Question mark april 2016 by RickBaber

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? Question Mark Magazine Vol. 2 No. 4, April, 2016 Published by TigerEye Publications P.O. Box 6382 Springdale, AR 72766 E: cybermouth@hotmail.com Copyright 2016, Rick Baber Question Mark (?) Magazine is electronically published monthly, free to online subscribers, by TigerEye Publications, through ISSUU.com

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? Magazine April, 2016 

April 2016 * Volume 2 * Issue 4

CONTENTS Foreword … into the past. What brings us to this moment in time?

Page 1

Bret Burguest explains the concept of a Collective Consciousness. Heavy, no?

Page 7

Fiction by Angelia Roberts “Dying in a Small Town” Funnier than you think it might be.

Page 11

? Magazine April, 2016  YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO GET

Cover Story. Zach Mann interviews the lovely and talented Alissa Griffith – a rising star on Nashville’s horizon.

Page 16

April 2016 * Volume 2 * Issue 4

CONTENTS Not Cancun. Not Acapulco. Annie Hughes goes to the real Mexico. And she allows us to join her! Lots of pictures.

Page 25

Turtles probably mean something different to Rick Baber than they do to you. There’s a reason.

Seriously! Got something you’d like to advertise to our worldwide readership?

ABOUT OUR COVER

Page 37

Everybody’s out to make a buck. But Camille Nesler thinks education and experience should count for something.

Page 45

Zach Mann lands an interview with Nashville’s Alissa Griffith. Cover photograph, shot by Rachel Yarborough. More images from Rachel, as well as some by Zach, in the story – see page 16

? Magazine April, 2016  YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO GET

Living Bret Burquest

Boldly Going Nowhere into it. He called it the foundational structure of the personality on which the ego is built.

COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS There are three aspects of human existence -basic instinct, self- consciousness and cosmic consciousness. Basic instinct is the natural mechanism of all living entities.

survival

Self-consciousness is an awareness that an individual is a distinct entity. Cosmic consciousness is a clear conception of the meaning of the universe, an absolute certainty that the cosmos is in fact a living presence. It’s a complete comprehension of “the whole” with an accompanying sense of immortality. Carl Jung (1875-1961) was a Swiss psychiatrist, the founder of analytical psychology known as Jungian psychology. He coined the term “Collective Unconscious” - in essence the same ethereal object as Cosmic Consciousness, except most people are unaware of its existence. Jung believed the Collective Unconscious to be part of the evolutionary process and shared by all people, but not all people are able to tap

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Basically, cosmic consciousness is a single entity containing a connection to all other consciousnesses -- past, present and possibly future. All is one. A project was initiated in 1998 at Princeton University in an attempt to prove the existence of what they called a Global Consciousness, another term for Cosmic Consciousness. The Global Consciousness Project (GCP) is an international effort set up to explore whether interconnected consciousness could be validated through objective measurement. Research in this field started decades earlier when a number of controlled laboratory experiments demonstrated that human consciousness actually interacts with random event generators (REGs), causing them to produce non-random patterns.

Since electrical impulses transmitted between brain cells reflect patterns of activity that in turn generate consciousness, it became a theoretical possibility that the same phenomena would also be true for a global collective consciousness of the entire planet. April, 2016 

Living Therefore, if individuals could create deviations from expected chance results simply through the thought process perhaps it could also be true on a global basis. Dr. Roger Nelson, Director of Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research, a leading parapsychology institute, examined what happened to a REG when several people focused on a single event. The results were impressive. Plus, the effects were clearly noticeable regardless of the generator’s location. There are now 75 networked computers in over 50 countries worldwide feeding a probabilistically random series of digits to a host computer. The system searches for periods when the random number series become slightly non-random. Major world events seem to trigger nonrandomness in widely isolated global locations. For example, the 9/11 tragedy produced a massive spike of non-randomness in the entire system.

A boy has an urgent feeling about going to a function where he meets his future wife. It happens all the time. As a theoretical psychologist and practicing clinician, Carl Jung explored the psyche through an examination of dreams, mythology, religion and art. He also spent much of his life delving into alchemy, astrology and Eastern philosophy. Some of his notable achievements include the concept of psychological archetypes, synchronicity and the collective unconscious. Jung emphasized the importance of harmony and balance. The process of “individuation” was the central concept of analytical psychology. For a person to become whole, it requires a psychological process of integrating the conscious with the unconscious while still maintaining conscious independence. In 1916, Jung wrote VII SERMONES AD MORTUOS, meaning “The Seven Sermons to the Dead" -- written by Basilides in Alexandria, transcribed by Carl Gustav Jung. That year, Jung had been contacted telepathically by a “highly cultivated elderly Indian” who had been a commentator on the Vedas (early Hindu sacred writings) and had died centuries ago. He would become one of Jung’s spirit guides (gurus).

All thought is connected. This collective consciousness has been tapped into many times. A mother in Boston senses her son in Phoenix has had an accident that later turns out to be true. A man knows his old Army buddy is about to call him just before the phone rings. A little girl finds her lost purse where a dead grandparent told her it would be.

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Rather than assume he had gone insane, Jung believed he had crossed into the same realm as the ancient priests and others who had experienced the divine. Then many strange occurrences took place in Jung’s house, such as haunting aberrations, poltergeist incidents, and so forth. Jung finally shouted, “For God’s sake, what in the world is this?” April, 2016 

Living In unison, several voices cried out, “We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not what we sought.” Then over three straight evenings, while being in a state of “possession” performing automatic writing, Jung wrote VII SERMONES AD MORTUOS. Basilides, a valid historical person, was born in Syria and became a teacher in Alexandria in 133-155 AD. Jung had channeled and transcribed Basilides words. The finished work was more than an exercise in automatic writing – the contents have been described as a “core text in depth psychology.”

When Jung discovered the writings of the ancient Gnostics, he wrote, “I felt as if I had at last found a circle of friends who understood me.” In 1926, Jung had a vivid dream whereby he was in the 1600s, engaged in the “Great Work” as an alchemist. He believed that alchemy was the connection between the modern world and the ancient world of the Gnostics. Coincidentally, Albert Einstein read from ancient alchemy texts every night when he went to bed. Jung considered alchemy to be the key to the transformation of the soul on its path toward perfection.

