” she glared at the chairman. At this point in the two wars we have over 300 men and women suffering from PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder, over a base of 1.9 million deployed that seems a small percentage. It is labeled as a psychiatric disorder that can be treated, and macho soldiers won’t admit to the problem and as they say, soldier on. That is the tip of the iceberg. Medical researchers have been investigating the effects concussive brain damage, TBI, Traumatic Brain Injury. Several professional football players have committed suicide, willing their brains to medical science. A disproportionate number of professional contact sport athletes have suffered degenerative mental capabilities, mimicking, some doctors say, the symptoms of Alzheimer’s.” The concussive force waves of newly employed IEDs are at least 4 times greater than the highest wind generated by Caribbean hurricane. The brain is battered inside the skull, like Mexican jumping bean. Hazlet’s gaze passed to and held the eyes of each of the panel, with exception of the chairman, and continued,

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“This month suicide deaths among young troopers on deployment, awaiting deployment or no longer on active service but with a history of severe or frequent exposure to IEDs exceed the total number of actual combat deaths since the initial invasion of Iraq. Most are young men, but with rising numbers of women who have been exposed while on convoy duty. And now we are seeing older personnel, senior NCOs in particular who have also been exposed and affected. “The Pentagon knows about this . . . at the highest level. They have thrown a tight wrap over the whole matter and have made difficult or impossible to conduct autopsies of the suicides over which military command has control, and gone to some lengths to impede similar research of those outside of their immediate reach. A directive has been circulated from the very top of DOD prohibiting any discussion of the issue, particularly with representatives of the press, but also any other persons not directly under the control of the military. “What this means is, that at the expense of so many heroic, patriotic young men and women, the Pentagon and the White House have sold a spurious, cheap war, as a noble mission to bring Democracy to the benighted Iraqis and Afghans. The downstream economic costs to the nation of caring for these poor damaged human beings, and the public moral soul searching are a price that defies calculation. Thank you for asking,” directing her attention to the man who floated the question. “Do you have any more questions? Mr. Chairman.” “I have one last question for Colonel Hazlet, the woman senator interjected, “Why did you do this, commit career suicide, and possibly worse considering the attitude of our committee chairman, not to mention the powers in the Pentagon?” “Ma’am, in the officers’ corps of the United States military we are faced with the necessity of sending those who rely on us into harms’ way. We are imbued over and over with the litany that our responsibility is to see to their well-being in small and large ways, before we see to our own needs. But above all, not to spend their lives on spurious missions, as too often our politicians do. To answer your question, ma’am, all they can take from me is my career. They’ve squandered the lives and health of our nation’s most precious asset, our selfless youth.” “Don’t count on it just being your career, Colonel,” growled the chair- Robert Bruce man. Drynan

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Elizabeth Sellars,

The Ginger on the Hill By Leslie Johansen Nack

here are gems hidden in every city—people with amazing educations and experiences who are filled with wisdom they might be reluctant to share or even acknowledge. One of those people in the lakeside community is my landlady Elizabeth Sellars—an unassuming, sometimes nervous, thin, curlyhaired woman living a quiet life of contemplation and gratitude here in Ajijic. She fell in love with Mexico when she was eighteen years old, studying Art History and Spanish at the University of the Americas in Mexico City and Cholula. Her passionate hobby was photography, and she developed her own black and white film as she travelled all over Mexico to photograph archaeological sites from the pyramid of Cholula to the Mayan ruins in Chiapas and the Yucatan

Elizabeth Sellars Peninsula. As she traveled, she practiced her Spanish, finding loving and kind people in every community she visited, whether photographing sites or in Acapulco partying with her friends. At twenty-one years old, she won a scholarship to do a “Photographic Study of the English Cathedral,” living in a squatter’s flat in Chelsea near King’s

