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Saw you in the Ojo
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DIRE C TOR Y PUBLISHER David Tingen
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Victoria A Schmidt
Index... 12 COVER STORY Steve Griffin tells the story of his wayward younger brother, and how he was found in “My Brother’s Angel.”
EDITOR EMERITUS Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez Tel: (01376) 765 3676, 765 2877 Fax: (01376) 765 3528 Graphic Design Roberto C. Rojas Reyes Diana Parra Morales
8 “Ice Skating at Maple Grove.” Linda Steele shares her memories of a family trip during her youth., 10 Karen Compassion, R.N. Tom Nussbaum entertains us with a Halloween costume party. 16 Part Two: “And the Post Office Make Three,” Margaret Van Every. The conclusion of tale of a love triangle.
Special Events Editor Carol D. Bradley
24 “Marcos Castellanos.” David Ellison continues his series of the history behind the personalities behind the street names of Mexico.
Proofreader Sally Asante
26 “1812 The Forgotten War That Nobody Won” by Lorin Swinehart. Lorin gives us the history behind the War of 1812. [Ed. Note: My question is: in War, does anyone win?]
Theater Critic Michael Warren
28 “Remembering Mister Lebowitz,” by Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez. Alex tells about how Mister Lebowitz came to the aide Alex’s family.
Book Review Panel Margaret Van Every Margaret Porter Clare Gearhart Roving Correspondent Dr. Lorin Swinehart
COVER STORY
VOLUME 37 NUMBER 7
Cover by Tim Pelfrey
COLUMNS THIS MONTH
06 Editor’s Page
32 POEM “The Universe of Missing Mass,“ by John Sacelli 34 Letters to the Editor 36 “Wounded,“ by Bernie Suttle. Bernie takes a step away from his usual humor and tells a story of the types of wounds people experience. 38 “Happy 10th Anniversary International Institute of Chapala,“ Lilly Ehlebract
14 Vexations and Conundrums 20 Ramblings from the Ranch
40 “Recalling Some College Capers,” by Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez 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 ojodellago@prodigy.net.mx Ave. Hidalgo 223 (or Apartado 279), 45900 Chapala, Jalisco Tels.: 376 765 3676, Fax 376 765 3528
44 Book Review by Robert Drynan “Searching for Gurney;” Book by Jack Estes. 46 “In Pursuit of a Dream” Janice Kimball shares how she came to Mexico looking for love, and how she found Mexico was what she was really looking for. 48 “Whiskey Dan and the South Sea Princess” Steve Griffin tells the tale of the antics of two people. 50 “Love and the Comforter Conundrum” Bob Faubert offers up his thoughts about the shopping habits of couples. 52 “Revenge is Astonishing” Keira Morgan presents the rivalry between family members.
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.
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22 Mexican Grace 30 Lakeside Living 42 Profiling Tepehua
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COLUMNIST
Editor’s Page By Victoria A. Schmidt
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have found myself feeling quite sad and old lately. How can that be when I live in “paradise?” Here in Mexico, I see a sadness in some of my friends. They are cold, hungry, and looking for work. The pandemic is still in the way of nearly all they try to accomplish. While this time has been difficult for everyone, it has demanded a much higher price from many. I’m very unhappy with the way the United States is acting. I find that Grandma comes to mind a lot. She was a woman who loved the world, always loved people, volunteered for charities, and everything I have good in me, she taught to me. She’d be disappointed in us all. The familiar and wise directive “be here now” has been replaced by an unrelenting focus on the future. Like most, I yearn for the arrival of the “recovery” stage in COVID-19. While I miss my friends and family, still, I try my best to be the best person I can be. Another thing I want is for the US media to stop its obsessive coverage of everything political and to return to reporting actual news. Politics is only one of many topics which interest and affect us. The media has turned its job, keeping the public informed, into a 24/7 “reality show.”
Robert Fulghum wrote a wonderful book, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten: Uncommon Thoughts on Common Things. His simple, down-to-earth advice has become my recipe for good living. “Share everything. Play fair. Don’t hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess. Don’t take things that aren’t yours. Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life—learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some. Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together. Be aware of wonder.” I want to add, “Don’t judge.” I have to admit that this is an elusive goal which, like that exotic plant in my garden, requires extra attention daily. I want to be able to take people as they are; I don’t want to place blame. And I want our world to have peace. We do not have to agree in order to get along. We need to understand that there are at least two sides to every story. And we need to remember that the unkind have simply not yet learned to be kind. Patience serves us all.” sI have been told that my biggest fault is that I am too idealistic. Maybe I am. But I love my world when it is filled with people who live with kindness and justice in their hearts. Victoria Schmidt
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Ice Skating At Maple Grove By Linda Steele
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“
would like to play the saxophone!” “Let’s go skating!” I suggested on a cold Sunday afternoon in January. “Where? I don’t feel like skating at the park, bumping into all the Sunday skaters,” my older brother fussed. “We don’t have to. We can skate up the creek like we did last year; see how far we can go.” “When do you want to go?” our dad asked, naturally feeling welcome to be included in the adventure. “Let’s go now!” I said, excited at the prospect of skating up the creek that ran through the middle of my grandfather’s farm. “Grandpa says the creek
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has been frozen for several weeks so the ice should be good for skating.” “We had better leave Buddy here,” he advised. “He’ll want to go with us, but it’s pretty cold for that short coat of his. He’d be shivering before we got to the creek.” The three of us gathered our gear and headed for the bottomland while our unhappy rat terrier barked and whined at our parting. As we walked through the frozen grass that crackled under our feet, it was hard to believe that, in just a few months, this would be a lake when the creek flooded over its banks with spring rains. The wind was bitter. The frozen trees cracked and groaned; otherwise, the world
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was silent. The only signs of life were of a few birds scratching in the snow, searching for seeds and whatever else they might find to eat. When we reached the creek, my brother happily jumped up and down on the ice. “You were right, it’s solid.” We sat on the homemade bridge that had to be rebuilt every few years when the spring rains washed it away. Having skates that clamped onto his shoes, our dad only had to remove his boots, but my brother and I had to remove our shoes and boots for our figure skates. “Do you think it’s safe to leave our boots on the bridge?” I asked. “It should be okay as long as a nosy old coon doesn’t decide to take one of them home with him,” Dad chortled. “Do you really think that might happen?” I asked, suddenly concerned for the safety of my precious shoes and boots. “I doubt it. It might happen if you left them here overnight, but I wouldn’t think even an ornery coon would have the brass to make off with them during the day.” We were soon making our way north on the creek. There were wide spots where the pools were deep and narrow places that required us to take care not to trip on a large bunch of weeds or twigs frozen into the ice. Everything was quiet except for the continued cracking of the trees as the wind caught their frozen branches. “When you think you are alone in the wilderness, look around,” Dad reminded us. “Most times you’ll see all sorts of eyes watching, wondering what you are doing, wondering if you have something good for them to eat.” Before we had skated far, we saw a curious groundhog resting on his hind legs, watching us pass. He was quiet, probably thought we didn’t see him. “Hey, Dad,” my brother called, “I thought groundhogs slept all winter. If that guy is up watching us, what’s all that business about Groundhog Day?” Before our father could answer, a
truly angry squirrel “chuck-chucked” at us. He must have been saying, “How dare you disturb my nice, cozy home.” As Dad skated ahead of us, the ice cracked. I could see water moving beneath the ice. He called a warning, “Watch out here, the ice is thin. You’ll get a wet foot.” My brother was in front of me and I was pulling up the rear. By the time I passed over the thin spot, my skate broke through, but since I was expecting such a possibility, I lifted up my foot and avoided getting wet. We passed cattle trying to graze on the frozen grass, dodged a few fallen trees, hopped over twigs. With the creek bed enveloping us and protecting us from the wind, we were able to skate along for over an hour without noticing the cold, but finally Dad said, “Let’s build a little fire and warm up for a while.” It wasn’t hard to gather twigs and a few larger pieces of wood to start our fire, and in minutes we had a nice blaze right by a fallen tree. The three of us sat on that old tree and quietly rested, each of us in our own compartment, thinking, planning, enjoying the companionship without feeling the need to say anything. Finally, I asked my dad, “If you could do anything you ever wanted to do, what would it be?” He thought about it for a few minutes and then surprised me with his answer. “I would like to learn how to play the saxophone.” “Really? You could take lessons. They rent musical instruments at Smith’s Music Store.” “I’m too old. I can think of a dozen better ways to spend the money, but there’s nothing more beautiful than a good song played on a saxophone.” “I want to be a nurse and save lives every day.” I told him dreamily and then I turned to my brother. “What about you? What do you want?” He thought about it for a few minutes. “I guess I’d like to live in the forest, maybe be a forest ranger.” Before long we were warm, and the sun was getting low in the west. Dad started scooping snow onto the fire to put it out. “We’d better be heading for the house. Your mom will have a pie baked and, if we hurry, we can eat it with a big scoop of ice cream while it’s still warm.” In minutes we started back down the creek to find, at the end of our journey, our boots, intact, but freezing cold, still on the lonely old bridge. We were tired, but full of life that night as we sat down to a big piece of warm apple pie with lots of sugar and cinnamon and a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.
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Karen Compassion, R.N. By Tom Nussbaum
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t began with a pair of pastel blue hospital scrubs. How my roommate acquired them, I do not recall. But there we were, Halloween 1982 looming on the horizon and a costume dilemma semi-solved. “I could go as a doctor,” Mark said. “And I could go as . . .” “And you could go as . . . ,” we said in unison. “A nurse!” we finished the sentence. So, off to Goodwill Doctor Mark and I went, in search of accessories to complete his outfit and the makings of a nurse more wretched than Ratched. Mark found a bald-head wig to hide his identifiable golden-brown hair and a novelty item similar to Groucho Marx glasses with mustache. It had, to add to the disguise, a honker of a nose. He also found a toy stethoscope. I was disappointed, however, in my
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search for nurses’ paraphernalia when I couldn’t find scrubs to complement his. The frustration, though, was shortlived as I found a white nurse’s dress. And it fit! The cornerstone of my nurse had been laid. White tennis shoes and tights were easily added moments later. But next came a challenge. “Have you ever gone bra shopping?” I asked rhetorically as we neared a Playtexinfested rack. We stared at a collection of brassieres that ran from grandmotherly to Fredericks of Hollywood. Mark leaped forward. “What about this one?” he offered, holding a sexy red one. “Or this lacy black number?” “No. No!” I chided. “It has to be white. I’m wearing a white dress, for God’s sake. Those’ll show through. I
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can’t have that. I am a professional,” I explained louder than necessary. An audience began to form. “I’m not going as a slutty nurse. That’s been done. And done. And done.” I grabbed a plain white one, voluminous enough to hold two pairs of balled-up tube sox. “I will not be slutty,” I said, “but I will be voluptuous.” We laughed as we dashed toward a wall of wigs. “Do you want to be blonde, brunette, or a redhead?” Mark asked. “I don’t know.” And then I saw it. “Oh, my God!” I lunged at a brown one. “This is perfect.” I grabbed the overpermed, big-hair 1980s-styled coiffure. “If there is a god in heaven, this had better fit,” I prayed. It did. Before Halloween came and we debuted our costumes, I added a nurse’s hat, complete with a red cross, latex surgical gloves, and women’s glasses that hung around my neck and rested on my ample bosom. To avoid using makeup, I wore a surgical mask that hid the lower half of my face and my strong, masculine jaw. Unless one was familiar with my eyes, I was unrecognizable. I do not recall much about that Halloween. Perhaps that is because of the marijuana we smoked—I mean the medication Dr. Mark prescribed— before we left. But that was not the nurse’s only appearance. I remember the others clearly. They occurred at the high school at which I worked and were scheduled for every fourth Halloween in order to reach a totally new audience each time. No medications prescribed by Dr. Mark were used in the school setting. Well, by me, at least. As I was preparing my first appearance as the nurse at the school, I realized I had never given her a name. And she became Karen Compassion, R.N. She no longer was part of Dr. Mark’s medical team; she now was a school nurse. I fashioned a nameplate and positioned it above my bursting, sockstuffed, left breast. Numerous accessories were added over the years. First was a new wig. As much as I loved the frizzy, large ‘80s hair, I found a campier one. It was a black, short flip-styled coif ala Mary Tyler Moore’s 1960s Laura Petrie. Next was a nurse’s kit, again adorned with a red cross. A few years later, a real stethoscope, gifted to me by a medical professional, appeared around my neck,
as did a hospital pen on a lanyard. The final addition to the costume was a pink cardigan sweater. I have countless humorous memories from those Halloweens, but none dearer to my heart than one that took six months to play out. It began at lunchtime. I, as Karen Compassion, R.N., roamed the school’s halls, making certain as many students saw me as possible. I turned into a short, out-of-the-way hall to discover a boy and girl kissing passionately. I accelerated toward them. “No, no, no, no, no!” I screamed. “That spreads germs, you know. We simply cannot have that.” My voice was exaggeratedly female and shrill, a cross between a coloratura soprano reaching High C and the Wicked Witch of the West. I waved my hands around with comic exasperation, introducing camp humor to the school. The couple separated. The boy spewed, “What the hell!” and stared. And I turned and walked away, laughter echoing around me from God knows how many hidden make-out crannies. This incident came to an unexpected conclusion the following spring. I was leading my special-needs students, who were high school age but between four and ten in their cognitive and social development, in their weekly collecting of classroom recyclables, when I had a sudden idea. Since retaining instructions was a challenge for them, I thought I’d repeat the instructions, one more time, in Karen Compassion’s voice; perhaps the unusual tone and comic quality would echo in their ears and help them process the instructions. “Now, remember, boys and girls, we want the green pails,” I reminded them. “The brown ones are icky. They have germs.” They laughed at my silliness. But over the shoulder of one of my students, I saw a young man staring at me, his jaw hanging in shock. “Oh, my god,” he said. “You’re the nurse!” His tone was over-dramatic, his demeanor feminine. With those few words, I suspected he was gay. “Why, yes, I am. You remember that?” “Yes. You were hella funny.” He paused. “And that took guts.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I was just being myself,” I said. He stared at me a moment and then I saw the light in his eyes. He had realized that there was a gay man on the school’s staff. And it was OK. And, hopefully, he was OK. Tom Nussbaum
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My Brother’s Angel By Steve Griffin
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his is the story my nineyear-old brother told me, and one he sticks to adamantly more than half a century later. He had wandered away from the group of kids playing down by the creek, heading back, he thought, to the cabins provided for the cherry pickers by Hazel Dell Orchards, Inc. of The Dalles, Oregon. Our family—my father, mother, my younger brother, and I—had been coming to Oregon to pick cherries in June for three years. The first year we had made and saved enough in a month to make a down payment on and move into the first house my parents had ever called
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their own. We left for Oregon, five hundred miles north of our home, the minute my last class on the last day of the school year ended. My father’s car sat idling on the curb in front of the school. I felt no joy as we set off on the twelve-hour journey throughout the afternoon and night, knowing when we arrived the next morning, a month of long days of labor awaited. There were no child labor laws enforced in the fields in those days, and children as young as eight were expected to contribute their labor for the family’s betterment. Before the Bracero programs, when Mexican laborers replaced the American families in
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the fields, the summer harvests provided a substantial part of the income for many families whose fathers had no regular year-round employment. Many of those child laborers, including my brother and me, went on to become college graduates, spurred on, I’m sure, by memories of the long hours of toil which filled our summers. The June cherry picking morphed into July and August peach picking and prunes in September. My brother and I looked forward to the opening day of school far more eagerly than most of our classmates. On this particular day, my brother lost his way heading back to the pickers’ cabins and was wandering around in the vast acreage of towering trees. He soon became totally disoriented, and as darkness began to descend and shadows deepened, he began to panic. He ran in the direction he thought would take him to the pickers’ cabins. Exhausted after a few moments of desperate running, he fell to the ground, sobbing, sure he would never find his way back. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into the face of a Black man, whose smile my brother has described as the kindest and most reassuring he
has ever seen, before or since. The Black man’s voice soothed all my brother’s fears. “Don’t worry, little man. I’ll take you back to your family. Your mother, Isabel, is worried about you.” “You know my mother?” the little boy asked, surprised, because he had never seen the Black man before. The Black man’s voice came through the darkness. “Oh, yes. And I know she loves you and often prays for you. I know your father, too. He also loves you, though he often seems cruel and whips you and your brother if you aren’t working hard enough. He does this because that is how he was treated as a child, and he believes this is the best way for you and your brother to grow into strong men. I know your big brother, too, and though sometimes he tells you to quit bothering him and his friends, he loves you and is very proud of you.” They had walked to the top of a hill. “There’s your cabin,” the Black man said as he released the boy’s hand. The boy looked down into the clearing below and saw the lights in the workers’ cabins. He was overcome with happiness and relief. His gratitude for the man brought tears to his eyes. In a voice choked with emotion, he said, “Thank you so much, sir. Thank you so much.” He looked up to the man. There was no one there. He had disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared earlier. My brother raced down toward the lights, ready for the spanking he was sure awaited him, but happy anyway. “I ought to beat you good, “his father said. “You had your mother worried sick.” “I wasn’t worried, Cliff,” his mother said. “The Lord spoke to my heart and told me not to worry. His angel was watching over him.”