Within the text, Abraxas is the name used for the Supreme Being that created individuality and mental powers. Upon death, individual human beings maintain the fullness of their human individuality rather than being absorbed into the oneness. From this experience, Jung formulated the concept of the collective unconscious. He stated, “The collective unconscious is common to all. It is the foundation of what the ancients called the sympathy of all things. It is through the medium of the collective unconscious that information about a particular time and place can be transferred to another individual mind.” Jung later claimed to have numerous spirit guides, including Basilides, Philemon and Salome. Gnosticism is the belief that spiritual knowledge comes from within. Gnosis is esoteric knowledge of spiritual truth held by the ancient Gnostics to be essential to salvation.

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The focus of the alchemist is the union of opposites. Rather than a battle between good and evil (dualism), Jung claimed there was no right or wrong, no order or chaos, no black or white – they are simply opposites that transform into grey, demanding of humanity to be transformed. In other words, everything is a blend of completeness when comprehended as a whole, therefore everything is perfect. The micro world may appear to be highly flawed, but the macro oneness of the universe and beyond is in a complete state of righteousness.

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Living According to Jung’s Psychology of the Transference, the key to success in love and psychological growth is the ability to endure the tension of the opposites without abandoning the process. It’s the stress of the process that permits one to grow, to blossom, to mature, to become transformed. Basically, we as a human species are all interconnected in a metaphysical or spiritual sense. Our individual thoughts affect the collective consciousness of the Oneness. Thus, thoughts are deeds. Everything is as it is, and the totality of it all is magnificent. As individual entities, we are on a journey through Eternity, destination Infinity. Life is simple – accept the challenges, embrace the suffering, don’t follow leaders, watch the parking meters.

Bret Burquest is the author of 11 books. He lives in the Ozark Mountains with a few dogs and an imaginary girlfriend named Tequila Mockingbird.

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April, 2016 

Fiction had repaved the parking area and added new shrubs, but even the hedges looked as stiff and unyielding as the bodies who lay inside. There was an aura of coldness that no amount of paint or curb appeal seemed to hide. She hoped the ancient funeral director was nowhere in sight. She always came away with the feeling he was envisioning exactly how she would look undressed when he peered over his extra-thick glasses and held her hand just a little too long. Just the thought of him touching her, dead or alive, made her shiver. The last time she had graced the doors, along with just about everyone else in town, was the previous summer when 18-year-old Don Daniels was killed by a hit-and-run driver near the old Walmart. In a small town, especially in the South, funerals are a social event that ranges from a really good gossip session, or with some, an all-out family feud. If it’s a tragedy, it makes it even more appealing. Knowing the deceased isn’t necessarily the main reason for attending. Massaging her throbbing temples and hoping to avoid a full-blown headache, she closed her eyes and laid her head against the seat. The past couple of days had been spent curled up in a fetal position, holding tight to a bottle of Xanax. God, she was dreading this. For once she didn’t care that Gayla was late.

. Even though she was right on time, a lifetime of friendship had taught her a few things and she knew without a doubt Gayla would be late. Gayla was always late. Parking her SUV near the entrance she automatically hit the power button to slightly lower the driver’s window and left the air conditioner running. It was only mid-morning and already gearing up to be a hot day. McCloskey’s Funeral Home was a converted old two-story house that had served the small community and the surrounding area for as long as she could remember. The owners

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Five, 10 minutes later, she realized the air conditioner was struggling to keep the inside cool. Cracking the window was still a habit even though it had been two years since her last cigarette. A cigarette would be good right now. A pack would be even better. She checked her cell phone to make sure she hadn’t missed a call. She hadn’t. “Damn it Gayla, where are you?” she wondered.

April, 2016 

Fiction There was a lot of truth in that statement. Carrie Ann was definitely the fun one. She had always bordered on insane and always kept their life from small-town boredom. Like a blast from the past she remembered Carrie Ann’s favorite K.T. Oslin song. “We were three little girls from school ... one was pretty, one was smart, and one was a borderline fool.” Carrie Ann would sing the lyrics as if trying out for the leading part in a play and say, “You two can decide who is pretty and smart, I’ll be the borderline fool.” Leslie Faye, Carrie Ann and Gayla had all grown up, graduated from the same high school and had been inseparable during every phase of births, deaths, marriages and divorces. Of the three, Carrie Ann had the most highs and lows, as well as the most notoriety. Decades later, people still relate her greatest claim to fame that took place on Tim Taylor’s wedding day. Leslie Faye knew that subject had more than likely been revisited right after she drove down Main Street and waved at Freeman Carter, Thurman Edwards and Charlie Foster sitting in their customary chairs in front of the old hardware store. For as long as she could remember those old goats had taken up residence under the faded Coca-Cola sign and gossiped about everyone who passed by. They were a walking encyclopedia of what was going on in this county. Not too much escaped them. “Bet Leslie Faye is on her way over to the funeral home this morning,” one of them would say, more than likely with a chaw of tobacco in his mouth and a spit cup within reach. Then they would get around to rehashing Carrie Ann’s finest hour.

Carrie Ann had been beyond pissed and promised him, “There will be hell to pay for that.” Tiny Tim, as Carrie mockingly called him, should have known he was a marked man, but had grown up with more than his share of self-entitlements. His daddy owned the 12

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only bank in town and was appointed by every Democrat or Republican governor to several state boards, which gave Tim a superior attitude by proxy. Being the only child, he could do anything he wanted and get away with it. And for the next three years he had pulled off his sexcapade with Carrie, right up until the time to say, “I do.”

In addition to the locals, various elected officials and state representatives were on hand, because Tim’s father financially catered to them each time they were seeking election. And, while they could care less about Junior’s wedding, they had a fond attachment to his father’s pocketbook. Carrie Ann waited patiently while the traditional love songs were sung and watched as the bride, who met Tim in college and wasn’t from around here, walked down the aisle and took her place next to the man of her dreams. Like a waitress who finally gets around to taking a long overdue order, the preacher gave Carrie Ann the moment she had been waiting for. “Does anyone here know of any reason why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony?” Carrie Ann raised her hand. The future Mr. and Mrs. Tim Taylor were totally unaware of what was taking place behind them. Pretending not to notice, the preacher, who had known Carrie Ann her entire life, dropped his eyes back to the Bible in hopes that it would end there. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’d like ...” He coughed, unable to know how to proceed, and all eyes, including the bride and groom’s, turned to Carrie Ann. It looked as if small drops of red dye were being sprinkled on Tim’s face while his shocked, soon-to-be Mrs. was as white as her

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Fiction wedding dress. “Who is this?” she hissed, breaking the silence. Everyone in attendance was already putting a spin on how they would relate this chain of events to their absent neighbors. For a few seconds it was so quiet that a mouse running across the floor would have sounded like an elephant.