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Road. She traveled all over England taking pictures of the great cathedrals, her favorites being Canterbury, Durham, Exeter and Wells. During that month of January, 1972, she had everything she loved: freedom, art, history, photography, and of course music. At sixteen she had seen the Beatles at Dodger Stadium and was in love with Neil Young, Judy Collins, and Van Morrison, but listened to Joni Mitchell that summer in England. Receiving her B.A. in Art History with a minor in Spanish in 1973 from Hollins College, a small prestigious women’s college in Virginia, she immediately enrolled in Columbia University to begin her master’s studies, working on a thesis using a copy of a 16th century Mexican “codex”, or painted deerskin scroll. Love was in the air when she met law student, Jim Frush. When both graduated in 1975, they were married immediately, choosing to stay in New York City where Jim practiced law and Liz found a job with fashion designer Halston and met Liz Taylor and Liza Minelli. Eventually moving west to her birth place in the Seattle area, Liz and Jim were happy at first working and enjoying mountain sports. Her maternal great-grandfather had built a flour mill in the port of Seattle in 1911, making Fisher flour the only flour to buy in Seattle for most of the 20th century, and she was proud of her heritage as a Fisher descendant. Living on Mercer Island and Index over the next six years, Jim rose to Assistant U.S. Attorney and Liz rose to Corporate Auditor at Rainier Bank, continuing her love of photography. The marriage fell apart in 1981 and Liz headed to the University of Virginia where she got her M.A. in Spanish Language and Literature. Over the next eight years she taught Spanish in the USA, traveled to Europe, but ultimately returned to her beloved Mexico. She traveled extensively through Mexico including significant time in Guatemala but returned to Seattle once again after giving birth in Gua-

dalajara in late 1989 to Sarah, a healthy baby girl. Never marrying the father, Liz raised Sarah with her family in Washington for the next two years. In the spring of 1991, Liz moved back to Ajijic where her mother Sally bought a home at Constitucion 67 where she lived for the next ten years with Sarah, enjoying equestrian sports with her daughter and teaching English for five years at Oak Hill/Instituto Loyola and Instituto Terranova. In 1996 she bought a plot of land above the highway in Ajijic and designed and built a house which was completed in 1998, moving into it in 2002, when her mother, Sally, moved back to the States. Sarah graduated high school and was accepted at NYU, leaving Liz alone in her beloved Mexico to study Buddhism with the Heart of Awareness Buddhist sangha in Ajijic, helping in their foundation and development, and participating in meditations and book study groups for many years. Her work as a linguist was not done because in 2006 she worked as a translator for Jose Amador, a Mexican writer who lived in Guadalajara, and who, in 2007, published her translation of his short stories, called “Mexican Memories.” In 2011, Amador published Liz’s translation of his novel, “Twin Gates”, and in 2012, he published her translation of his second novel, “Blood Cry”. In 2009, Elizabeth became a naturalized Mexican citizen. In 2013, she translated several children’s books by a Canadian author, M. Headley, from English to Spanish, and has done a variety of translation jobs since then. With Sarah graduated from college and happily living in the Netherlands where she works for Adidas, Liz spends her days reading, practicing Buddhism, learning Dutch, and getting together with her many friends. She may be reached at esellars51@gmail.com. Leslie Johansen

Dressed in All Our Decades By Susa Silvamarie

We’re dressed in all our decades, in rich brocades of life well-worn, and regularly mended. Vivid restoration patches— the hip, the shoulder, the knee-make us into living art! Our tatty brains save us from the trivial forgotten things, spare us for what matters. Delightfully scuffed by life’s great dance, we’re rubbed, at circle’s end, to the luster of original wonder. In the spacious present called aging, we rouse and wake, more alive than we have ever been. ©Susa Silvermarie from Poems for Flourishing