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Tohubohu
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ll around me I feel swarming tumult. I watch news on television and the internet, and most of it speaks to disorder in our universe. However, I feel it is my duty as a human being to be informed at this critical juncture of mankind. A raging pandemic, worldwide conflict in politics and isolation from friends and family have all contributed to feelings of inadequacy. I
never prepared for all this. That is why I jumped at the chance for enlightenment when a friend asked me to join her on a Zoom conference entitled “Hope in a Time of Disaster and Distrust.” Rev. Dr. Bill Kerley was the presenter. His background is rooted in Jungian psychology, Christianity, and Buddhism. I appreciated that there would be information from multiple spiritual perspectives. Following is
my takeaway from this valuable presentation. We do not see things clearly because we are distracted, have no practices to see and we focus on consumerism. We are broken. But something good can be made from something broken. Dr. Kerley used the metaphor of kaleidoscopes as hope, where beautiful designs come from broken glass making pictures. Carl Jung, the famed psychologist, was asked, “Will we make it?” Dr. Kerley said we all had our own work to do to “make it.” Dysfunctional people produce chaotic societies, which produce dysfunctional people. What a vicious cycle for mankind! Dr. Kerley referenced the shadows we all have in our unconscious minds, and we deny them, yet what we don’t know owns us. We carry fears with us always. We must acknowledge shadow elements and bring them to light. Some of the shadow elements are the patriarchal foundation of culture and religion, where women’s roles are limited, the notion of a flawed creation indicating something is wrong with us, authority’s need for obedience and submission, so that people do not mature, and a belief
in redemptive violence (keeping arsenals of weapons). Finally, there is the shadow of racist culture, where one race dominates another. When crisis occurs, we must own it. We are all captured. Growth means crisis will occur less, and less intensely. An example of a crisis was the attempted coup of the Capitol in the United States on January 6th. Events like this cause us deep fear for our life stability. Where is the ray of light here? Dr. Kerley said there is hope for us. He advised we must increase our tolerance of change. I understood this to mean we should embrace progress, not fear it. There was also discussion of the concept that no hope can flourish without a daily spiritual practice of some kind. Our presenter recommended the book When Things Fall Apart, by Pema Chodrun, an American Tibetan Buddhist nun. Gratitude exercises were one good example of a spiritual practice. If we note three positive things in our life each day, document them and then review them periodically, we will recognize our blessings. Additionally, we must address the global issues of poverty and healthcare. I have added Covid19 eradication, world conflicts and conspiracies to this list, as I feel these too will require collective attention. We need to give what we currently witness in our lives a different story, a different meaning. There will be change, as we cannot continue along this path of business as usual. It is not working. There is an unraveling going on right now. Do we have the will to adapt to change, to recognize how connected all mankind is? If so, our societies will take a different, and better direction. Katina Pontikes
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And the Post Office Made Three By Margaret Van Every
Over the Border
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anuary 15-16. Here we are in stunning Monterrey, 146 miles from the nearest US post office. No mistaking, we’re in a foreign country. We’re happily settled in the Regina Courts with a comfortable bed, shower with hot and cold water, and gas heater for chilly mornings. We’ve traded in the blizzard for landscaped grounds with palms and bouganvilleas. This morning we visited the cathedral in the central plaza, and after getting our shoes shined and photographing the miracle of orange trees loaded with fruit in January, we discovered the modern federal building, which houses the post office. Of course we snapped another picture. In a rare romantic concession, Ted
bought me gardenias from a street vendor “practically for nothing,” he marveled. We dined at the Gran Hotel, followed by dancing at the Jardines Terpsicore. The Mexican women have an alluring natural beauty and sense of style—their hair, complexion, makeup, and sinuous moves on the dance floor enchanted me. Without seeming the slightest bit self-conscious, they flaunted their beauty in silky formfitting gowns, daringly cut in front and back, and oh how gracefully they executed the provocative intricacies of the tango, which was everyone’s favorite. I was the only woman without a formal gown but forgot myself in the happy moment. We sat out quite a few
dances but enjoyed watching almost as much as doing. I only wish Ted had found time in his life for dancing lessons. January 17. We traveled over abominable roads through heavenly mountainous scenery and took a side trip to Horsetail Falls on our way to Valles. Stopping in Victoria for lunch, we met a couple driving a Packard coupe bearing an Arkansas license plate. We had noticed this same couple at the Falls earlier that day. At lunch I caught this man staring at me appraisingly. Not bad-looking himself. We checked into Ericson’s Tourist Camp for the night (not so hot). Jan. 18. Today we passed through the Tropic of Cancer, a virtual jungle in which I saw thousands of wild orchids and parrots of bright plumage, but no reptiles. I’m at a loss to describe the grandeur and beauty of the sierras as we drove above the clouds. Along the way we ran into that couple from Arkansas again, who introduced themselves as Mr. Roger Browne and his niece Mrs. Gallishaw. We finally arrived in Mexico City. Jan. 19. DF. We rented a furnished apartment on the beautiful Paseo de la Reforma, a boulevard laid out by the Empress Carlotta and patterned after the Champs Elysée of Paris. There were tempting bridle paths alongside the streets and I dearly wanted to be in the saddle but had not packed my jodhpurs and boots. We visited Chapultepec Castle and later attended a jai alai game. It was here that for the first time Ted finally showed some enthusiasm. Jan. 20. We teamed up with “Uncle Roger” and Mrs. G. to motor in their Packard to Puebla and Cholula, where we savored delicious local dishes with excellent wines at an ex-hacienda. We visited churches, murals, and markets. At times I feel so alone on this honeymoon, as though I’m the only one having any fun. Occasional surreptitious glances from Roger, which I confess to surreptitiously enjoying. He’s a man who relishes sensual tourism like I do—the food and wine, color, music, art, antiquities, and churches. Topping all was the rosy glow of the snow-capped volcano Malinche at sunset. During this crowning moment of nature’s splendor, when Ted excused himself to visit the men’s room, Roger Browne winked at me—it was as though he was saying he understood my loneliness and was with me. We returned to DF dead tired and ate at Sanborn’s. Jan. 21. Ted tried to find an interesting place for breakfast but gave up so we returned, defeated, to Sanborn’s. We visited the old cathedral, now badly in need of restoration. A sign in the vestibule warned, “Beware of pick-
pockets.” In the afternoon we shopped for silver, and in the evening saw Aida at Palacio de Bellas Artes. The opera lasted until 1 a.m. Ted slept through it, but I was enchanted throughout. It was such a pleasure to sit in a lavish, modern theatre and admire the gorgeous Tiffany curtain depicting the two volcanoes. It is made out of a million pieces of iridescent stained glass. The walls had murals by Diego Rivera and David Siqueiros. Palacio indeed! Jan. 22. Today we drove our landlady, Uncle Roger, and his niece to Toluca on market day. Hordes of Indios in their colorful clothes crowded the market, vending their crafts, but I’ve never seen such squalor. I was relieved to have brought a box lunch from Sanborn’s. We bought blankets and linens and returned via the Carmelite monastery built in 1606 at El Desierto de los Leones. The torture chambers in the monastery were a gruesome reminder of the Spanish Inquisition. Once or twice I swear that Roger brushed against my bare arm, perhaps by accident? Jan. 23. I finally gathered up my courage to call on one Victor Velásquez at his office. He is a friend of my dearest friend in Austin, who had written ahead that we’d be coming. Sr. Velásquez shared some Bacardis with us and promised to pick us up at 8 to go dancing at the Reforma Roofgarden. At 8 p.m., however, a messenger arrived bearing a huge box of roses and regrets. The Señora V. is indisposed. I was keenly disappointed. We dined alone at Butch’s Manhattan for dinner. I am discovering my husband to be deficient in the art of conversation. Jan. 24. Such a full day—a band concert in Chapultepec Park and a parade of charros in fancy parade regalia on their exquisite dancing horses. Then to the famous floating gardens of Xochimilco with Uncle R. and Mrs. G. Wary of dining possibilities outside the city, I took another reliable box lunch from Sanborn’s, which we relished as the “gondolier” poled us through the canals bordered by flower-covered islands. The music and bright flowers made the place unbelievably romantic—and being here made me crave romance. From there we hurried off to a bullfight that started at 3. What a ghastly sight for an American to see. That night we took our landlady to dinner at Sanborn’s and to a movie at the Alameda Theatre. The film was Dimples with Shirley Temple, and the morose Ted had already seen it! Jan. 25. Over the scenic mountain highway to Cuernavaca, we visited Cortez’s Palace with its Diego Rivera murals, the Cathedral of 1529, Toltec and Aztec ruins at Teopanzolco, and the falls of San Anton. We lunched on
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From page 16 the veranda of the Borda Hotel. Bugambilias are blooming and a string orchestra played in the garden. After lunch we strolled through the famous Borda gardens and swam in the very pool where Maximilian and Carlotta took their recreation. Unfortunately, it was too late to go on to Taxco. Ted whined, “being a tourist is hard work; is there no rest?” Meanwhile I am thinking, if this is the honeymoon, dear God save me from the marriage. Jan. 26. Señor Velásquez redeemed himself by arranging for us to visit the Mexico City post office with a translator. Ted is overjoyed to meet the postmaster general as well as his first assistant and the chief inspector. We are shown the entire post office of Mexico City and all its departments. Not many tourists can boast that! This is the highlight of the trip for Ted, the fulfillment of his honeymoon dreams. He had just endured the sightseeing and you might say that in exchange he earned this reward. We joined Victor V. afterward for lunch on the Reforma Rooftop. Such a suave and interesting man, this Victor, a real Mexican whose ancestors came from Spain twenty years after Cortez. We were informed that the Velasquezes never intermin-
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gled their blood with Indians. Jan. 27. Ted woke up and announced “it’s time to head home”—a complete shock to me. I suspect that after seeing the post office yesterday, he can’t imagine what else would warrant another day. His mind is now on the St. Louis post office, but the bogus reason he offered for the sudden departure is that Uncle Roger and his niece are leaving today. Ted allowed me one more tourist site and I picked the National Museum. We scrambled to pack and stopped by the museum on our way out. I was emotionally overwhelmed to stand before the original stone Aztec calendar, then get immediately back into the car. Ted was determined to get out of Mexico City as fast as possible, while I looked out the car window, bidding a silent, reluctant farewell. I wept to be wrenched away before I was satiated with this place. We passed within half a block of the famous Shrine of Guadalupe, but Ted wouldn’t stop as he said he was “all fed up with churches and shrines.” I said in resignation, “I’m sorry to have missed this, as well as the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon.” After a hard drive during which we assisted Uncle R with a flat tire, we all stopped for the night at Villa Juárez. Along the road I wondered about Uncle Roger and why he would be traveling with his niece. We knew little about their personal lives, nor did we ask. Jan. 28. We set out early and drove all the way to Laredo. What a marvelous engineering feat the highway is from Laredo to DF. The customs officials waved us through when Ted flashed his PO inspector commission. During the long trip we had silently stewed in the juices of love’s disillusionment, and once across the border, we acknowledged our mutual incompatibility. In Austin I told Ted to go on to St. Louis while I spent some time in my girlhood home. I needed some distance to sort things out. I planned to ask the PO for a transfer, and Ted granted me permission to file for annulment. After we parted, Ted did not remarry, but remained true to his only love, the Postal Service. I, in my way, remained true, too. I married Roger Browne, postmaster of mobster-infested Hot Springs, and father-in-law to gambling kingpin Owney Madden. How better for him to do his risky job of keeping tabs on The Mob in Arkansas than have a mobster in the family? We agreed I’d never ask the identity of Mrs. G. Margaret Van Every