Several snickers could be heard before Tim exploded. “Damn you Carrie Ann!” he yelled, forgetting he was in the house of worship. “That’s not true!” Turning to the woman beside him, he was still yelling, “I have never had sex with this woman!” “Well that’s good enough for me,” Carrie Ann said, picking up her purse to leave. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Waving like a beauty queen she made her way to the back of the church. Just about the time Leslie was recalling Carrie’s grand exit from the First Presbyterian Church, Gayla’s beat-up Ford truck, covered in a film of summer drought dust, was turning into the drive. Dressed in a pair of denim capris, a white cotton top, and her hair in a ponytail, Gayla looked younger than most 52-year-olds. Her eyes were obviously swollen from crying and Leslie knew her friend was dreading this moment as much as she was. They had agreed a trip before the service was needed in order to prepare themselves. “Ready?” Gayla asked, linking their arms together. Leslie didn’t respond. A buzzer announcing their presence chimed in another part of the house. The foyer smelled of fresh paint, and a smattering of wing-back chairs were placed in conversation

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areas. The walls sported framed religious memorabilia catering to the heavily-favored Baptist, Presbyterian and Church of Christ communities. Without waiting they started to the viewing room but were intercepted by an attractive gray-haired woman neither recognized. “You must be Leslie and Gayla. Just a minute. I have something for you.” They waited, glad for the delay. The woman returned and handed Leslie Faye a large manila envelope. “If you need anything or have any questions I’ll be in the office,” she told them. Once they entered the double doors that led into the chapel, rows of empty pews parted the way to where a white casket was on display. A large green floral spray draped over the bottom section and was filled with white roses. From where they were standing they could see the outline of a body, but nothing to indicate it was Carrie. Leslie Faye held onto a back pew for support, thinking her legs would give way. Her stomach churned at the sight before her. “Let’s do it, girlfriend,” Gayla said, taking Leslie’s arm. Carrie Ann had always been larger than life, but now there was only silence surrounding their highstrung friend who commanded attention every time she walked into a room. Dressed in a gray and white pin-striped dress and holding a gold-dipped white rose, the small birthmark on Carrie’s right cheek was barely visible underneath her makeup. For a few moments they were lost in their own memories. Reaching inside the casket Leslie put her hand over Carrie’s and squeezed it. “What are you doing?” Gayla whispered. “I’m just checking to make sure,” Leslie replied. “Sure of what?” Gayla snapped. “Just checking to see if she’s dead,” Leslie said, knowing that was something Carrie would jokingly do if one of them had died first. “You remember that time we were all drunk and she dared us to sneak into the funeral home and then got into every casket to see which one her outfit matched?”

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Fiction Gayla was wiping tears and shaking her head at the same time. “She was crazy and we always followed into her craziness.” “I’m not disputing that. I know she was crazy. I’m just making sure she’s not playing one of her damn stunts on us. Because, I really want her to be.” Unable to carry off the joke, Leslie started yelling, her voice bouncing off the empty funeral home walls. “I want her to get up right now and laugh at how upset we are that she has died. She can’t be dead. She can’t leave us!” Shaken by Leslie’s outburst, Gayla reached inside the casket and put her hand on their friend’s cheek. “Unless I’m mistaken, Carrie Ann Brown has played her last joke on us.” As if on cue, the contents of the manila envelope fell to the floor, scattering underneath the casket. Crawling on her hands and knees to retrieve the various documents, Leslie saw they were addressed to people she recognized. “Oh my God! Oh my God! That’s so not true, Gayla!” she said, rocking back and forth in a fit of laughter. “Check out the pallbearers.”

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April, 2016 

Entertainment

The house she rents is her third Nashville address in just these last few years as the dogged pursuit of her life dream keeps dragging her back and forth between her home turf of southern California and Music City. It’s a tough business which stands in sharp contrast to her delicate yet intense beauty, which, by now, has proven to be both a blessing and a curse. In this society, we’ve been programmed to not take pretty girls seriously, especially for more than the proverbial fifteen minutes. After the coffee is done and a quick bite to eat, she will be off to yoga. She is, after all, a California girl, and that’s what they do. There is no rule book which one uses to chase a music dream these days. Everyone has suggestions and none of them are good. There is no magic bullet, and curiously, real talent is an ever smaller part of the star-bound equation. Alissa is a strong performer with an impressive resume’, having performed in or headlined several bands since age eleven. She’s been on the Tonight Show, on Regis and Kelley, and she’s even been the subject of a reality show pilot. She has performed at some of the most famous venues in California, from L.A. to San Francisco.

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Performance though, is just a part of the story. The enduring value of her art is her songwriting, which has been virtually overlooked because, obviously, it isn’t the first thing you notice when she takes a stage. It’s seems strange to even say it, but, perhaps a blind person would get it quicker. Herein lies the rub. The music business these days has a predisposition to cut only skin deep. Major record labels market new artists as if they are the freshest version of the iPhone, only to be replaced before anyone has even learned how to use the last edition. The likelihood of breaking through the endless montage with something of true substance and value is diminished by the April, 2016 

Entertainment sheer volume of the simplistic sludge clogging the airwaves through a corrupt system of thinly veiled payola. Alissa has been down that road, too. Her image has been used on websites promising that you too can be a star if you hire the right people to reach the right people to get you on the right show to be seen by the right crowd to make you the next Taylor Swift. In Alissa’s case, she’d found herself being the bait on the hook, and, even though she didn’t have to pay for this exposure, it certainly didn’t allow her true talent and promise as an artist to flourish. For a woman in the pursuit of these types of careers, time spent can be even more costly than money, which, in itself is a harsh indictment of our society as a whole. Luckily for her, an early start has lessened the effect of this hindrance, yet the clock will start clicking soon enough. She knows that she can ill afford another decade of “experience.” Alissa Griffith has three badly behaved but adorable little blonde dogs. For now, these creatures fulfill whatever maternal instincts she may harbor and holds them in yippy abeyance while she embarks on yet another run at her elusive dream. Lately, she has come to realize that the ten yearsplus since she was eleven was more about education than dream realization. Physically, she is certainly no worse for the wear, and could still pass for sixteen, (an annoying reality when her I.D. is questioned nearly every time she orders a glass of wine in Music City). The last few months of 2015 were a time for assimilating all that she has learned on her journey so far and contemplating how to apply it to an approach that will allow her creative light to shine. In addition to re-arranging songs she has written over the years, she is now writing new material and also co-penning with some of Nashville’s most elite 20

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songsmiths. There is a record in the works, with a serious team of investors trying to work out the details of a new campaign, but, this time with the emphasis not so much on the cart but on the horse.