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COLUMNIST

FRONT ROW CENTER By Michael Warren

Dinner With Friends By Donald Margulies Directed by Brian Fuqua

his play premiered offBroadway in 1999, and it has received many awards and nominations, including a Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 2000. But to me it somehow lacked tension and I found it difficult to empathize with any of the characters. The play opens with a dinner party. “Gabe” and “Karen” are the hosts, and we soon discover that they are gourmet food lovers. They are very good cooks and they also enjoy each other’s company. They have invited their old friends “Tom” and “Beth” to tell them about their recent trip to Italy (which included much delicious wining and dining), and to reminisce about the good old days. It also turns out that they introduced Gabe’s friend Tom to Beth twelve years ago, and happily that resulted in their marriage. But the evening does not turn out well. Tom is out of town on business, and after dinner Beth breaks down and reveals that Tom is leaving her – he wants a divorce. The rest of the play is an examination of marriage and of relationships. What makes a good marriage work? Are some people better off getting divorced? Damyn Young plays Gabe as a sympathetic and somewhat playful husband to his stronger wife. Kathy Cody is entirely believable as Karen, who blames Tom for the failure

of his marriage to her friend Beth and is unwilling to forgive him. Gabe and Karen’s relationship works because they are good friends and they love each other. Meanwhile Tom and Beth have nothing in common, and they don’t even like each other. Ken Yakiwchuk plays Tom with savage intensity, as a man trapped with a woman who doesn’t appreciate him. All his life he has done what other people wanted—his father forced him to be a lawyer, and his wife wants him to support her lousy paintings. He is truly scary and we wonder if he will murder her. Divorce is surely safer for both of them. Meredith Miller cuts a sad figure as Beth, confused and misunderstood. She sees herself as a martyr who has given up a career as a painter, in order to be at home with their kids. At the end of the play there is a sort of resolution after the divorce. Tom and Beth can finally be their true selves, and in fact they have both entered into new more satisfying relationships. And Beth now recognizes that she wasn’t really a talented painter—she was using her art as a hostage to the marriage. The pace was terrific, and the actors were all excellent in their roles. There was a lot of movement with readers walking around and changing places— much credit to director Brian Fuqua for this innovation. This was an interesting play, though it wasn’t entirely satisfactory. I think there could have been more revelations of character and more surprises within the dialogue. Thanks to ART as I look forward to the next offering. Michael Warren

El Ojo del Lago / July 2021

Haiti Changed My Life By Sydney Gay

ourage seems to me to be a consciousness beyond intellectual reasoning. For example, I went to Englewood Colorado immediately after the Columbine high school massacre where the local the Nazarene pastor had the courage to ask the entire Denver Symphony and a choir of five hundred volunteer voices to surround the families of murdered children with their music. It was decided no standard church hymns were to be played, I watched one thousand grieving students and parents frozen with fear enter the church. When the conductor raised his baton, instead of a hymn the orchestra played Bach, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and the theme song from the Titanic with a video of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio’s facing their destiny with outstretched arms; when that scene came across the screen a room filled with grief was released in a way that felt absolutely divine, gratitude and courage restored. After this experience I joined a group of young Nazarenes being trained to locate and save female children sold into slavery. I had no idea enslavement of children was a worldwide growing industry which involved both Mexico and United States with profits estimated at 1.7 billion dollars a year, neither government has found a way to stop it. The children are transported secretly country to country. In the middle of this job the Naza-

renes provided me an umbrella of protection to go into the jungles of Haiti, where voodoo is practiced. Needless to say, friends thought I was crazy, Haiti is known to be a dangerous place. But in New Orleans, where I was born, voodoo is an accepted practice, this is where Marie Laveau, the Queen of Voodoo practiced her magic, lived and died. Voodoo can’t scare me. I fell in love with Haiti; here eleven hundred American volunteers have built radio stations, schools, hospitals, farms and a baseball factory. That’s right, Mets and Dodgers play with Haitian baseballs. The Nazarenes took me to a hut in the jungle that belonged to a farm worker, bending over to climb inside the first thing I noticed was a snake with a lizard in its mouth. The more significant courageous Ah of this visit was a concert with Puerto Prince children as young as ten performing Bach, Beethoven and Mozart on professional instruments given to them by the Boston Symphony Orchestra. What encouraged Boston to do this? These kids were focused perfection, so enthusiastic, so beautiful to see they were sent to perform in Carnegie Hall in New York City. 1,800 seats sold out in a week. To my thinking fearless faith and generosity came together to make this courageous journey possible. Sydney Gay