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COLUMNIST
RAMBLINGS FROM THE RANCH By Christina Bennett
A Place for Everyone
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ow’s a great time to volunteer at The Ranch. You can get out of the house, be outside, not close to people ... and do something to help the dogs,” says Gale Park. A serious back injury prevents Gale from walking very much, but she is great at “loving up puppies.” Gale helps socialize the many litters of pups at The Ranch. She cuddles them, plays with them, and has also started the youngsters on leash training. She adores seeing their excitement and curiosity when they come out of their kennels to interact with her, and she knows that a friendly, leash-trained puppy will be more attractive to adopters. Lisa McCary, a volunteer for over five years, started her journey when she read an article like this in the Ojo! She hesitated to reach out and visit the Ranch because she feared it might be heartbreaking to
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Lisa McCary volunter see abandoned dogs. “But,” Lisa said, “one day I went and it was a wonderful, happy place!” “The dogs are our guests and it’s our job to make them happy and healthy so they can be adoptable and find their forever homes. Many of the dogs have experienced stress and trauma. But there is a magic that happens with the volunteers. Those dogs learn to trust again and to be-
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come candidates for adoption,” Lisa said “Other than safety rules, no one tells you what to do at the Ranch. Everyone has the freedom to do what they feel comfortable with to help the dogs — whether it’s walking, cleaning, or sitting quietly with traumatized dogs. I like being part of the team—human and fourfooted,” she said. “I love every day I am at The Ranch!” “I love the exercise and being out in nature,” said Corrine Kelly. “I’m not much for administrative things but give me a shovel and pile of poop and I can go all day!” Corrine has volunteered for over ten years. “My favorite moments are when someone sees something in a dog that everyone passes by—and they fall in love.” During her many years, Corrine has developed a social network with other Ranch volunteers and feels very supported by the Ranch managers. She says that they take their role seriously, care about the volunteers and always do what’s best for the dogs. Perhaps one of the most unique volunteers is retired professional photographer Bruce Dugdale. Bruce’s photos of Ranch dogs have led to a large increase in adoptions from US rescue groups. Bruce photographs an average of 15 dogs on each visit, working with fabulous volunteer model and dog handler Arely. He originally visited as a dog walker and
quickly realized that his professional skills were desperately needed. Bruce’s mission is to make the dogs look happy, and as gorgeous as possible, so that they are chosen for adoption. Sometimes this is a challenge when a dog is fearful, or missing an eye or limb, but his photo skills make those dogs attractive too. Bruce has found his time at The Ranch rewarding and has enjoyed making friends with other volunteers. “If you love dogs, there is something you can do for The Ranch,” Bruce says. Corrine echos that, using the words of Mother Teresa: “We can all do small things with great love. No matter what your physical condition, income, or skill level, there is something you can do to help the Ranch dogs.” Those small things include cooking soup for the dogs; fostering; driving dogs to the airport; fundraising; or hands-on walking, snuggling, or training dogs. There are so many opportunities to make a difference. Reach out to see where you might fit in. You‘ll be oriented by a manager, staff member or experienced volunteer — and before you know it, you’ll be making a difference in the lives of many dogs. To learn more about volunteering or to donate please go to theranchchapala. com or email us at adoptaranchdog@outlook.com
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COLUMNIST
Mexican Grace This is a regular feature column inspired stories that manifest “Mexican Grace.” El Ojo is looking for more anecdotes that relate the many encounters, initiated by expats or locals, that exemplify the special forms of mutual giving and receiving that define the Mexican Grace that brought us to this unique paradise--and that keep us here. Please email articles of up to 900 words, with a Title and your name at the top to both victoriaAschmidt@gmail.com and loretta.downs@gmail.com. Photos are welcome.
A Different Kind of Mexican Crime Story By Carol L. Bowman
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his isn’t your usual crime story we’ve all become too accustomed to reading about, Mexico’s drug-related violence. No, this one involves seven Mexican men and a gringa (that would be me), a high-speed chase, and a twisted ironic finale that will make you . . . well, read on. The setting is not a gritty border town, but by the beautiful shores of Lake Chapala, Mexico. It was Saturday.
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Riding the Chapala to Ajijic bus, this activity felt so familiar now. Too familiar, I suppose. My large tote carrying books to facilitate English Conversation class weighed heavy on my shoulder. Tucked beneath the tote was my cloth purse. I checked that both were still safely in place. The moment I exited the bus, my shoulder’s load felt lighter. My purse, pesos, house keys, alarm
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system remote, wallet, and identification, all gone. I turned to claw at the bus door, but too late, it pulled away. Frantic, I ran to the policeman directing the carretera traffic. I screeched, “Mi bolsa está en el autobus,” pointing to the disappearing red-and-white getaway vehicle. The policeman (Mexican man #1) commandeered a taxi, slipped me into the backseat, and told the driver, “Catch that bus.” Off we flew. By now, I had forgiven this cop for stopping us for a questionable traffic violation three years ago. I told the taxi driver (Mexican man #2) I couldn’t pay him, as we were chasing my pesos. Not to worry, he had orders from the policeman. We weaved and darted and attempted to pass other cars. It mirrored a scene from a movie. The taxi flanked a sharp U-turn across the highway. The bus, parked in front of a roadside cantina, appeared empty. I bolted from the taxi, scaled the bus steps, and searched seats, floors, and overhead compartments. My flurry slowed, my heart raced, my head throbbed. No purse. In these times, who could blame anyone who took the opportunity for extra pesos? I searched the cantina for the bus driver (Mexican Man #3.) and tracked the poor guy down in the bathroom. He helped me search the bus again, before taking me back to Ajijic. Someone had my purse and everything therein. I couldn’t help but think, there was no need for the perp to break in my house. Just go to the address, disengage the alarm, enter with the keys and load up. I arrived at my gate, breathless. An angel must have sent our gardener, Gabriel, (MM #4) because he never works on a Saturday, yet there he was. Noting my distress, Gabriel put down his rake and said “Calmate, Señora.” He reassured me that life is more important than material goods and keys. He begged me to have faith. He has eight children and problems aplenty, yet he was calming this hysterical gringa. Sure I had faith . . . that soon there would be a “robbery in progress.”
I called Aldo (MM #5), the locksmith, with my tale. Within twenty minutes he arrived, changed all the locks, and charged me a pittance for his services. I included a beer, a smile, and a hug with the pesos. To settle this lost purse caper, the alarm system company had to replace my stolen remote and reprogram my husband’s device, rendering the missing one non-functional. They promised to send someone Monday morning. That meant 48 hours of vigilance. We refused to leave the house, stayed up all night and had the baseball bat ready. Monday AM, Guillermo (MM #6), the alarm technician, arrived. Within minutes, he reprogrammed the remaining remote and provided me with a new one. As I let Guillermo out with the shiny new keys, I felt satisfied that the purse snatching ordeal was over. I reflected on how wonderful each person had been along the way. But someone took my purse and I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of mistrust. But wait, the story isn’t over. Remember the ironic twist? The phone rang. “Hola, my name is Ricardo,” the 7th Mexican man said. “I found your purse on the bus on Saturday. I was afraid that someone dishonest would steal it, so I took it to work with me. I work two jobs, in the kitchens at Los Telares and the Old Posada. I put in so many hours this past weekend, I didn’t have time to call you until now. Everything is safe.” He waited for a response. I was speechless. This hard-working Mexican had restored my faith in the integrity of my adopted neighbors with one act of kindness and unparalleled honesty. I looked at the now useless keys when I picked up the purse. I found more than lost contents; I found trust. “The Magnificent Seven Mexican Men and the Gringa.” Now, that’s a Mexican crime story you will want to remember. Carol L. Bowman
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Marcos Castellanos By David Ellison
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t might seem shocking that Catholic priests like Miguel Hidalgo and José María Morelos led a violent revolution. They believed that Jesus called them not only to save souls for a future in Heaven, but to establish justice here on Earth, especially for the longoppressed Natives. This radical (and always Vatican-condemned) philosophy would reemerge under the name “Liberation Theology” in the 1960s when Jesuit priests led similar uprisings in Central America against vicious United-States-installed regimes. Another such Mexican priest was Marcos Castellanos who continued Hidalgo’s and Morelos’s revolution on Lake Chapala, just south of Guadalajara. At the age of 65, he convinced 1,000 Natives to make Mezcala Island their base of operations from which to launch numerous attacks on Spanish garrisons along the lake’s north shore. The Spanish governor vowed to annihilate “that group of brave insurgentes, who, in a few months and with such scarce resources, [have] humiliated [us] in four successive armed encounters.” He transferred 8,000 soldiers to undertake the grim task. However, since Castellanos had fortified the island with five concentric defensive walls (two of them underwater), Spanish counter attacks were futile.
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After four humiliating years, the Spaniards resorted to burning all the local farms, finally convincing Castellanos—his Native soldiers exhausted, sick, and starving—to surrender. Normally, the Spaniards would have simply executed everyone; but, in a demonstration of rare magnanimity (and, perhaps, grudging respect), they allowed the Natives to return to their villages and families. Castellanos became the priest for the Lake Chapala fishing village of Ajijic (where yours truly and many other expats now reside), sharing his Native parishioners’ abject poverty, and dying in obscurity five years after Independence had been won. He and his Natives had won nothing. Today a town near the southern shore of Lake Chapala, and Chapala as well as many other villages’ have named streets in honor of Marcos Castellanos.