QM: You’ve been actively pursuing this dream for over a decade now. What advice, if any, would you give today to your 15-year old self? AG: Go to college! (laughs) Seriously, though, I don’t much believe in regrets, but, you know, the only advice I could give to any artist at any age at this point would be to accept the highs and lows for what they are and to use them in your process, whatever that is.

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Entertainment QM: You mentioned process, I assume you are talking about the creative process. Can you tell us about yours?

open. There are lots of great influences both past and present, and since music is timeless, inspiration from other artists is endless

AG: Luckily I been blessed with a great one but I’ve been sworn to secrecy, (just kidding). Typically, I light a cigarette and snub it out on my wrist to get me in the moment. Not really. I like to let ideas come to me randomly and then let them fester for a while. Then, usually when I am in a quiet place, I can recall them and try to articulate them through words and music. QM: When you are in that space, what usually comes first, the words or the music? AG: With me it is simultaneous, I never start with a hook, although that IS kind of the “Nashville” way. To me it’s too manipulated. I like to freestyle it, you know, like… let the recorder roll and then pluck back out what seems to fit and then work from there. Sometimes it is chaotic and random, and other times it seems to have a predestined place to where it is going and I am just along for the ride. QM: Surely there are other artists who may have influenced you more than others, give me your top three. AG: Are you asking me from all time or just now? I am from Orange County, California so I’d have to include my home girl Gwen Stefani, though that might be about her whole persona and not just her considerable writing skills. My mom was a huge rock and roll fan so I was exposed early to a lot of Janis Joplin, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin and so on, but, as a writer I am drawn to Joni Mitchell’s stuff, Sheryl Crow, Chris Stapleton, John Mayer, but really I am wide

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QM: You mentioned Orange County, what do you miss the most about southern California? AG: Raised trucks and tattoos of course, and don’t forget the easy access to boob jobs! Seriously though, the beach. The salty air, the seaside shops, the entire scene, and of course, my lifelong buddies. The whole coastal scene has a continuance to it that seems to go on forever and from what I can gather from my parents, it hasn’t changed much over the years. I like knowing it is there. QM: What do you like about Nashville that you don’t get in Southern California? AG: The biscuits at the Loveless Café of course!! Definitely the fact that there are four distinct seasons. It’s fascinating stuff if you grew up in a place where the weather is as constant as it is in California. But

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Entertainment culturally, southern hospitality is a real thing and I enjoy it. The people are friendly here and move at much a slower pace. In California, particularly L.A. where I’ve spent a lot of time, your waiter or waitress is likely to be an aspiring actor or screenwriter, while here in NashVegas they are likely to be a songwriter or musician. Great music is available 24/7 and the players you hear are, more times than not, incredible, regardless of what “hole in the wall” you might see them in.

QM: What would be the ideal level of success in the music business be for you? AG: As far as my dreams can take me.

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QM: Thank you for doing this story with us. If we come back a year from now and want to interview you again, what will we have to talk about? AG: Hoping the new record I’m working on will be out by then. I’m excited about getting it done and hitting the road with it. It’s just my time, you know?

As of this writing, the easiest place to hear Alissa’s music is on Facebook. Look for her there and on Reverbnation.com. She is definitely an artist who is getting the attention of several major labels as well as the independents.

“ Jailbird, you’ve got broken wings But I can still hear the song you sing It’s okay to break inside But you’ve gotta get up sometime” April, 2016 

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April, 2016 ď&#x20AC;

Travel

I set out to write a standard travelogue of Puebla and Oaxaca; go here, eat this, buy that, but was sidetracked when a friend asked me if I preferred Mexico to Spain. My answer was a swift and resounding, YES! I have had a long love affair with Mexico and have made it my home. From early family vacations through my own explorations I have covered a great deal of this beautiful country and still find everything about it mysterious and exciting. The food, art, literature and architecture from Pyramids to Cathedrals have all called to me. Much of the lure is in the deep roots, the traditions and the mysticism of pre-Hispanic Mexico, as well as the cultural influences introduced by the Spaniards. Imagine my surprise to learn that during the Spanish settlement of Mexico in the early 1500s, the Spanish military and settlers were about 50 percent Moors and around 20 percent Jews. The Spanish commander Hernan Cortez allowed all his soldiers equality and also refused to enforce the Inquisition. Coming to the new world afforded the Jews and Moors a way to escape the Inquisition without having to convert to Catholicism. The same people who brought so many beautiful things to Spain in turn brought many to Mexico as well. And this is that same element that I connect with on both sides of the ocean! More than the things that make a trip successful, the great food, the perfect sunsets, the fabulous photo-ops, all of which are important, there are the people with their shared and individual histories. The heroes and villains, driven by their dreams and desires, create the events of their time, which in turn become the mythology of future generations. The culture evolves to reflect the collaboration of history and mythology; celebrations and festivals, rites and rituals, the beating heart of a country and its people. This is the sound I hear, the siren song drawing me home.

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April, 2016 ď&#x20AC;

Travel Both Puebla and Oaxaca are architectural gems of the Colonial era and both offer up an exciting history. And yet, they are two very different cities lending themselves to two very different experiences.

walk around the Centro, the oldest part of Puebla, the Moorish influence can be felt in the tilework, the arched promenades and much of the wood balconies and lattice work.