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Hiking with the Exes By Daria Hilton

y daughter Kayla’s destination wedding in Kona went off with very few hitches. Her baby even waited until after the ceremony to have a complete meltdown. The only decision Kayla struggled with before the big day was who should walk her down the aisle: her biological father, or her brother’s dad, or her godfather, or me, her mom/dad. Her solution was ingenious. She chose all of us. We carried her down the aisle together in a makeshift throne, purchased from a local thrift store, that her bridesmaids had festooned with palm leaves, ti leaf leis, and purple and white silk flowers. In the spirit of this inclusive vibe, and perhaps under the influence of a few too

many Mai Tais, I invited both of my exes on a family hike to see the active lava flows on the Hilo side of the island. On the day of the hike, we all met for breakfast at my best friend Jenny’s house in Captain Cook. Jenny and her husband Mehdi demonstrated their Iranian-styleover-the-top hospitality by organizing the breakfast, coordinating the logistics of the drive to the other side of the island, and putting together trail snacks for the whole group. Their 8-year-old daughter, Parisa, scrounged up nine flashlights as the return hike would be after dark. My daughter’s father, Tyrone, showed up first, with a six-pack. He cracked one and offered the rest of us one as well. My

El Ojo del Lago / July 2021

friends declined, and I almost did, but years of anecdotal evidence suggested that I was a better parent (and now grandparent) after partaking in a beer or two. Tyrone and I enjoyed the ocean view and the beer in a silence that was much less awkward than either of us anticipated. My son’s father, Tom, and our 11-year-old niece, Solana, arrived exactly on time. A half an hour later, our daughter, Kayla, dropped off the rented passenger van and her almost teenage sons, Kristian and Derrius, before she roared away in Mehdi’s truck. Born only a month apart, Derrius and Solana immediately began to pick at each other. “You can’t wear Chuck Taylors on a hike,” Derrius proclaimed. “They’re my feet and I can wear whatever I want,” Solana answered. Kristian, gobbling piece after piece of fruit, pretended to be above it all. “You might want to slow down on the fruit,” I warned. “The hike is nine miles long and I don’t think there are any bathrooms on the trail. There certainly aren’t any bushes or trees. A giant lava field is a terrible place to have a poop emergency.” I suggested the scones. He ignored my advice. Derrius and Solana had continued to bicker, but Tom gently intervened with the cousins and had them laughing in no time. A bit annoyed by the lack of purposeful preparation, Jenny reminded us, in no uncertain terms, “We have to leave ON TIME.” Quick, preemptive bathroom trips followed, and we piled into two vehicles, girls in the SUV and boys in the passenger van. Tyrone volunteered to ride herd on the grandsons and climbed into the back with them, a decision he seemed to regret when we stopped for some Ka’u coffee in Naalehu a little over an hour later. The boys piled out of the van, arguing. “If you’re going to use Dragonite to catch Jigglypuff, it’s way better to use a hyper beam than a hurricane.” Kristian proclaimed. “You’re stupid. It’s the other way around.” Derrius answered. “Them two would argue about which side of a stamp to lick,” Tyrone grumbled as the boys scurried off in search of more Pokémon and he headed for the liquor store to replenish his beer supply. Beverages purchased, our unlikely group sat around a picnic table enjoying the refreshments and exchanging snacks and good humor. A stranger would have thought we were all old friends. When we climbed back into our vehicles a few minutes later, the boys