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1812: THE FORGOTTEN WAR THAT NOBODY WON By Lorin Swinehart
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n January 6, 2021, a pestilential horde of raving, slavering ignoramuses, whipped to a frenzy by the moronic outgoing president and generalissimo wannabe Donald Trump, stormed the US Capitol in Washington, DC, threatening life and limb, causing the deaths of five persons, including one police officer, and serious injury to many others. Vandals one and all, the more hygienically challenged among the mob smeared excrement on the hallowed walls. Others pranced around noisily and impishly, some either destroying or stealing government property, while threatening the lives of members of Congress and even Vice President Michael Pence. Several pundits have noted that this was the first time the capital city of the United States had been desecrated since the War of 1812. On April 14, 1813, seventeen US warships commanded by Admiral Isaac Chauncey launched an invasion of York, Ontario, then the capital of Upper Canada. This was to be one of the few US successes during the three-year War of 1812, a war without any clearcut victor. During the subsequent sixday occupation, US forces looted and burned private homes, businesses, and government buildings, even destroying the local printing press. In July, US forces again invaded the town and
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continued their plundering. Retaliation was inevitable. In 1812, Great Britain was the world’s foremost superpower, with a navy consisting of 650 warships and an army of 100 regiments of 1,000 men each, not counting those who may have been lost from disease and enemy fire. Other forces, including cavalry, artillery, naval, and territorials who functioned as the UK’s national guard, composed a fighting force of an estimated quarter of a million men, many of them crack veterans who had been battling Napoleon for years. At the same time, the US Navy consisted of perhaps seventeen seaworthy warships. The US military was made up of approximately 7,000 men, supplemented by poorly trained state militia who often decided to get going whenever the going got rough. Frequently, militia members were little more than heavily armed drunks who sometimes never even appeared for muster. The United States, a fledgling nation of farmers and villagers, had just cause for declaring war on Great Britain in June 1812. The Royal Navy suffered a severe desertion rate fueled by the routinely harsh treatment of its sailors, including flogging for minor offenses. Many British sailors had been shanghaied into service in the first place. Some US sailors were British tars who had deserted and sought refuge in the infant country, lured by a common language and the opportunity to work at the only career they knew. To make up for the manpower shortage, British warships began to routinely stop and board US ships on the high seas, in itself an act of war, and force American sailors to crew His Majesty’s vessels. US authorities charged that up to 2,500 sailors and been impressed into the Royal Navy, arguably an exaggeration. However, US authorities had ulterior motives. Their eyes wandered to the north. Canada beckoned. The prevailing myth was that a small US force sent northward would encounter a Canadian citizenry eagerly awaiting
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liberation from the tyranny of His Majesty’s government. Canadians, it was preached, would flock to our banner, eager to join the American republic. Besides, what better time to add Canada to the US than at a time when Britain was fighting for its very life against Napoleon. The Canadian attitude regarding US invaders differed radically from the US delusion, partly a consequence of huge numbers of Tories who fled north to escape persecution in the aftermath of the Revolutionary War and who wanted no part of reunion with the United States. Consequently, the US emerged victorious from very few confrontations with British-Canadian forces. The US desecration of York would not be allowed to stand. In 1814, a powerful British force of 4,500 battletested troops sailed down the east coast of the US, raising the Union Jack over some New England communities and forcing the residents to swear allegiance to His Majesty. After yet another US defeat at the Battle of Bladensburg, the US capital lay nearly defenseless in the path of the invaders. In August of 1814, the British raided, looted, and burned Washington. The Presidential Mansion, the Capitol building, the Departments of Treasury and War, and other sites were desecrated and burned. Other buildings were plundered and destroyed. More than 300 treasured volumes in the Library of Congress perished. The fires were so hot that decorations, columns, and sculptures were ruined, and the glass in skylights melted. The offices of Washington’s newspaper, the National Intelligencer, were torn down brick by brick because its editors had the effrontery to refer to Major General Robert Ross as “The Ruffian.” To add insult to injury, General Ross and his officers sat down at President and Mrs. Madison’s dinner table, consumed his meal and drank his wine, then set fire to the place. Fortunately, a number of silver items and the famous Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington were smuggled out of town before the arrival of the British. As for the President and his famous wife Dolly Madison, they escaped a fate as POWs by fleeing the city ahead of the advancing enemy and found refuge with a Quaker family in the village of Brookeville, Maryland. The occupation of the city lasted for 26 hours, until a powerful hurricane struck, dousing the fires and forcing the British to retreat to their damaged vessels and sail off, some to Bermuda, others on to New Orleans. The War of 1812 ended on Christmas Eve, 1814, with the signing of the Treaty of Ghent. However, one of
its most lethal battles remained to be fought at New Orleans in January 1815. That battle has been immortalized in movies and songs, but it was, in reality, more like a massacre of the British forces who had been unwisely ordered to advance upon the heavily fortified US lines. With the defeat of Napoleon subsequent to his infamous 100 days, the full might of the British military could have been turned loose upon the United States. However, when command in North America was offered to the Duke of Wellington, who had led the forces that defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, he essentially responded that we Americans were more trouble than we were worth, that the British would waste vast amounts of blood and treasure in an attempt to subdue such an unruly population. In the aftermath, the Presidential Mansion was painted with white paint to cover up the scars of its burning. It was renamed the White House. An uneasy peace lasted, with a few long forgotten exceptions, along the 3,500-mile-long US-Canadian border for the next 100 years. The ratification of the Rush-Bagot Treaty on April 16, 1818, mostly disarmed the Great Lakes and eventually established the world’s longest unfortified boundary between any two nations. With the outbreak of World War I, the United States and our British cousins realized that we had much in common, that we should stand united in the face of much worse enemies, and the “special relationship” between the two nations has endured to the present day. As for the village of York, Ontario, it evolved into the modern city of Toronto. In reality, there is no longer a realistic expectation that our public buildings in Washington, DC, need fear another attack by foreign invaders. However, as the events of January 6, 2021, have proven, the barbaric hordes, the flotsam and jetsam at the lowest levels of US society, are no longer panting at our gates. They now walk among us. We find ourselves attempting to navigate a new age in which the threat of domestic terrorism at least equals that of threats from overseas. Lines from Matthew Arnold’s most famous poem come to mind: “We are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.” Lorin Swinehart
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Remembering Mister Lebowitz By Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez
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here are moments in everyone’s life that can dramatically change whatever is left of them. One such “moment” happened to me when I was no more than twelve years old. My family was living in El Paso, Texas. My father had recently died, leaving my Mexican mother, younger brother, Tommy, and me were in a rather perilous position. Our home was on a broad residential street and sat on a slight rise. On the morning of that “moment,” my mother had assigned my brother
and me the task of raking up the leaves in our front yard, and we were thus engaged when my brother and I started to argue about something the nature of which I can no longer remember. What I can recall is that since the death of our father, my younger brother had grown increasingly prone to temper tantrums. Then I made the mistake of laughing at his rather ridiculous behavior, which apparently took him over the edge, impelling him to raise his steel rake as if to hit me on the head with
it. In that moment, I heard the violent screech of a car coming to a sudden stop right in front of our house. A moment later, two men came rushing out, yelling as they raced up to snatch the rake from my brother’s hands. In what seemed only another few seconds, they had bound his hands with what seemed a bandana of some sort. My mother, apparently having heard the screeching sound, was now hurrying toward us, deep apprehension written all over her face, as she then tried to politely ask to know what was going on. The detectives identified themselves, then muttered something about witnessing an attempted assault and that they were taking Tommy to the main jail downtown, where she could visit him at various hours of the weekday. Stunned into absolute silence (quite unusual for my Mexican mother), she and I could only look on in tearful silence as my brother was taken away in the unmarked police sedan. Then she told me to change into some nicer clothes, and made a telephone call to a lawyer who I knew had once helped her with some business problems. He told her that he would meet her at the police station. Half an hour later, we arrived at the station, where we were quickly
joined in the lobby by the two arresting detectives who, in front of several other people, told my mother in very grim terms what would probably be my brother’s ultimate legal fate. Their grim appraisal seemed to amuse the many people gathered around the lobby, but my mother and I were not among them. Then the frightful mood changed in a heartbeat when Mr. Lebowitz, her lawyer, came into the police station. Not that his looks were all that prepossessing: he appeared very old to me and seemed (in looking back) rather tattered and wistful in some strangely sad way. He was also using two canes to help him walk. Then he started to speak. In what can only be described as a majestic baritone, he began to berate the two detectives in the strongest way, before demanding that my brother be released immediately. Otherwise, he would walk over to see his good friend, the editor in chief of the El Paso Times (then the most powerful newspaper in all of West Texas), and tell him the shameful facts of the matter. With that, and in only what seemed no more than a minute or two, my brother was brought into the lobby to the arms of my joyous mother. Finally, turning gratefully toward Mister Lebowitz, she thanked him and asked him what she owed him? I will never forget his answer. “Nothing, Juanita. I had to come down from my office to buy a cigar, anyway. Besides, I am having a wonderful time.” With my younger brother safely sequestered in the back seat of our old Chevrolet, we started the ride home. Along the way I thought to ask my mother why everything had changed so much when Mister Lebowitz had come to the police station. “Things changed because he knows the law and is a very well-educated gentleman.” I remembered those words many years later, just after I had graduated from high school. Many of my friends were going off to college but I had a good delivery job and one of the fastest hot rods in town and liked my current life just fine. However, those words finally had their way with me, and I went off to college to enroll in a pre-law course of study. Though I would later change my major, it was Mister Lebowitz who set the course of my ultimate journey. Obviously, I have never forgotten him. Alejandro GrattanDominguez
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Carol D. Bradley
Email: cdbradleymex@gmail.com Phone: 33-2506-7525 “There is a reason the sky gets dark at night. We were not meant to see everything all the time. We were meant to rest and trust even in the darkness. —Morgan Harper Nichols Here we are; almost a year since COVID-19 began its onslaught of our beloved community. At press time, we are just out of a red-button lockdown: 60+ must stay home, harsh restrictions on gatherings in outdoor and indoor venues, not to mention continued masking, handwashing, and social distancing. We have expressed cautious optimism with the new official numbers indicating a hopeful downturn in new cases and deaths. In mid-February, our governor lifted the red button and loosened some, not all, of the restrictions. The vaccine is almost within reach. We are registering for vaccine application venues. We have hope. Hope for all of our wonderful live entertainment venues, restaurants, theaters, and gatherings with friends and family. When this is over, I imagine going out with a smile on my face, a loud, happy song on my lips, and a hug for everyone I know. Until then, we must stay vigilant. Sadly, this report lacks events. Restaurants are open with limited capacity and
many feature our incredibly talented live music. If you can, while observing safety protocols, go out and enjoy what is currently out there for us all. We are still waiting and wanting our community to return to its full, vibrant life and when it does, I, for one, will party like it’s 2019! In normal times, the Lake Chapala Society hosts Open Circle every Sunday at 10 a.m., a popular community gathering at the society’s grounds in Ajijic, to enjoy a diverse range of presentations. Open Circle presentations have been suspended because of the pandemic, yet some presentations are available online. For a schedule and more information see their website opencircleajijic.org. All live theater, orchestras, and big bands are suspended until further notice. They have all expressed hope and delight the coming weeks will allow for reconvening and planning for new and exciting shows to fill our calendars with vibrant entertainment. Here is a small sample of what is currently available with our live music bands and venues:
The always popular Blue Jay Slim and the Blues Machine on the rooftop patio at El Bar Co. on the carretera, in central Ajijic. Check out the latest information on Facebook, El Bar Co. or the Iron Horse. Jay and his band bring the limited capacity house down with blues, rock and Latin music. The beautiful garden at El Garufa on Colon, in Ajijic, hosted Latinitos for an afternoon of jazzy easy listening and delightful dining. Stay tuned, loyal readers. Life is good, we are still starry-eyed, and look forward to seeing each other soon.
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The Universe of Missing Mass John Sacelli
when i was a child i went to mass. didn’t like it much. our father which art in heaven . . is there really witch art in heaven? do they cast spells, burn sinners in latin? was afraid, didn’t like it much when i was a young man left the church, joined the masses revolution of the masses, by the masses for the masses didn’t care for that either mass movements, mass murder scared me too
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but now i have to leave want to leave i want to fly skip the scene skip the unseen the earth is massive jupiter more so the sun, still more but when we fly, high enough they are small, tiny, vanishing
mass, masses, massed armies, fortunes amassed, mass hysteria, mass extinctions, mass illusion
it is my time to be untied to be untide i will not cheat you i will not cheat the earth matter, mass i will leave my body atoms, ashes then leave my bodhi leave my bodhisattva with all these young masses
oh, i know, it has a purpose mass - held us here while we learned held us together
i will be what physics, churches nations cannot find the universe of missing mass
now an old man and the subject is still mass the mass of the earth which binds us here gravity, the grave
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while we grew the masses did the work built farms and forms cities and societies
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some of his goals. Presumably for the 71 million who voted for him in November of 2020, they did not find him to be a disgrace and indeed wanted him for a second term. Calling these supporters by “deplorable” names, turning a blind eye to their needs which they believed he might still be able to meet if he remained in office for a second term, is ruthless to say the least. Much evidence has been shown that the election was [Ed. Note: allegedly] rigged and massive voter fraud [Ed. Note: allegedly] occurred in cer-
R
e: “Why Some of our Friends and Neighbors Voted Differently” by Michael Hogan (January 2021) Dear Editor: In this very divisive time in the US, where Democrats not only disagree with Republicans and Republicans disagree with Democrats, but when they actively hate each other, it is a breath of fresh air to read Hogan’s measured assessment of why 71 million Americans voted for Trump. For those who hate Trump, the mere mention of his name brings on an automatic response of disgust, thus
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making it all but impossible to actually discuss his fraught four years of office. The truth is that respect for the office of the president of the United State of America ceased to exist when he took office and it didn’t really matter whether he accomplished anything or not. Having legitimately earned the presidency in 2016, he then had to endure the “Russiagate” scandal, that ultimately came to nothing, the attempt to impeach him, which also came to nothing, and through it all, he still had to try and govern and achieve something for his country. As Hogan points out, he did meet
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tain jurisdictions. It was the Supreme Court’s decision not to hear the case, based on a technicality over which they had no jurisdiction. They did not say that there was no evidence of voter fraud, something that has occurred before in the US elections. Had it not, Al Gore would not have lost the presidential race in 2000 to George W. Bush. The big difference between Gore’s loss and Trump’s is that Gore conceded quietly, whereas Trump has not. From Gabrielle Blair
The Price of Beautiful Lawns:
Our Dog Sammy By Suzy Scully
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t took 35 hours for his death. After ingesting lawn poison on a walk Thursday evening in lower La Floresta, Ajijic, he died Saturday at 7:39 in the morning. Why did our dear 12-year-old dog, a hairless Chinese Crested, officially named “Little Black Sambo,” have to die such a painful death? Because many lawn lovers don’t appreciate ants, cutter ants, rats, or weeds. We wish our lawns to be free of nuisances, so we head to the hardware store and purchase a plastic bag of white power. Not always knowing how much to spread, handfuls seem to suffice. Except when you’re a small dog. Sambo was a fun-loving nine pounds of gratitude; a prancer, a sweetheart and a brother of three siblings. But that Thursday, he came home, licked his paws and rejected dinner. By Friday he was shivering, breathing erratically, and not himself. Alarmed, we called an amazing vet. I can’t say enough about the wonderful service vets like Dr. Laura perform by making house calls. She explained, “He may have been poisoned.” She has seen many dogs and even more cats poisoned over the last few months due to “beautiful lawns” especially in upper and lower La Floresta. That Saturday our dog, a wellbehaved little Chinaman in Mexican Culture, left behind some broken hearts. A transplant from Oregon, in the
U.S., where he learned to endure all forms of nasty weather, Sambo loved his new life here in Ajijic, I suspect for the same reasons many of us northerners gravitate to Lakeside Chapala. No more winter clothes, no confinement indoors, and always a sense of community. Sambo was finally a naked, hairless, happy man. He was in Mexican heaven, street sniffing, leg lifting, male marking, and making friends with street dogs. For many expats, Mexicans have shown us the true meaning of solidarity. Why then not come together as a community to prevent these needless poisonings? A first step could be as simple as posting a sign on our lawns warning pet owners to “Beware of lawn chemicals.” In memory of Sammy, let’s spread the word, not the poison.