Oaxaca hostel roof terrace view

Puebla

The tradition of decorative ceramic tiles found its home in Puebla. Here the Famous Talavera designs and techniques flourish because of the excellent clay. Many of the original patterns can be found in the facades and porticos of restored colonial buildings. While more modern designs and brilliant colors have been introduced into talavera pottery, you can still find the deep blues and gray patterns of old. There is a richness of color in the natural pigments not found anywhere else in Mexican pottery. As you

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As in Spain, large open courtyards and gardens with fountains wait behind thick wooden gates. The Zocalo is a vast square April, 2016 ď&#x20AC;

Travel with buildings on three sides and a cathedral on the fourth. It came into existence with the founding of the city in 1531 as a central marketplace and the social center of the city. Restaurants line all three sides with the Palacio Municipal, Puebla's town hall, completed in 1906, featured prominently on the north side. Many public buildings are in the Franco-Spanish Renaissance popular during the rule of Porfirio Diaz. Pine and palm trees, decorative topiary, fountains, sculpture, and lots of benches make the Zocalo a major gathering place. On weekends the streets teem with vendors and entertainers of all sorts. There are jugglers and dancers, musicians, magicians and lots of costumed characters waiting to have their pictures taken with local children. Gallons of ice cream are scooped into cones and cups for strolling consumers. Water spouts offer cool relief during hot summer days.

quarry stone and was completed in 1664. The choir is an exquisite example of Mudejar (Moorish) artwork with inlaid wood in eight different colors. A short walk from the Zocalo is the Church of Santo Domingo built between 1571 and 1611. The tower was completed in the 19th century. While the exterior facade is severe, the interior is more ornate. The impressive main altar dates to 1688 and is an excellent example of Mexican Baroque, with an abundant use of gilded stucco and onyx stonework. The Rosary Chapel is also a Baroque masterwork with silver filigree ceilings.

Rosary Chapel, Puebla

Next door to the Santo Domingo church is the Galeria Bello y Zetina. This small, free, museum, houses many 19th century fine and decorative arts, including paintings by Gerardo Murillo Cornado and Jose Agustin Arrieta. Puebla

On the south side of the Zocalo is the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, a treasure trove of colonial art. Begun in 1575 to 1618, the initial plans included four corner towers like the cathedral of Valladolid, Spain. The towers are over 200 feet high and are the tallest in Mexico. the cathedral was consecrated on April 18, 1649 while the main facade, made of dark grey

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As you continue your walk through Pueble you might come to 6 Oriente Street, known as el Calle de los Dulces because of the number of dulcerias (candy shops) here. This is your chance to discover many of the traditional candies, cookies and other Poblano specialties, including Santa Clara cookies topped with a mixure of cream and ground pumpkin seeds and sweets made

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Travel from yams (dulces de camote.) There is also a wide variety of marzipan based candies.

at some of the finest pottery available in Mexico.

As an adjunct or alternative to a walking tour there is an excellent bus tour that leaves every hour or so from the west side of the Zocalo and travels through the city and up to a high vista where (on a clear day) you can see the majestic Popcatpl volcano. Unfortunately, Smog from Mexico City and Puebla often make it impossible to see more than a faint outline.

There are plenty of hotels and other accommodation in Puebla. Because I have enjoyed meeting people from all over the world I chose to stay at the Leonara Hostel. A room for 4 women cost me $15 a night and was a block from the Zocalo! I did have to walk a long way and up a short flight of stairs to the ladies bathroom and showers but they were very clean and had plenty of hot water. The open courtyard had been converted into a nice restaurant and bar and they served a large breakfast buffet each morning. I preferred to wander around town and try out a few small, recommended, restaurants. Across the street from the hostel was an upstairs restaurant that made fantastic pulpo (octapus) tacos! There were no less than 4 “Italian Coffee Company"s on the Zocalo!

Sunday in the Zocalo, Puebla

The people of Puebla were very friendly and fun. The Sunday crowds are definitely out to enjoy themselves. They fill the restaurants, the Zocalo and the Plazuela de los Sapos where bargains abound! The shops and restauants on this small plaza are open daily but on Sundays there is an open air flea market. At night some of the bars have live music as well. If possible you should really try to be in Puebla over a weekend. For more shopping you must go to the Parián Handicrafts Market, 6 Norte, between 2 and 4 Oriente. Established in 1796 this is a classic artisans market featuring a wide variety of Poblano Talavera pottery, textiles, clothing, onyx figures and traditional candy. Leather, jewelry and handicrafts from other states are also sold here. High end Talavera stores surround the market and offer a look

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I met a wonderful young Canadian woman who spoke excellent Spanish and enjoyed taking the bus tour with her and having breakfast afterwards. The heavy emphasis on art - functional and decorative - in Puebla throughout its history seems to set a tone of openness and creativity. There is an abundance of museums and galleries to visit, the artists neighborhood and the Talavera factory. Beautiful buildings make strolling around an exciting event. The food, especially the mole, is vibrant and deeply flavorful. Puebla is a large and also very modern city. There are many beautiful and interesting parks throughout including the botanical Ecoparque Metropolitano, Parque Ecologico, Parque Temático Cinco de Mayo, and Parque paseo del Teleférico with 7

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Travel kilometers of bike trails connecting 7 rehabilitated parks. There are many interesting places to visit outside of Puebla as well; the most popular is Cholula. Here a Spanish Cathedral was built on top of a pyramid. Both are open to the public. You can spend the night there or return to Puebla by bus.

Cholula

From Puebla I took a bus to Oaxaca. No longer are we riding the chicken buses! ETN line has plush reclining seats, TV sets with headphones, WiFi, and a bottle of free water; a very nice ride. In Oaxaca I checked in to Casa Angel Hostel. At first I was worried that it was too far from the Zocalo but I soon realized that it was close to a much more interesting neighborhood. This time I was in a room for 3 women very close to the bathrooms. Two friends joined me so it was basically a private room for the three of us. A hot breakfast was included in the $12 a night price! There was a great roof terrace and a fridge where we could keep liquid refreshments. The staff was great and had excellent suggestions and directions available.

interesting as the pedestrian walks and the magnificent Church up by the Hostel. Really good restaurants with innovative menus featuring new takes on traditional dishes: blackberry mole, ceviche with pineapple and mango, soup heated at the table with a sizzling stone! The shops were like galleries and museums. The church museum was like an anthropological site. There is a very youthful vibe because of the University and colleges there - plus we were in a youth hostel. Buses ran in front of the hostel and it was easy to get downtown to the artisans market, the Benito Juarez and the 20 de Noviembre markets and the agency for the bus to the pyramids at Monte Alban. Since I planned to visit the artisans pueblas around Oaxaca, I did not spend much time or money at the market except for the beautiful baskets being sold in the doorway which had great color and designs and the excellent coffee sold in the Benito Juarez market. But walking through the rows of household goods, vegetables, meat and chicken feet, brooms, baskets, lots of children’s toys and clothing is walking through life in this city. This is true of all the markets. If you find when the open air markets are and where the main local market is you can get right into the heart of a city. The churches are the next best experience and then the restaurants, museums, galleries and finally the shops. Although a Woolworth’s in Puebla was a great find!