were arguing again. “Black Panther is so the richest superhero!” Kristian insisted. “Iron Man owns a multi-billion-dollar company,” Derrius countered. “Black Panther is a TRILLIONAIRE! Dumbass!” Tyrone rolled his eyes and rolled up his sleeves as he climbed in behind them. The girls were already buckled into the back seat of the SUV, making each other giggle with Snapchat filters. I didn’t feel an ounce of remorse letting Tom and Tyrone deal with the pubescent pair. I had raised their children largely on my own after all. I did feel a little bad for Mehdi. In two short hours (for me), we found ourselves at the trailhead in Kalapana. My sister Sasha and her teenage son Bodhi met up with us there and we charged forth toward the lava four and half miles away. Solana, who had been such a charming companion for the much younger Parisa, immediately abandoned her new friend and fell in with the boys. As this group trotted ahead, the parents crunched behind, drifting in and out of unlikely trios and pairs. Sasha and Tyrone laughed together just ahead of me. Tom and Mehdi talked amicably. Parisa shared her considerable lava knowledge with her mom and me. Strolling through the endless lava, which had laid bare a once thriving rainforest, I found myself struck not by the devastation but by the possibilities of rebirth. The stark landscape, reduced to only two colors, the sapphire blue sky and charcoal black lava, somehow summoned re-creation. The parallels with my past relationships weren’t immediately obvious to me. I did, however, find myself having long, enjoyable conversations with the dads. Tyrone and I discussed the pros and cons of our physical labor jobs and commiserated with each other about bone-dumb coworkers and incompetent bosses. Tom and I talked about the near impossibility of balancing family, work and creative lives. The conversations would have been forgettable had they been with anyone else. The smile that snuck onto my face with this realization lasted for about a minute before I was accosted by a panickedlooking Kristian. “Grandma H, I gotta use the bathroom!” “One or two,” I asked, knowing the answer. “Two!” I managed to contain the evil-stepgrandmother in me from shouting, “I TOLD YOU SO!” But I guess my expression contained enough horror that Tom quickly jumped in. “I got this,” he valiantly offered. “You’re my hero,” I acknowledged, handing him a roll of toilet paper, hand

sanitizer, some wet wipes and a gallon Ziploc bag. Disaster averted, the rest of the hike went well. We arrived at the end of the road just as night was beginning to fall. The streams of lava cut unimaginably bright swaths in the black mountainside. Radiant veins of vivid reds, yellows and oranges intertwined with each other, undulating toward the ocean. Even the grandboys were speechless (for a minute). Excited exploration followed. With the natural athlete Derrius in the lead, the three boys bounded up the rocky hillside, Sasha and Tyrone scurried behind them laughing. Tom took Solana as close to the lava as the thin soles of her Converse shoes would allow. “I see what you saw in them,” Mehdi said. “I never hated them,” I said out loud. But there had been hateful moments. I remembered cursing them both for not paying child support all the times I had to hand wash my cloth menstrual pads in the bathroom sink and dry them in the oven. This memory, and others like it, had grown fat and intractable with regular feeding. I doubted I could rid myself of them entirely. This same doubt crept into that moment as I looked across the uneven lava field, littered with sharp-edged boulders and wondered if I could make it to the cliff-

top to watch the lava “hit the ocean,” as the kids put it. “There’s a path right here,” Parisa pointed out. Could it be that easy? It was. Spellbound, we watched the lava streams cascade over the cliff and plunge into the turbulent ocean. Steam roared upward. Like the birth of a baby, the scene could be characterized as violent but was, in truth, miraculous. On the night hike back, the 19 stars we could usually see were joined by 19,000 more, so many you could barely see the black sky behind them. Kristian, a fledgling astronomer, named constellations and pointed out a planet or two. We walked on, mostly quiet, through aches and pains and private musings. “That was a journey,” Derrius announced when we reached the parking lot. Late that night, I sat alone on my sister’s front porch in Hilo, drinking a cold beer. My body ached a bit, but the pain I hadn’t realized I carried in my mind and soul was gone. I didn’t have two failed marriages, I realized. I had two relationships that took unexpected courses and still brought me unexpected gifts. Daria Hilton

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El Ojo del Lago / July 2021

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