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Wounded By Bernie Suttle
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oises was where he always wanted to be, in the first row of his church, San Jose, in his village, Nipomo, California. He sat in front of the image of La Señora de Guadalupe, La Morena, his mother. He was wearing the cracked leather jacket he had grabbed from the Goodwill donor bin thirty-five years ago. Native huaraches rested on his feet and his grey hair was spiked in bunches like happy weeds in the sandy soil. Through seventy years of fieldwork he was always content, prone to smile if not to speak. He was most happy in his church surrounded by his own smiling people. With tan skin, flash-
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ing eyes and ivory teeth, they were a welcoming, accepting people who always made room for more in the pew. Golden sunlight shone through the windows. A cool zephyr flowed from open doors. Waiting for the santa misa to begin, Moises’s mind roamed to the past. He heard his mother’s voice. “Mijo, Moises, my beautiful son, brush away the sleep from your head. Your father is gone. Today you will join me working in Sr. Takahashi’s field.” Moises fluttered awake and rolled up his pad made of old blankets his grandmother had covered with masa sacks. The seven children slept on the floor in the back room. Their tarpaper
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shack didn’t leak only when it didn’t rain. The rent was $20 a week, paid in advance. Moises dressed for the new day in his only piece of clothing, thriftstore bib overalls. This was the daily routine he followed until age 18. No school. His mother and siblings needed the pittance he earned. On June 27, 1950, President Truman committed US forces to stop North Korean incursion into South Korea. The draft would supply the manpower. The Selective Service did not aim directly at Moises, but after all deferments for age, schooling, and dependency were satisfied, he and those like him were sent to their misery at Chosin Reservoir and similar, hellish places to stop the encroachment of Communism. Moises had no legal dependents. He was not enrolled in college. No physical condition would preclude his being drafted. He was a field worker, not in a critical, high-paying job. So he was just what they needed. Mexicans seemed to satisfy the Selective Service requirements. While whites were deferred, the poor and people of color were drafted. Moises landed on the dry, desolate plains of Texas in a huge camp of wooden barracks, sand and wind. He had never been alone before amidst so many. He prayed, “Madre de Dios, help me so I do not cry. All the noise, the yelling, the gueros sergeants who call me bad names and show no respect. They shaved my head, took my clothes, and dressed me the same as all the rest, top to bottom, as a soldier. In shouted, English words, they told me when and where to sleep, to eat. They taught me to walk in a line called marching where I watched the back of the neck of the person in front of me. I saw sweat form and run down into his shirt collar. I guess the man behind me was seeing the same on my neck.” Moises’s prayer was interrupted when he spied Ricardo in his platoon. “Mi nombre es Ricardo, amigo. Mucho gusto. I’m glad to see another here like
me.” “For me too. Seeing you tells me I’m not alone here,” Moises said. Ricardo went on. “This wasn’t in my plan. I was in my last year of college when love came into my life. Hit me hard. I flunked out of school and the draft sent me here. I’ll finish up my education after this and I’m married. Here they want me to be a ‘lean, mean, killing machine.’ I cannot do that; that is not me or what I was raised to be. I’m in the wrong place.” Moises consoled his new friend saying, “Vato, we all are. Just keep your head down, your mouth closed, and this will be over and you can be paid to go to college by the VA.” As parishioners were filling the iglesia para La Misa, Moises was depressed recalling the tragedy he had brought to his friend, Ricardo. It was late in their basic training when the sergeant handed him a loaded firearm with the words, “Now you will be a killing machine.” It might as well have been a rattlesnake. Moises kept his hands by his side as his friend, Ricardo, stood next to him waiting his turn. The sergeant forced the weapon on Moises shouting in his face, “Take it, godammit, Spic, or you’re no use to us!” Moises put his hands out to repel the poisonous snake and his finger caught in the trigger guard. As the weapon hit the ground it exploded its bullet into Ricardo’s head. He would live but he would never see again. They put him in for a Purple Heart. After Mass, Moises’s kaleidoscope of thoughts settled as he looked out the window of his daughter’s house. He saw an older Chevy sedan creeping along the street then stopping at the curb. A smart-looking woman stepped out of the driver’s side and walked to the passenger side where she opened the door. A white cane poked out, preceding a smiling face with opaque dark glasses. The pair walked to the front door of the modest house and just as they started to knock Moises opened the front door. The smiling man raised his head and said, “My brother, Moises, I have something for you. We have a little time on our way back from Salinas to East LA.” “No, no, my brother. You must come in and stay for a while.” “No, we must go but here, this is for you. You deserve it. I receive lifetime benefits; you get nothing to compensate for your pain.” Ricardo dropped a small water-stained box into Moises’s hand. “The day of the accident you were the one wounded. This is yours.” Moises opened the box and held in his hand Ricardo’s Purple Heart.
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Happy 10th Anniversary International Institute of Chapala. Lily A. Ehlebracht, Ed.M, M.Ed.
This year marks the 10th Anniversary of the International Institute in Chapala, Jalisco. In our first years open, my team spent hours negotiating the 2020 mission and vision, debating where we wanted to go and the best ways to get there. There were many turns that we never expected,
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and a pandemic was at the bottom of that list. Originally Academia Internacional, or International Academy, our primary intention when we opened in 2011 was to train artists (writers, musicians, visual artists, etc.). However, a successful artist
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in any field is also a well-rounded person. As an educational institution, we found the idea of sacrificing instruction of core knowledge for artistic instruction to be irresponsible. We had to find a balance. Any citizen of the world needs certain basic knowledge and abilities to survive in today’s economy and society. Mathematics, reading comprehension and writing skills in both English and Spanish (especially important for our geographical area), critical thinking, oral presentation and debate skills, scientific method, and research and citation skills were areas of improvement that we identified immediately. Before the end of the first year, the International Institute’s focus had changed from arts academy with accreditation to give a high school diploma, to full high school with a strong arts program. In our first years, we chose names for our junior and senior high sections, with the intention to reflect proud moments Mexico has had in the international scene recently. Octavio Paz won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1990, and Alfonso García Robles won the Nobel in 1982 for his role in Latin American and Caribbean disarmament. Our view of being an international citizen has always meant knowing and respecting oneself and one’s own culture first; only then can one offer the best of oneself to mankind.
Today, this solid foundation in applicable, 21st century skills and dedication to correct implementation of best practices in pedagogy has provided our community the fortitude and adaptability to react successfully to the challenge with which the COVID-9 pandemic has presented us. Our teachers have continued to provide high-quality education to our students, transitioning almost seamlessly from in-person to virtual education with only Spring Break 2020 to act as preparation time for completely restructuring their curriculum, assessment methods, and pedagogical techniques. Over the last 11 months, our teachers have continued to refine their methods and attend professional development, and I am truly grateful for the tireless effort of the International’s teachers and administration both, to serve our students and parents. Many things set the International apart, but what I personally am most proud of, is the people. Our team is strong, adaptable, hard-working, and resilient. Our students are caring, adaptable, compassionate, ambitious, critical thinkers. It has been an honor to grow through and with this institution for the last decade, and I look forward to the years to come. Lily A. Ehlebracht
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Recalling Some College Capers By Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez
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here comes a time in our lives when we have a great deal more to remember than to anticipate, and in just such a mood I find myself dwelling on my college years, not that they were anything so special but still several notches above my high school years, wherein I managed to excel only in mechanical drawing, physical education and English. All else fell into the category “Distinctly Without Distinction.” That category would stalk me into the local college, where because I had an uncle who owned one of the largest testing labs in Texas and because
he had promised me a job upon graduation, I disastrously chose to major in geology, a field so foreign to my interests it might as well have been taught in Japanese. Luckily, the class was in a small amphitheater and I had a seat right next to a window; even luckier, the room was on a small incline and I had but to roll out the window and land on an expanse of grass only some five feet below. I would always wait until I had answered the roll call, and then quietly “bail out” as some of the others in the class would softly mutter “Geron-
imo,” which is the word parachutists traditionally yell as they “hit the silk.” Needless to say, I flunked out my first fall semester and then performed a flawless encore the following spring. A few months later, however, another relative came to my rescue, offering to finance yet another try at college, but only if I would enroll in an out-of-town college of her choice. I readily agreed, thinking a change would do me good. Little did I know what a mega-change was awaiting me. Texas A&M was then known as the largest military school in the world, as famous for its brutal hazing practices as for the vast number of officers it yearly provided to the armed forces of the United States. While West Point and the Naval Academy had graduating classes in the mid-hundreds, A&M classes were in the thousands. (It was once estimated that the majority of American officers on the beaches at Normandy in World War II had been A&M graduates.) Given such an environment, I turned to study in self-defense. But I was bored with the military exercises and often feigned one excuse after another to avoid such activities, including various medical maladies that had no mention in books on the general subject. One subject was very much on the minds of most cadets: girls. There were a few towns nearby with an above average amount of attractive young women, but still the demand far exceeded the supply. Some of these ladies were often booked for many weekends in advance. It was in such dire circumstances that I had a major stroke of luck. A fellow cadet had been restricted to quarters on weekends because of failing grades, and he most generously “gave” me (after several dollar bills had passed between us) his date the upcoming weekend. I had met her before, blonde, perky, pretty, and possessed with what some cadets called a “promising personality.” Sadly, on the “D-Day” in question, I
was showing off my “short-order rifle drill” skill to a couple of cadets when I lost momentary control of my M-1 rifle and the rifle’s stock struck the bone above my left eye. Almost instantly a large glob formed over my eye, and in acute pain I hobbled over to the nearest medical center. I must have looked even scarier than usual, with blood all over my face mixing with the purple of the bruise. In a voice I hoped sounded better than I knew that I looked, I politely muttered that I would like to see a doctor. Looking vastly amused, the middleaged nurse picked up a phone and said, “Doctor Wiseman, you’ll never guess who is here. AGAIN. It’s Cadet Grattan—and this time he’s even using makeup!” I still occasionally wonder what might have happened if I had managed to keep that date. Another lovely lady figured in my next memory. On a Corps trip to Dallas to attend an A&M football game against Southern Methodist University, I met a young lady who would years later become my wife. Thus swept away, I asked my aunt if I could transfer to SMU. The difference in tuition costs between a state university and a private one was staggering but because I had made very good grades at A&M, my wish was granted. SMU and Notre Dame football teams had met before, and though SMU had never won, the games had always been close. That year, both teams were in the Top Ten and headed for bowl games. Very late in the game, Notre Dame led by a small margin when the SMU quarterback, Don Meredith, who was to go on to a successful career in show business, had brought his team deep into Notre Dame territory when he pulled one of football’s oldest plays, the Statue of Liberty, in which the quarterback fades back to pass and a running back comes along behind to take the ball from him. Amazingly, this tired old play works and, with only seconds left to play, SMU had gone ahead of Notre Dame. It was then that a classmate of mine, Hugh Lampman, who later became a broadcasting legend in Dallas, rose to his feet and yelled out across the eerie silence, “I knew it, I knew it all along. God IS a Methodist!” And with that, the place absolutely fell apart. But of course, Notre Dame scored again in the fading moment of the game. So the denomination question will have to be decided another day. Alejandro GrattanDominguez
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COLUMNIST
PROFILING TEPEHUA By Moonyeen King President of the Board for Tepehua
moonie1935@yahoo.com
Ironing Out The Wrinkles In Tepehua’s 2021 Project
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he purpose of the project is to bring sanitation and health to Tepehua. Every barrio has the problem of disposing of human and animal waste. Those who live on the paved main streets with lights and City maintenance have plumbing access if they can afford to attach to it. Those living outside the main roads who are not on a City waste or water line or have utilities in their home, dump their sewage in the fields or anywhere they can expect nature to take care of the problem for them. Which it does after time with
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the help of cleanup crews like dung beetles who diligently roll up certain parts of the waste for food and parts for lining their home. Whatever is left behind is nature’s form of fertilizer and topsoil. This is recycling in nano-slow motion, and if we let nature take its course, we will be buried in our own waste and pollution. The heavy rains take care of the final clean out: the remaining waste gets washed away and finds itself in surface water and eventually seeps into the unmaintained wells that service not only the barrio but the town as well.
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Open defecation becomes everyone’s problem . . . and it is up to everyone to change it. The practical answer to the problem is portable toilets. Why portable toilets? The land which hugs the towns of Lakeside is fully taken, every lot has a title owner. Many people who have invested in barrio land on the outskirts of towns, like Chapala, have no intention of building; it is inheritance for their children. With no available lots to build communal toilets in the barrios, the task of cleaning up open defecation is impossible. If we “borrow” the land and in return pay their taxes, under a contract the owners can take back their land any time they need if they decide to build, and we take back our investment, namely, the portable unit, and place it somewhere else. The tax for one lot is $100 pesos a year, so it is far less costly for the community center to “rent” the lot than to buy a leasehold. Units come in all prices, sizes, and designs. There are also those that turn the waste into recycled fertilizer much faster than the beetle can, providing topsoil mix or soil for box gardening. In fact, it turns an environmental and health risk into an opportunity. The cost is doable, as portable toilets range from $500 USD to $2,000 USD per unit or double (male and female). The labor challenge would be just the same as for the 300 garafone a day reverse osmosis unit that sustains our Tepehua potable water plant. Some people said that there wouldn’t be people to run and maintain it. But they were wrong. The locals are waiting for a chance to change, learn and work, taking charge of providing for themselves. Everyone needs dignity, and defecating in public spaces is the most base act there is. Sustainability is another aspect. This has to be worked in phases. The first is finding the interested parties to invest in waste management,
and those who will lend their land to the project. The second phase will involve locating and installing the units. As it is all prefabricated, once set into motion, it should be accomplished fairly rapidly. Opportunity for business abounds. Like bagging the finished fertilizer and selling to the agricultural community as well as garden landscaping. Therein lies the sustainability. This is also a call for help in this project. If any of the readers out there are proficient in the area of portable toilets, the Tepehua Community Center would appreciate your help to get this off the ground, so to speak. We especially would like to identify the sales outlets for the actual units available in Guadalajara, that would start the breakdown and the base for fertilizer soil. We have a few but would like the whole range of choice. Knowing the range of prices at this time is also of importance. We are also surveying the community to find the areas where people congregate and the availability of vacant land. It is a community-led initiative to help the community help itself; everybody gains. In 3000 BC, the Romans built the first communal toilets for men. Pretty much like the steam houses, the men would sit and chat. It is unclear what the women did, it was probably the potty system: out the window into the moat. It is so incredible that in 2021 AD, we are still in need of toilets and waste control for the poor. Meanwhile, we put another Band-Aid on the fight for equality. Until we figure that out, let’s save our planet and our dignity . . . one barrio at a time, one street at a time, until we get it right. E-mail Moonie if you have experience you would like to share. You could make all the difference.