I did walk down to the Zocalo and visited the church there, but it was not nearly as

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Travel We took two trips outside of Oaxaca. The first was to visit the pyramids at Monte Alban. This is a great day trip with wonderful ruins, vistas, a small museum and very nice bathrooms and a coffee shop and gift shop. We spent 4 hours there and it was wonderful. There are an abundance of stairs but it’s worth the climb if you can make it. The wide open spaces and soaring structures are suitably intimidating. There is a ball court and many carved steles. An intricate water system existed but is dry now. Excellent excavation makes it easy to imagine how beautiful and inspiring it was to live there and participate in the extravagant rituals. There are two temples for the dancers. There is a great deal of literature available on Monte Alban if you are interested. But if you go - wear a hat and take a bottle of water. Both are sold on the steps to the entrance! The people of Oaxaca were very friendly. We 3 decided to hire a taxi for a day and go visit many of the artisans’ villages. This turned out to be a great idea! Our driver, Rudolfo, was a very nice man and very helpful. He engaged many of the artists in conversation and it was clear that he was having a great time himself. We started at the outdoor Friday market in the town of Ocotlán de Morelos. This is an enormous market selling everything you can imagine. Beside the tourist items, decorative rugs and pottery, there are baskets, clothes, food, hardware, birds, on and on. I was particularly attracted to the green glazed pottery. I bought a decorated casserole which the vendor swore is oven proof. I haven’t had the nerve to cook in it yet but it’s great for serving. I bought a slew of tiny bowls so popular for nuts and spices, lime slices, radishes and other toppings and botanas. Then I had to have a basket with handles to carry it all. Lots of 30

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families and people doing their weekend shopping.

Oaxaca shop facade

On to Santo Tomás Jalieza where ladies sit in the shade in the square and weave on backstrap looms. The results are beautiful. From small headbands and belts through placemats, table runners, up to bags and bedspreads. Everything is made with such care and patience. The ladies were all selling from stands one after the other but there was no sense of competition. Around the square were shops selling larger items curtains and bedspread but also embroidered blouses and dresses. Textile city!

San Martin Tilcojete was my favorite and our longest stop. Everyone in this village carves and/or paints the Alebrijes, the wood April, 2016 

Travel carvings. Mainly there are birds and animal but many of the carvers are branching out into more fantasy creatures. There are wonderful dragons and devils, different animal couples doing the tango together, drunken skeletons and intricate crucifixes. I found a tiny porcupine with tiny toothpick quills as a totem for my prickly personality. But my prize was an unpainted carving unlike anything I had ever seen. We were in the studio of a family of exceptional carvers and painters. They were very sociable and we were all enjoying ourselves, talking about their work and life in the village. I looked down and tucked in a corner was the carving of a chicken with a man’s face. It was very Cocteau. I had to have it. The young artist who had carved it was seriously surprised “You like that?” I told him I loved it and thought it was unique and very exciting. I could tell he was as pleased as he was amazed. I believe he must have made it as a joke or something - as it was the only one and had never been painted. My friends bought several pieces there - all of them very special. As everyone in town participates in creating these works of art there are many workshops to visit. One young man took the time to tell us about the wood they used and how it was prepared, starting with very green wood that had a pungent sap like turpentine. He was carving more functional items like boxes and napkin holders, both of which I had to have. His sisters were painting the colorful creations. They were very lovely girls and easy to talk with.

I guess we were shopped out at that time and Rudolfo was pointing out shrines and signs along the way. He even told me a ghost story about a woman who haunts a certain stretch of the road. We sailed through San Bartolo Coyotepec where they make the famous black Oaxacan pottery. When buffed it looks like metal. Some artist carve the clay with Mayan looking designs while others leave the clay smooth and shiny. We did not stop as the idea of hauling more pottery was too daunting. But I admired many beautiful pieces of pottery in Oaxaca. We also bought woven rugs in Oaxaca as we never made it out to Teotitlán de Valle where the best weavers live and work. One particularly well known family has a shop in Oaxaca. And so we paid a little more and missed the pleasure of seeing the weavers at their looms but brought home rugs that will become heirlooms. The chance to sit and talk with the artists and walk through the markets is an incredible pleasure.

Our last day we went to Cafe Oaxaca which we were told is the “Best restaurant in Oaxaca and possibly in Mexico” How could we resist. It was beautiful and the service was impeccable and the food was amazing. We certainly paid well for the experience but it was worth it. One man came and made fresh salsa tableside - more tomato or more

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Travel tomatillo? How spicy, more salt... and then a basket of fresh blue corn chip and charred flour tostadas. I had a fresh mushroom soup with squash blossoms and there was fruity ceviche and grilled octopus with garlic and large grilled shrimp all topped off with artistic desserts and that great Oaxacan coffee. We waddled back to the Hostel for a nap before going out for one last walk around town.