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Searching for Gurney By Jack Estes Review by Robert Drynan
(A Marine Veteran of Vietnam)
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his book is a unique effort that successfully ignores the usual dramatic arc. It is a kaleidoscopic series of vignettes of the experiences of three marines serving in Vietnam in 1968/9 and a North Vietnamese soldier. It details their experiences and the aftermath consequences. Estes conserves some of the elements of the arc. But It is not the typical exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution. The author employs copious flashbacks to flesh out the narrative which begins with a man’s return to his family after his service. Nevertheless, the quality of the writing is exceptionally high and Estes displays a gripping sense of authenticity in his descriptions of combat in Vietnam’s dense jungles and in its rural villages and rice paddies. He also describes poignantly the
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aftereffects on the protagonists. JT’s personal experiences at war and upon his return home may reflect more those of the author himself than those
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of Hawkeye and Coop with whom he shared an intense comradeship. The three friends had been assigned to a reconnaissance platoon that conducted independent patrols ferreting out Viet Cong hideaways. Hawkeye is black, a young delinquent arrested for assault and other misdemeanors in Chicago. The judge offered him the alternatives of jail or the Marine Corps. Hawkeye was escorted to the recruiter. It turns out that Hawkeye has a very high IQ and he had become bored with school and dropped out. That may have accounted for his many delinquencies. In boot camp his bright intelligence brought about a transformation and he decided that he had found his niche in life as a marine. Coop, like JT, was from Oregon. Both returned to the state after release from military hospitals. Their time after the Corps is a déjà vu trip for anyone intimately familiar with the state of Oregon. But Coop, in the Marine Corps, was an irrepressible rowdy among his comrades. Later, after his release from the hospital, he became unable to cope with his disabilities and the haunting memories of Nam. The resultant PTSD turns him into an alcoholic . . . and worse. Vuong plays an interesting coun-
terpoint role. The reader learns about how the Viets trained and operated. Vietnam was America’s first modern experience with asymmetrical warfare. Vuong was captured by marines and “defected” to become a Kit Carson Scout attached to the protagonists’ recon platoon. He later betrays marines into a Viet Cong ambush. Our three young jarheads survived, but were severely wounded, Hawkeye and Coop permanently disabled. Estes starts the book with JT’s return home to his wife and small child. JT displays the effects of PTSD. The reader follows the narrative as JT’s violently uncontrollable outbursts terrify his wife and drive her to divorce. His anguish over her loss consumes his daytime thoughts, while his experiences in battle and thoughts of lost comrades haunt his dreams at night. One question that hangs over the whole book is Gurney, the subject of its title. Gurney’s name appears as a passing remark in three parts of the story. His only active role is as a lieutenant temporarily assigned to the recon platoon in its last mission. He mysteriously disappears just before the final ambush. It is an unanswered question from start to finish. Why Gurney? Another thing that grates: the story is about MARINES, not “soldiers.” Soldiers are ARMY. No self-respecting marine would accept the epithet “soldier.” The word appears salted among various episodes as an alternative for “marine.” This is probably an oversight by the editor. The word “marine” figures on at the very least half of the book’s pages. In fact, the US Marine Corps might easily be considered a protagonist in the book. Despite the tragic outcomes of the three protagonists, pride in their Marine Corps comes through clearly. You antes up an’ you plays the cards you bin dealt. Robert Drynan
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In Pursuit Of A Dream By Janice Kimball
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was a young 59 when I moved from Detroit, Michigan, to Mexico’s central highlands. I bought a house on the outskirts of the town of Chapala and planted a tropical garden. It was the quiet time before they built Soriana, when cows wandering onto the highway, not traffic jams, were a major source of conversation. A time before I needed to consult my calendar to plan the day. My rescued street dog, long and lanky, named Dulce, five goldfish, and the cat I had been in love with until he ate my cockatoo completed this idyllic setting. The only thing missing was a man. Having not yet learned that you can’t find love by searching, my nails painted electric blue to match my eye shadow, I went out in search of it. In my camioneta (pickup truck), I bounced down the cobblestone streets that led to Avenida Pepe Guizar where I was to turn left at the traffic light onto the carretera. My goal was the California restaurant, sure to be filled with expatriates getting in touch with their souls while eating turkey dinner, the restaurant’s Thursday special. My elbow leaned out the window as I waited for the light to turn green. I was awestruck when my perfect man rode up alongside me on his horse, his steed prancing in time to the mariachi music playing over the truck’s radio. With a grin and bravado, he tipped
his sombrero and blew me a kiss. Our eyes locked in dreamy contemplation. I wanted the moment to last forever, but our fate was intervened by the sound of a car’s horn beeping in protest as it pulled up behind us. This startled the horse that then took off in a gallop, turning right at the street that led to the back entrance of the bullring, instead of us, in stride, making that left turn together. Surely my charro wasn’t gone forever, I thought later as I chewed on a slice of turkey thigh at the California, although I had ordered white meat. The following Thursday, I passed through our intersection again and again, as if by willing, my charro to reappear. As I sat at the red light, finally ready to give up, a panting dog with long legs strode up beside my pickup. Why, that dog is the spitting image of Dulce, I thought. He jumped up and stuck his head though the truck window. I cringed when drips from his panting tongue splashed on my knee and ran down my leg. It was only when his nose pressed upon mine, that I realized that the dog was Dulce. He must have gotten out while I went to close the gate and had been running behind me. I opened the door before the light turned green. With one long leap, he jumped over me and settled into the passenger seat, and we drove home. His snoring at the foot of the bed that night woke me from a sweet dream, so I got up to raid the cookie jar. Dulce rose too, as he had guessed my intention. When I reached over to give him his cookie, I noticed the petal of a flower blossom hanging from a hair on his lower lip. I hated it when he ate my azaleas. Yet, when I reflect on the magic of my life, it is with a smile. After all, I don’t need to have a man to fall in love. I know that for sure, because I have fallen in love with Mexico. Janice Kimball
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Whiskey Dan And The South Seas Princess By Steve Griffin
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“
he’s been around the block,” Whiskey Dan said to his two cronies seated beside him on their bench in the park next to the train depot. He said this in reference to the woman who had just walked by. Davie Lewellyn was only seven and had no idea what Whiskey meant. He had followed Whiskey to the park, because he always gave him a dime, sometimes a quarter if he stuck around long enough. Even if he hadn’t, the boy loved listening to his stories. The old man had lived an exciting life, filled with more adventures and famous people than any book the boy had ever read, more than in any movie he had ever seen. He had played baseball
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against Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb, even struck out the Babe with his famous looper pitch that only he could throw because of his crooked finger, broken by a bullet—or an arrow—in one of the many battles he had fought. He only played a single game with the Cubs, because the baseball commissioner had outlawed his looper pitch since he deemed it unhittable and therefore bad for baseball. He’d gone on after that to charge up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders, then gone out West to fight with Doc Holliday and the Earp brothers at the O.K. Corral, in Tombstone. There was no place in the world he had not visited and in all of them he had
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experienced thrilling, often harrowing adventures. He’d barely escaped cannibals in Africa, mounting and riding away on an elephant he’d befriended years before. He’d only been one step ahead of headhunters in Borneo, or maybe it was New Zealand. It didn’t matter to the boy. He loved all his amazing tales and marveled at this man and his adventures. Blackie, one of the other two men, chuckled at what Whiskey Dan had said about the woman, and interjected, “Around the block? Hell, Whiskey, she’s probably been around the world.” All the men chuckled until they snorted and spat tobacco juice on the ground. Big Bob (Davie didn’t understand why they called him that since he was no taller than him and skinny as a rail) added, “I know what you mean, Blackie. She just had that look. You can always tell. When she walked away in that tight skirt, it looked like two tomcats tied up together in a gunny sack.” They all laughed, snorted, and spat again. Dan bit off a fresh chaw and chewed a minute, then said, “She reminded me of the girls in the South Seas, the way she walked like she knew she was the most beautiful thing in the world, and she knew any man would do almost anything to have a taste of her.” Blackie said, “I know just what you’re saying, Whiskey, I surely do. And it’s not just the way they look or move that makes us crazy, it’s the way they smell too. When she walked by, I smelled lilacs, but something even better than flowers underneath, the smell of a woman.” “Yeah,” Big Bob added. “I smelled it too, like a field of mushrooms after a rain, something earthy, but clean, like the smell of the ocean approached through a grove of damp eucalyptus trees, or maybe like—” Whiskey interrupted, “Never knew you to be so much of a poet, Big. Must have been a long time since you’ve had your nose close to anything female, except for that mangy dog of yours, to get
so worked up over a woman’s smell, not that it’s not a mighty fine thing indeed.” “Speaking of smells,” Blackie put in, “Big, your aroma would keep any woman as far away from you as humanely possible.” Blackie and Whisky chortled and spat. Big Bob sputtered. “I haven’t seen either of you two with a woman lately.” Whiskey replied, “Big, that’s because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. But if you must know, you remember the widow Brady, who lived across the street from me last year before she moved to Florida to be with her daughter? Well, suffice it to say I painted a smile on that woman’s face a mortician would have been proud of.” “I remember the widow,” Blackie said. “She walked with kind of a lopsided limp, used a cane, as I recall.” “Well, she might have walked that way after spending a night with me. A man with my appetite can be mighty hard on a woman, mighty hard if you get my drift.” Big said, “I get your drift, you big liar. The only thing hard about you is your head.” He and Blackie held their sides and rocked back with laughter. “Here’s a dime Davie,” Whiskey said. “Why don’t you run along and get you a sody pop.” As Davie walked away, he heard Whiskey say, “Yeah, she reminded me of those girls down in the South Seas, except they all walked around as naked as jaybirds, their beautiful brown breasts just winking at you as they jiggled. Well, one of those bare-breasted beauties walked up to me and cupped a breast in each hand like she was making an offering of two plump birds, and I was the god she was sacrificing them to. She was the chief’s youngest daughter, and by the laws and mores of her tribe we were considered to be man and wife. I was informed, as the chief’s son-in-law, I would be expected to lead the tribe’s army into the upcoming battle, scheduled for the next morning at sunrise. And, well, you know me, boys. I’m more of a lover than a fighter, so just before the sun came up the next morning, I snuck out of the honeymoon hut, untied a canoe, and paddled off toward a nearby island I remembered seeing before my shipwrecked. I had barely left the shore, but what did I see? The entire invading enemy army coming straight at me waving their spears and war clubs and screaming the most bloodthirsty war cries I had ever heard, and me with nothing for a weapon but a single paddle. I said to myself, ‘Whiskey, you’ve been in some tight spots, but this may be the tightest yet.’” Davie froze, all thoughts of the cold strawberry Nehi forgotten. He just had to hear how Whiskey got out of this one.
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Love And The Comforter Conundrum by Bob Faubert
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ove is eternal, but it finds inventive ways to reveal itself. Not so many years ago when people preferred to shop in malls, a good sale could draw many customers. A comforter sale at the bed-and-bath department in a mall north of Denver was such an event. The department stocked a variety of comforter designs and displayed its best sellers, all unfolded, flat against a wall so shoppers could admire their splendor. Designs included florals, geometric, rustic, cabin, modern, and several other looks. The store opened at nine. The first customers wandered in at ten. Just before eleven o’clock a couple in their late twenties entered. The husband, Jason, had strong arms that he flexed as he strolled into the department. His mind was elsewhere. “We won’t be here long, will we?” he said to his wife, Amanda,
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who was leading the way. “I want to check out the home gym department. They’re doing a sale on treadmills.” “This won’t take long,” Amanda replied with haste as she looked up to the wall that exhibited all those comforters. She reached out her arm as she evaluated each design. Jason looked at a couple of the comforters then proceeded to do some waist bends, effortlessly touching his toes, while Amanda continued the search. “That one,” she said, now point-
El Ojo del Lago / March 2021
ing with a bright smile as she pictured the comforter cloaking their bed. “I like that one.” Her comforter of choice had a subtle floral design featuring some tiger lilies and bluebells. In just a beat Jason arose from his routine and responded, “I don’t think so. I don’t want anything with flowers.” Amanda’s smile dissipated at once. Jason rejoined Amanda to look at other comforters, both against the wall and placed on the department display counters. With his prodding they bought a country style comforter with no hint of a flower for 40 percent off. While Amanda said the usual polite things one says to a salesperson, she never made eye contact. Half an hour later another underthirty couple arrived at the bed-andbath department, Cody and Emma, side by side. “Bed and bath,” Cody said. “What do they sell here?” Emma replied, “Things for those two rooms. Towels and necessities for the bathroom, and for the bedroom, pillows, blankets, sheets, and what I want to look for–comforters.” “What’s a comforter?” Cody asked. “It’s that top bed covering that goes over everything else,” Emma explained. “Can I go to the tool department?” Cody implored. “We can go there next,” Emma answered. “I want you to feel okay with what we get here.” Cody turned Emma so that they were face to face, placed his hands gently on each of Emma’s arms, drew her close to him, looked directly into her sparkling blue eyes, and said with sincerity, “Not to worry, love. Get anything you want. Whatever makes you happy.” Emma caught herself blushing. They migrated to the comforter wall. Emma had her hands on her hips as she perused the options. With purposeful intent, they paced down the aisle, giving each comforter an evaluation. “There we go,” Emma announced beaming with joy, “that one there. It’s perfect.” Emma’s selection featured mostly bold stripes with a dash of sun flowers. “Nope,” Cody replied, “I ain’t slee-
pin’ under no flowers.” Emma gasped, about-faced, and dashed out of the department while she muttered something incoherent. Cody chased behind. A half hour before closing a third couple arrived, this duo more sixty-plus in age, Fred and Margaret. Margaret led the way with Fred close behind. Margaret looked right at home. A pert smile betrayed that she knew what everything in the department was. Fred appeared bewildered, scanning the environment with caution as if he were a lost puppy on a spaceship. They sauntered together to the comforter wall. Margaret took her time as she looked over the many designs. Fred followed with unease near Margaret, taking only hasty glances at the comforters. “Oh, look at that, sweetheart. Such a beautiful one; like the one my mother had,” Margaret proclaimed while pointing out the comforter that displayed the biggest and most plentiful flowers, having enormous roses and chrysanthemums splashed all over it in bright reds and yellows and green. At once Fred looked up to the comforter and said, “Yeah, sure.” In the next minute they bought the flower-filled comforter with a 30 percent discount. As they walked out of the department, were it not for the package Fred was carrying, they would have been holding hands. The End Bob Faubert retired as a data analyst in 2021. He holds master’s degrees from Boston College in Counseling Psychology, and The Ohio State University in Healthcare Administration. Born in Boston and now in Kingman, Arizona, Faubert also lived in Colorado, Ohio, and Rapid City, South Dakota. He directed marketing efforts and was an actor with a local community theater company during his time in the Black Hills. He is a widower and has a daughter and grandson. Bob Faubert
Crash Course In Life Extension For God’s sake hurry up and do something to stem the slide from cradle to grave. Eat more broccoli shun hotdogs and sweets take vitamins and probiotics pray exercise night and day stretch meditate walk in a pine forest love nurture a cat or orchid use hormones stay sexual attempt prayer be here now say OM inhale count your blessings count your steps love yourself as much as you love your neighbor worship the ground you walk on keep a joy journal pray, meditate, listen own less, much less talk to your children exhale love and if you’ve tried it all and nothing holds back time then emulate that French woman who lived so long she thought God had forsaken her: puff cigars, sip wine, eschew exercise till your dying day
Margaret Van Every
Saw you in the Ojo 51
The Ojo Crossword
Revenge is Astonishing By Keira Morgan
A
ACROSS
DOWN
1 Express indifference 6 Gobs 10 Sward 13 Hurt 15 Guilty or not 16 Central processing unit 17 Colorless person 18 Thick drink 19 To Afflict 20 Knots 22 Wood varnish 24 Dueling sword 26 Carved Polynesian Image 28 Unpunctual 29 ___ Estaire 30 Volcanic rock 31 Insertion mark 32 Stamping tool 33 Ethereal 34 Add up 35 Rests 37 Cigarette ingredient 41 Put on 42 Hold it there 43 Expression of surprise 44 European country 47 Black 48 U.S. Air Force 49 Support for Structure 50 Finland denizen 51 Guitar finger marker 52 Fixed after damage 54 Festive Occasion 56 Bard’s before 57 Pacific Island 59 Cannoneer 63 Goof 64 Small bird 65 Lazy 66 Place 67 Air (prefix) 68 With ears
1 Resort 2 Movie 2001’s talking computer 3 Bone 4 Unified 5 Jinn 6 Typing rate 7 Mainland State 8 Headquarters of British India 9 Fill 10 Fully Described by a Number 11 Derivative of opium 12 Euphonious 14 Buck’s mate 21 Heavenly lights 23 Horse-like animal 24 Canal 25 Rind 27 Wall plant 29 Former president of U.S. 30 Legal claim to property 31 Island nation 33 Neuron end 34 In the near future 36 Bye 37 Sandal 38 Court suit 39 Gab 40 Klutz 42 Compass point 44 Larks 45 Capital of South Dakota 46 Fat cartoon character 47 Goes with or 48 Muse of Astronomy 50 Widen 51 Musical instrument 53 Midwestern state 55 Past 58 Spanish “one” 60 Neither’s partner 61 Compass point 62 Crimson
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El Ojo del Lago / March 2021
ll my life I have mourned my lack of musical talent. It is particularly galling because my father, sister, and three brothers can all sing. Two play musical instruments. I was the ugly duckling quacking in our family chorus of birdsong. It was the splinter in the sandal of my childhood summers. In our large, communal summer cottage filled with our clan-family of cousins, the adults entertained us 20-odd kids with singsongs. While they played everything from the piano to spoons, we sang. I knew the words to all the songs, so I contributed at the top of my lungs. No one wanted to stand near me. My cousins were scolded for putting their hands over their ears. “She is having fun,” they were told. As time passed, I grew ashamed. In grade four, the piano teacher refused to keep teaching me, telling my parents it was a waste of their money and his time. In grade six, our teacher told me to mouth the words at the Christmas concert so that I didn’t ruin the class performance. By the time I reached adulthood, I sang when I was alone— in the shower or driving to work. Otherwise, I kept my dream of being Joan Baez for my next life. Until one day, bemoaning my secret sorrow to a voice teacher I’d just met, she said, “Nonsense, tone deafness doesn’t exist. I can teach anyone to sing.” The memory of a lifetime of jeers, mockery, and rejection flooded my
body. “Oh yeah, I said. “Well, you haven’t tried to teach me.” That led to the watershed event of my life. For a time, I resisted her blandishments until she made an irresistible suggestion. Once a week she coached a small group. She offered me twice-weekly free lessons, if I would join their weekly practice. She persuaded me by setting a six-week time limit, after which we would reassess. I still don’t know why I agreed—a secret fantasy that the right teacher could sprinkle fairy dust and voilà? When the maestra first heard me sing, she flinched. Then she gave me exercises to practice daily. I did. Several times a day. I was obsessed. My husband bought earplugs. After six weeks, I could sing one song in tune—as long as I stood beside the group’s strongest singer. When I arrived on the last evening, to my astonishment the maestra’s living room was filled with lights, cameras, and a filming crew. No one explained anything but our little group sang our song three times as the crew filmed. Then, a man interviewed us. After everyone left, my maestra and I agreed she had proved her point and we could both gracefully conclude the experiment. The next day, several of my colleagues congratulated me on my TV debut. That was the moment that I discovered our little group had appeared on Canada’s prime time national news—CBC’s “The News at Six.” Because my father, an avid news buff, had taped it, I finally saw the clip. The host had chosen my interview as the centerpiece for his spot. So, in the opening shots of the group singing, the camera slowly panned in onto my face. Of all my family, I alone have sung on national TV. It was the pinnacle of my singing career: fifteen seconds of national musical glory. It left me with a sense of sweet—albeit astonished—vindication.
Saw you in the Ojo 53
Service - EL OJO DEL LAGO Tel. 376 765-3676
Pag: 50
* ANIMAL CLINICS/PET SHOP - CLINICA VETERINARIA SAN ANTONIO Pag: 07 Tel: 376 766-0808 - LAKESIDE FRIENDS OF THE ANIMALS AC Pag: 19 Tel: 376 765-5544 - MASKOTA’S LAKE Pag: 36 Tel: 376 766-0287, 33-3448-2507 - PET PLACE Pag: 08 - PET SITTING Pag: 49
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El Ojo del Lago / March 2021
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Pag: 28, 44
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Pag: 51 Pag: 32
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Pag: 12 Pag: 41
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Pag: 16
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Pag: 21
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Pag: 42
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Pag: 28
Pag: 09
Pag: 33
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- CASA TRES LEONES Cell: 331-350-6764
Pag: 03
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Pag: 14
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DIRECTORY
* COACHING
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directory.chapala.com
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EMERGENCY NUMBERS EMERGENCY HOTLINE 911 CRUZ ROJA 376 765-2308, 376 765-2553 FIRE DEPARTMENT 376 766-3615 POLICE Ajijic 376 766-1760 Chapala 376 765-4444 La Floresta 376 766-5555
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* RENTALS/PROPERTY MANAGEMENT - COLDWELLBANKER CHAPALA REALTY Pag: 50 Tel: 376 766-1152 - FOR RENT Pag: 40 Cell: 333-667-6554 - FOR RENT Pag: 28 Cell: 33-1115-6584 - SANTANA RENTALS AND REAL ESTATE Tel: 315-351-5167, 315-108-3425 Pag: 32 - VILLAS DEL SOL Pag: 51 Tel: 376 766-1152
* RESTAURANTS / CAFES /BAR - AJIJIC TANGO Tel: 376 766-2458 - CASA LINDA Tel: 376 108-0887 - GO BISTRO Cell: 33-3502-6555 - LA TAVERNA Tel: 376-766-2848 - MANIX Tel: 376 766-0061 - MOM’S DELI & RESTAURANT Tel: 376 765-5719 - YVES Tel: 376 766-3565 - ZARANDEADO PERO FELIZ
* SCHOOL - INSTITUTO INTERNACIONAL Tel: 376 688-0004
Pag: 38
* SOCIAL ORGANIZATIONS - LOS NIÑOS DE CHAPALA Y AJIJIC Tel: 376 765-7032 - SCHOOL FOR SPECIAL CHILDREN Tel: 333-808-5337
Pag: 49
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Pag: 07
* SOLAR ENERGY
Pag: 24
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Pag: 37
Pag: 55 Pag: 45
Pag: 43
Pag: 45
* TAXI / TRANSPORTATION
Pag: 03 Pag: 14 Pag: 47
Pag: 10 Pag: 39
- OMAR MEDINA Cell: 33-1281-2818 - TAXI-Arturo Fernandez Cell: 333-954-3813
Pag: 48 Pag: 49
* TREE SERVICE - CHAPALA TREE SERVICE Tel: 376 762-0602, Cell: 33-1411-0242
Pag: 46
* TOURS
Pag: 37 Pag: 35 Pag: 25
- CHARTER CLUB TOURS Tel: 376-766-1777
Pag: 07
* WATER
Pag: 34 - TECNO AQUA Tel: 376 766-3731, 376 688-1038
* SATELLITES/ T.V. - AJIJIC ELECTRONICS S.A. DE C.V. Tel: 376 766-1117, 376 766-3371
Pag: 44
* SPA / MASSAGE Pag: 58
* RETIREMENT/REST/NURSING HOMES - ALICIA’S CONVALESCENT Tel: 376 766-1194, 376 766-2999 - CASA LA VIDA REAL Cell: 33-2174-1180, 33-1629-9219 - CASA ANASTASIA - Care Home Tel: 376 765-5680 - CASA NOSTRA-Nursing Home Tel: 376 765-3824, 376765-4187 - NURSING HOME LAKE CHAPALA S.C. Tel: 376 766-0404 - VIDA BELLA SEÑIOR RESIDENCE Tel: 376-765-4000
- SHAW SATELLITE SERVICES Tel: 33-1402-4223
Pag: 46
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Saw you in the Ojo 55
CARS
FOR SALE: Jeep CJ5 1976, Rebuilt motor, trans, and transfer case. New brakes holley demon carb new suspension y mucho mucho mas. $150,000 pesos. Send PM. FOR SALE: VW Combi. Mexican made/ plated, 1982, in running condition. Tires are good, just had new front bench seat & retractable seat belts put in. New front wheel bearings & brake lines. 65,000 pesos For more info call Barb 332-211-6209 WANTED: Looking for a vehicle with u.s plates, let me know if you need a vehicle that you need brought back to the states! I will be arriving in Chapala on the 27th, and need the vehicle for sometime around then. Preferably a van or SUV. Ranging from 2,000-5,000 u.s dollars. My name is Isabella, you can contact me by phone (952)-334-4324 or email babamcgarry@gmail.com WANTED: Used pop up camper trailer in good condition. bethelbarnes40@gmail.com FOR SALE: 2009 Hyundai Elantra. 60,000 actual miles, 4 door, Current american plates, $3000USD. Available mid-ApriL. Call (703)864-4474 between Noon and Midnight.
COMPUTERS
FOR SALE: Epson stylus PRO 3800 printer, Beautiful color or BW prints, up to 17 x 22, needs some repair, original cost $1300. I am no longer using it, my walls are full. Price $250 or best offer. Call 376 766 3398 FOR SALE: Canon Pixma MX870 Give away. This is an excellent multi purpose printer. When I was working it was great. Now I do not use it often enough to justify the purchase of the color cartridges need to print occasional black and white. Free to anyone who can use it. Uses Canon ink and cartridges only. FOR SALE: Never used HP US keyboard $40. 376 766-1155 FOR SALE: For Sale: Two (2) Like-New In Box 27inch Dell Full HD 1920x1080 Monitors & Blue Light Protectors. Experience consistent colors across virtually any viewing angle. Optimize eye comfort with a flicker-free screen. Stylish look fits perfectly in any dorm room, home or small office environment. Simple, styl-
ish design with the thin glossy bezels, matte screen and sturdy base for a clean, sleek look. Work and play the way you like, comfortably. Enjoy sharp, clear graphics with AMD Free Sync technology support which helps eliminate screen tearing. Connects easily to your computer and comes with Dell’s high reliability promise. Enjoy easy compatibility with both legacy and current PCs via VGA and HDMI connectivity. Also included with each monitor: Blue Light Monitor Screen Protector Panel, which protects your eyes from harmful blue light emission. Original paperwork and boxes included (just like new). $3,000 pesos for EACH or $5,000 pesos for BOTH (firm/nonnegotiable). Please CALL 3O3-828-7876 (US Phone #) between 8am-8pm. You can also text the above number on whatsapp. FOR SALE: I have two Netgear Routers for sale. #1 is a Wireless N300 Modem Router DGN 2200. Built-in DSL modem - ADSL2+ modem and router combined create complete gateway for DSL Internet connection. Fast downloads and online gaming - Provides Wireless-N speed for simultaneous downloads. Share Internet connection - Allows Internet broadband sharing and the freedom of wireless Internet usage. Shared storage ReadySHARE provides fast and easy shared access to an external USB storage device. Easy setup - Smart Wizard CD with graphical installation guide and multi-language support. Asking 500 pesos. #2 is a Netgear AC1450 Smart WiFi Router. The NETGEAR AC1450 Smart WiFi Router with 802.11ac dual band Gigabit delivers next generation Gigabit WiFi speeds. It allows you to connect more devices throughout your home and is perfect for online gaming and video streaming. Compatible with next generation WiFi devices and backward compatible with 802.11 a/b/g/n devices, it enables HD streaming throughout your home. With up to 450+975 Mbps† speed and simultaneous dual band WiFi technology, the AC1450 avoids wireless interference, ensuring top WiFi speeds and reliable connections. In addition, Beamforming+ technology boosts speed, reliability and range of WiFi connections. This technology also provides the best connectivity
The Ojo Crossword
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El Ojo del Lago / March 2021
for dual band wireless devices like iPad® and iPhone5®. The dual-core 800 MHz processor delivers high-performance connectivity, while the USB 3.0 port provides up to 10X faster USB hard drive access. Asking 1200 pesos. Phone 376-765-2698. WANTED: Looking to buy Spanish laptop in good condition, Our #4 Oaxaca student will need a laptop soon so I’m looking to buy her a MS based Spanish language laptop. Two to three years old, 14 inch screen or larger. If you have one you want to sell please let me know.