Oaxaca parade with Mojigangas

Oaxacan café tableside salsa

I will definitely return to Oaxaca to explore more of the architecture history - now that I’ve gotten all of that shopping out of my system. Both cities have a certain sophistication but I loved the laid back friendly atmosphere I encountered. This was a whirlwind trip and it needs a lot of further exploration. The states of Puebla and Oaxaca are very different from Michoacan and Chiapas and all are different from Guanajuato. Mexico City is a major metropolis with a much more active energy and sophistication. All of these places and many others will be looked into in future articles. 32

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Cholula tunnel

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Travel

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Travel

Oaxaca café ceviche

Oaxaca café desert

Oaxaca church interior

Oaxaca hostel roof terrace view Oaxaca cathedral

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Once, there was an island. Curled in the warm Caribbean waters it slept like a bright green iguana in the sun. Houses were tucked against the hillsides as colorful as Easter eggs – pink and yellow and turquoise. Others stilted out over the water and swayed in the wind. The white dusty roads of town were beaten smooth by the broad bare feet of women in bright print cotton dresses who walked in the shade of cheap umbrellas and broad-brimmed hats. They carried faded string bags filled with rice, beans, lard, flour, yucca, plantains and fish. Fish hauled in by the strong black arms of fathers and sons out in their boats. Further out, shrimp boats stretched their wide arms and lowered nets into the navy depths. At noon the schools and markets would empty. Everyone went home for a big meal followed by a siesta. Restless children would play in the shade of palm groves while adults lazed in hammocks. Drowsing geckos would lose their grip and fall into unsuspecting laps. Mangy dogs dug nests in the cool sand under houses and nipped at sand fleas. Bees hummed around the nodding heads of crimson hibiscus while mosquitoes buzzed around the heads of drowsy islanders. Their song combined with the thrum of the surf to create a soothing lullaby. At two everyone went back to work and school. At four the streets filled with children freed from the stifling schoolrooms. They swarmed into bodegas for a jack or a soda in a small plastic bag with a straw. From there they raced home to shed the itchy uniforms and bathe in the sea; laughing and splashing they dove and played like a pod of dolphins. And then the rains came. Note from Publisher: Way back in the dark days of 2011, when TigerEye was just getting started, the first person I approached was a lady I had never (and still haven’t) met in person. Hannah Hanszen was a “friend” from a writer’s site many years before, who so impressed me with her mastery of words that I knew she had to be part of this venture. After a bit of begging on my part, she agreed, and wrote this book. Now, she lives in Mexico, and travels the world – living the life that many of us only dream of. And now, she goes by her real name, Annie Hughes. So all these years later, I’ve tracked her down to beg her to write again, for Question Mark. And she agreed. I am a happy man!

Overcoming our Objectives By Hannah Hanszen

Fiction single bed in this budget motel in northcentral Missouri, spilling a chef salad with ranch from a styrofoam go-box onto my shirt as I try to eat it with crackers - in lieu of the plastic fork that was negligently omitted by the waitress at the bar next door. The one I tipped so generously for allowing me to bend the rules and actually get something to eat after they roll up the sidewalks here at ten o'clock. From “Dinner with WT” by Rick Baber © 2010 TigerEye Publications

Dinner with W.T. "Boredom and loneliness can drive a man crazy." Yeah. That's it. Boredom and loneliness. They drove me crazy. The only explanation I can offer for my miserable situation that might be understood by the multitudes reading tomorrow's papers if my plan tonight should fail. An occupational hazard. One that could pay my hospital expenses if I should, somehow, survive this. Pay my funeral expenses if I don't. Workmen's compensation. Your basic insurance fraud. It could work. There are nicer places than this. I know that for a fact. A month ago - almost to the hour -I was on the 14th floor of The Mirage in Las Vegas, with my wife and son, being served a late dinner in our room by a very polite young potential yuppie in a white suit and bow tie. Tonight, I'm sitting on this hard

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The better places have a lot of things. But usually not insurance adjusters. The remote control on the T.V. doesn't work. The nearest ice machine is only an elevator ride away...when the elevator is working. The air conditioner blows warm air. Every night at about 11:45 there's this rapid banging from the room next door, and the sound of a man screaming "OK baby. Now let's hook up those jumper cables!" My T.V. alarm clock is exactly twelve hours off, which complicated waking up on time significantly until I got smart and set the thing to go off bright and early at 7pm this morning. Of course, now, I wish that hadn't worked. If I'd have slept even ten minutes later I probably wouldn't be in the shape I'm in now. It was about nine this morning when I spotted him trying to cross one of these lettered highways they have here somewhere north of Glascow. Highways with letters for names. Like they only have so many numbers they can use. I had to stop and pick him up. It's just something I always do.

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Fiction He was very attractive. Unlike any I'd seen back in Arkansas. Bigger around than most, but not as tall. Sort of a sandy-brown color. I tried to keep him in the front floorboard for a while, but with that flat, oval body he kept getting stuck sideways between the seat and the door whenever I'd get out to work. Then, when I opened the door, he'd fall out and surprise the shit out of the people who walked me back to the car. It's a difficult thing to explain to them. I'm supposed to be a "professional,” like the insurance adjusters on the television commercials. Things like that never happen to the good-hands people. So, finally, I just had to put him in the trunk and leave the thing unlatched so he wouldn't bake. When I was my son's age, my dad would always bring stuff home to us when he'd been out on the road working storm claims. Candy. Comic books. Toys. I never have the time or money to go shopping for my kid. I just bring him turtles off the road. He has indicated to me, on more than one occasion, that I enjoy it more than he does. This one I dubbed "W.T." ... "Watch Turtle," like Judge Roy Bean's bear. When I got back to my motel room in Columbia, at about sundown, I had to figure out how to smuggle him into my room. Again, it's a little hard for a grown man to explain why he's taking a turtle into a motel room. Not that I owed anybody any explanation, but if they did ask it would probably look pretty bad if I refused to answer. I turned him sideways and stuck him into my file box. He looked a little weathered from spending the day in that hot trunk. Still not sure if he was a terrapin or a water turtle, I ran a couple of inches of water in the bathtub and put him in there to cool off. It's phenomenal how much dirt those things carry inside that shell. In just a few minutes the water in that tub was as murky brown as the Missouri River, and I became afraid that it would leave an indelible stain that I'd have to pay for. And explain. So I took the little guy out and let him run around in the room. Where was he gonna go? I was starving. The workload of the day, and the fact that I was lost most of the time, left no time for lunch. And I never eat breakfast. And I hadn't eaten dinner the day before because I was so damn tired 38

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from climbing roofs all day to look for hail damage. Doc & Eddy's, next door, quit serving food at ten. There was just enough time to change out of my pigcrap-covered clothes (yeah, pig farms are insured, too), take a quick shower, and quietly infiltrate the college crowd for some grub. But when I went to step into the tub, all that brown turtle crud was still in there. So, I'm down on my knees, naked, leaning over the tub wall, scrubbing the bottom with a washrag, when I realize W.T. hasn't eaten all day either.