GENERAL MERCHANDISE
FOR SALE: Bowflex weight machine, good condition. $200 US originally $1500, 376 766-1155 WANTED: Looking for pair of BOWFLEX DUMB BELLS. Contact Michael at shalombewell@gmail.com FOR SALE: DeLonghi dual propane ceramic and/or radiant electric heater with fan. Multiple heat outputs. 10L tank. 1700 pesos. 331-944-2955 FOR SALE: Set of six place settings mixed designs fish and roosters. Dinner and salad plate, pasta bowl, dessert plate and mug included in each place setting. Some serving pieces, as well coordinating color glassware either in green or cobalt blue available. Ranging in price from $40 per place setting to $5-$40 on individual pieces and coordinating glassware. FOR SALE: Set of 4 martini or margarita glasses.Perfect condition, gorgeous shade of chartreuse or pistachio green. Perfect fir special desserts also. $35 US 376 766-1155. FOR SALE: ROKU PREMIER + 4K & HDR Streaming. Model 4630X. Used, like new. Call 333 444 7868. $1000 MXN FOR SALE: Toilet seat extender. 5in high with handles and easy lock. Used like new. $1100 MXN. Call 331 065 9193 FOR SALE: Set of 8 cobalt blue stemmed water or wine glasses. $75 US. Perfect condition. Set of 8 grass green wine goblets, perfect $50 US. Set of 4 grass green margarita-martini glasses $35 perfect condition. FOR SALE: Day of the Dead Catrina Dishes. Set of 8 brite red and white Catrina plates and pasta bowls. Coordinating fruit/dessert plates and serving pieces also in red and white, 6 mugs and 4 espresso cups. Priced from $5 to $30 each depending on pieces. Dishes and pasta bowls sold as set. From Sandrina’s in Bucerias. marybragg47@gmail.com FOR SALE: 4 designs: charros, catrinas, fish, chickens. Dinner and salad plates, soup bowls, mugs and saucers/dessert plates, platters and serving bowls. From $5 US TO $50 Us depending on piece. marybragg47@gmail. com FOR SALE: Beautiful Mexican tiled round table Measures 102 cm across by 44 cm high. 3500 pesos, can deliver. FOR SALE: Triangular glass dining table is 3/4 ‘thick and has a ‘dove breast’ bevel. The base was custom made and it comes with either two or three classic chairs of mesquite wood and leather. Pictures available asking: $8500 pesos phone: 3328079936, email fieges@icloud.com FOR SALE: I have two Samsung Galaxy Note 5 smart phones for sale. They are in excellent condition, no scratches, always kept in Caseology cases, new batteries in both 1 year ago. Styluses included. These are great phones with excellent call quality. 2,000 pesos each. PM if interested. FOR SALE: Large mirror with no frame 65 inches x 43 inches x 1/4 inch thick. Removed from bathroom wall and ready to pick up. 1500 pesos. 376-766-4032 FOR SALE: N’Espresso Lattisima One Espresso Cappuccino Maker, and 10 sleeves of coffee, hardly used. Great little machine.
$100 US for machine and I will give you the coffee as a gift. marybragg47@gmail.com WANTED: I just returned from visiting my mom in the U.S. There were many trees abundant with citrus... picked lots and made a few batches of marmalade from Kumquats, oranges and lemons. I am wondering if someone might have any citrus tree with left over fruit I could pick. I would be happy to give a couple jars after its made. I remember seeing a tangerine tree loaded with fruit some years ago... the gardener said I could have as much as I wanted... wasn’t making marmalade then so I picked 2!!!Please email: jwk063@gmail. com FOR SALE: Pro-Form Pro 1000 Treadmill in excellent condition. Folds up. Has built in fan. Manual included. Inclines and includes preset programs. Three years old. Bought it for 25,000. pesos. Selling for 18,000. pesos. FOR SALE: Kitchen items for sale in very good (working) condition. Priced individually or take all three for $500mxn. 332-617-3588 or DM me. Proctor Silex wide 2 slot toaster $100mxn. Bella Electric Panini Press & Sandwich grill $150mxn. T-fal Actifry Air Fryer $400mxn. FOR SALE: Beautiful dining table and 8 matching chairs. Large table is 63x63 inches, clean lines, dark wood. Chairs are upholstered in dark brown Naugahyde. In excellent condition. Must sell because it is too large for our apartment. $12.000 pesos OBO. Call to come see: 33 34 83 9200 FOR SALE: 2 hobby life jackes-one womens-other mans, us divers snorkel , fins-one pair womens- size 6 1/2-8, us divers googles womens-pacifica, orginal safty dive float with flag, all fits in bag and for storage a hefty crate ,all items for sale at a great price were bought in hawii at costo. Contact norm at 331 431 7264.1,000 pesos. FOR SALE: Large Travatine table with beautiful rod iron base for sale. 42x96”. Seats 8 comfortably. $22,000 pesos. Chairs also available. Call Norm at 331 431 7264. FOR SALE: CPAP for Sale. Resmed Machine is in Excellent condition and has not been used for over a year. Includes CPAP machine, humidifier, 2 hoses, ma sk with no straps, manual and carrying case. $3500p. Brand new in the Package sealed full Ma sk Factory sealed size small. $2500p. Wayne wears a small. FOR SALE: 4-Feet Satellite Dish. Available for pick up only, located in Ajijic. For more info call me at 3221499217 It includes everything necessary to install it WANTED: We want your used tool batteries, that have gone dead, and battery chargers you no longer use., That are sitting around your workshop. We will be teaching the students to rebuild battery packs soon, New batteries are so expensive. Please also consider donating that tool you no longer use because the battery is dead , and the battery pack to expensive to buy to fix it. We need four used battery powered drills for the students. By helping the environment and rebuilding your old battery pack, we can get the tools we need. Specially the names Dewalt, Milwaukee, Makita, etc. Pleased drop them off at the Have Hammer Will Travel woodworking school. 376 766 4830, next to S&S auto in Riberas del Pilar. WANTED: Please contact us if you have a billiard table for sale in the Ajijic area. Stephanie at 33 1526 5943 or stephanie@le-st-hilaire.com FOR SALE: coffee table: Beautiful, large, bevelled, glass top, coffee table. 164 cm x 108 cm. Pictures available. $4,600 pesos. 376766-4976 FOR SALE: Refrigerator water filters. 2 unused RFC 0900A water filters by One Purify. These fit Kitchen Aid, Whirlpool, Jen-Air, May-
tag, Amana, etc. Please check your fridge’s water filter spec. $200 mxn for both. Please call 332-617-3588 or send a DM. FOR SALE: Roche CoaguChek XS Meter for checking the INR value (International Normalized Ratio) from a drop of capillary whole blood - simple, precise and reliable. Item only used a few times. 500 pesos. 376-766-4389 or 333-116-0996. WANTED: Porter cable router wanted used, with 1/4 1/2 collett. Have Hammer will travel A.C. school woodworking school needs one for next semester, old not working well. Prefer donation, can buy if in good working condition. We have a volunteer who will donate funds if needed. HHWT school. 376-766-4830 or stop by school and contact Mark for router or Wayne. Have Hammer Will Travel A.C. woodworking school next S&S auto in Riberas. www.havehammer.org 501c3 tax deduction for donation if needed any size Ok. WANTED: DVD or VHS, 1945, Tomorrow is Forever. Orson Wells. Please PM me. FOR SALE: Here is a super heavy duty dolly (hand truck) that we just brought down from the U.S. It has 4-ply pneumatic tires to cushion the load over rough terrain and a strong, durable carbon steel frame. It has a “D” handle to facilitate 1-hand operation. 800 lb (approx. 365 kilo) capacity. Like-new condition! Works perfectly. Excellent for moving or just moving lots of boxes. $2,000 Pesos (firm/ non-negotiable). Please CALL 3O3-828-7876 (US Phone #) between 8am-8pm You can also text the above number on whatsapp. (If you are reading this, it’s still available)
FOR SALE: Nearly NEW Top-Of-The-Line Air Purifier - Two Units Available. Improve air quality in your home or office with a professional quality Healthway Deluxe Air Purifier. Want to clear the smell of cigarette smoke, household stale air, or reduce pet odors? Does anyone in your household suffer from allergies, pollen/chemical sensitivities, hay fever, or asthma? Originally cost $1,500 US ($60,000 Pesos) and worth every penny!! You will not find a better air purifier ANYWHERE! Almost new, in service for only two months. Great deal at $16,000 Pesos EACH. We have two units available. $30,000 Pesos for both. Please CALL 3O3-828-7876 (US Phone #) between 8am-8pm (If you are reading this, it’s still available). FOR SALE: Propane gas hoses. 4 foot hose from BBQ to Propane gas tank 200 pesos. 8 foot hose that attaches to a propane tap. 250 pesos 376-766-4032. FOR SALE: Foldable electric wheelchair. Smart Chair.Can be put in trunk of a car by a man, (40 pounds) Excellent condition. My husband’s handicapped outran his ability to operate chair. $1800 USD. mansfieldmex@ gmail.com FOR SALE: I have a Yamaha RX-V363 HD receiver for sale. No longer need. Work great. Click link to get full info of product. https://www. cnet.com/products/yamaha-rx-v363-black/ asking 7000 pesos. Tel. 376-765-2698 FOR SALE: Dyson Cyclone V-10 Vaccun CleanerFantastic cleaner for all surfaces. Comes with a ton of attatchments and wall mounted re-charging dock. The only reason
we’re selling it is we hired a new house keeper and she prefers a broom! We paid $17,000 pesos and the asking price is $6000 pesos...firm! More information, call Rick at 331-4423930 FOR SALE: Portable Scanner with Auto Feed Docking Station. Color or Black & White. Copies JPEG or PDF. Max 1200 dpi. Comes with a 16 GB Micro S.D. Card. Like new and only used several times. Works like NEW. Asking 2,000.00 Pesos. Call, 376-765-2698 FOR SALE: SALE OR TRADE. THE PRACTICE T.V. SERIES. I would like Season 7 on DVD of The West Wing. 1988jeopardychampion@gmail.com FOR SALE: 2 burner Charbroil gas bbq brought down from the States. Works well. $3,700 pesos. 376-106-2204. FOR SALE: King headboard 86 in wide and 57 in tall $800 pesos Now $700. Please PM. 2 two drawer nightstands. 23in wide 15in deep and 25in high. $700 pesos each Now $600 each! FOR SALE: Palos de golf surtidos, Taylor made driver 10.5 matrix ozik felx m con cubierta original $1,980, 1 Jet speed taylor made 10.5 ajustable flex r/49 gramos matrix $2,150, 1 Taylor made sldr 460 fade draw 10.5 speeder 57 flex r 57 gramos fujikura, 1 Ttaylor made rbz flex r 65 gramos, 1 bolsa de palos de golf completa. *Todo se encuentra en excelentes condiciones *aceptamos ofertas, para más informes 3314317368 mikenan@prodigy.net. mx FOR SALE: Turquoise Atlantic 4 wheel spinner suitcase pull up handle, All zippers work 550 pesos. Red Destination small and
light carry on suitcase. 2 wheels, pull handle and all zippers work. 300 pesos 376-766-4032. FOR SALE: Bike like new. Bike Schwinn M used only a couple of times. More info or photos 3317913211. WANTED: Bike for Tall Man. A Mtn bike in any condition for myself. I am 6’5”. I’d take a look at bikes that are sized as L,XL or with a 19” plus frame size. Been to the 3 shops in Ajijic on the carretera and am still looking. Thanks in advance. Please drop me a line at other.br@ gmail.com if you have something. FOR SALE: Lasko’s No.CC23150 3D Motion Heat Ceramic Heater features power controlled louvers plus side-to-side oscillation to create 3D heat waves. Ceramic heat offers 1500 watts of quick, comforting warmth with fan powered delivery for quick warmth. Ceramic element provides added safety with self-regulated automatic overheat protection. Exterior stays cool to the touch. ETL listed. Used less than one year. Complete with remote. Asking 800.00 pesos. Contact: peteredwards@052@ gmail.com or 376-765-2698. FOR SALE: I have a full set of 664 Epson Ink Refills. Never opened. Sells on Amazon for 730.00 pesos. Yours for only 500.00 pesos. email at peteredwards052@gmail.com or call 376-765-2698 FOR SALE: Original Prada Shoes, size 24.5 Mexican, Only 1 time was used, price $3,000 pesos. Call Alma 331-005-3109 FOR SALE: Individual Brass Headboard, Price $2,200.00 pesos. Call Alma 331-0053109.
Saw you in the Ojo 57
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El Ojo del Lago / March 2021