Visually, I'm sure it was a hilarious sight. But, physically, it was more uncomfortable than the imagination will allow one who has not experienced such an occurrence. I assume that would include everyone in the world except me. I tugged. But he wasn't quite ready to let go. Suddenly, I flashed back to a moment in my early childhood when my grandpa Burgess warned me about the first alligator snapper I ever saw. "If he bites you," he said, "He won't let go until lightning strikes!" "LIGHTNING?" Hell. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Panic was too mild a word for the feeling that was overcoming me. I'd been up here busting my rear for two weeks with a bad toothache and a really nasty case of TMJ, but I didn't think I could go on with a turtle hooked to my nads. It wasn't really that painful, after the initial chomp, because all he got was skin. But the weight was killing me. My voice was already an octave higher. "But it's not a snapping turtle." I said out loud. “Calm down. Be cool. Maybe it's not even a male."

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Fiction I placed the chain lock on the door and plugged the little peep hole with toilet paper. Hey, you never know. Some whacko out there in the hall could have some kind of adapter lens that he could put up to that thing and see right into the room.

I gently lifted W.T. to relieve some of the pressure, and hobbled over to the bed, thinking that if I just spread out and laid there for a few minutes he'd let go. He didn't. I lit a cigarette and tried to lean forward and blow smoke in his face. That didn't do any good either. Panic turned to paranoia. I could see the night clerk (that greasy little weasel bastard with the wire rim glasses) downstairs, with all of his greasy little bug-doctor-weasel bastard friends, gathered around the secretly-installed surveillance camera monitor, spitting beer as they laughed unrestrainedly at the image of the smoking turtle between the naked man's legs. I turned out the lamp beside the bed, but the glow from the television still illuminated me...and W.T. And the damn remote wouldn't work. And it was on cable, showing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I started remembering a story my wife had told me about a woman who brought her husband into the ER at her hospital, in the middle of the night, to have a candle removed from his...his...his posterior. Up until this point I had always thought that would be a nightmare. Now, I wished my problem was that easily explained. In about half an hour it became apparent to me that W.T. wasn't going to let go on his own. On the surface, it appeared that I had two options: Yank the sonofabitch off, like a tick, and lose a very small, but significant piece of my anatomy...or suffer the humiliation of a trip to the emergency room. Neither choice was particularly appealing. I was weak from hunger. No way was I going to make it 'til morning without sustenance. So I decided to get something to eat while I thought it over. Dressed in my baggiest pants, unable to zip them up completely, and a tee shirt, and covered with a

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buttoned black trench coat, I entered Doc & Eddy's to the roar of a packed house of St. Louis Blues TV hockey fans. Just my luck. Hockey night. Most of them had their backs to me, facing the screens, as I slipped up on a waitress between them and the bar and requested anything to go. It was just a few minutes after ten, and she informed me that I might be able to get a chef salad -sort of leftovers with lettuce - but the grille was shut down. As I was certainly in no position to create a scene by initiating an argument with her, I graciously accepted, and took a seat in the darkest corner I could find. In a minute she brought me a beer to drink while I waited. Curiosity must have gotten the best of her. As she handed it to me she looked around at the college crowd, and back at me. "Isn't it a little warm tonight to be wearing that coat?" "Warm?" I don't know what made her think that. Maybe because everybody else in there was wearing those preppy blue and white striped tee shirts and those preppy knee-knocker shorts and topsider shoes with those little short preppy pansy white socks. Maybe because beads of sweat were forming on my forehead and trickling down and dripping off the end of my nose.

The wheels of my brain had just begun spinning wildly in search of an answer to her question when W.T. decided he was going to take a walk with my baggage. His hind claws were ripping my thighs to shreds, and I could see my lap jumping up and down under the raincoat. I gritted my teeth to avoid screaming - which sent TMJ pains shooting all through my head. And through all of this, I was somewhat happy, because I thought he might let go and stick his big brown head through the coat and say hello to this nosey bitch. "I've been sick," I said quietly as I handed her a ten for a six-dollar tab. "Keep the change."

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Fiction "Oh, you're a doll," she said, turning sideways just enough for me to tell by her silhouette against the light from one of the TV screens that she was carrying a load of her own. "In about four months I'll need all the money I can get." "A little bambino!" I acknowledged, with a big, wide, toothy grimace on my face that I was trying now to disguise as a pleasant smile. Hell, I had to say something. But I didn't mean to start up a fucking conversation. She must've been as starved for somebody to talk to as I was for food. Right there - at that most... inconvenient time, she just opened up to me like I was her shrink or something. It seems that she'd been living with this guy for the past eight years. About three years ago, her parents finally learned to accept him and her dad built them an apartment over their garage. But the dude didn't really want to get married, so they got into this big fight about it and she ran out and got knocked up by this Cambodian dude she'd been having cybersex with on the internet. Now, sometime after the baby's born, and she can fit into a nice looking wedding dress, they (she and the Cambodian) are going to try to get married. But she doesn't know if it's going to work because the old boyfriend is still living above her parent's garage. On top of that, she finally got her folks to give the OK for her to bring the Cambodian over for dinner, but, when she did, her mom's lips got numb and her legs gave out, and they had to rush her to the hospital. They did a bunch of CAT scans and MRI's but the doctor couldn't find anything wrong with her. He did indicate that the "spell" could have been caused by some kind of stress. And, speaking of stress, I was under plenty. While her story did serve to take my mind off my own troubles long enough to laugh uncontrollably at hers for a few seconds, W.T.'s next attempt at a stroll brought me sharply back to my own present reality. When the waitress ran off to the bathroom, crying, I took the opportunity to escape. With one hand carrying my dinner and the other in my coat pocket, supporting my load (potentially a line for an Alanis Morissette song), I slipped in the back door of the motel and took the elevator to my floor.

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Oh, sure. You pompous asshole. Go ahead and find fault with my rationale. You don't think that's what you'd do in this situation? Well, fuck you! You've never been in this situation, have you? You've never had a five-pound reptile dangling from your family jewels, have you? Well, I did. And, at the moment, that was the best I could come up with. It seemed rational enough when I thought of it. It couldn't be worse than going to a doctor. It couldn't be worse than looking my wife straight in the face and saying "Well, honey, a turtle ate it." If it killed me, it would be a relatively painless death. If it didn't, maybe it would jar W.T. loose and I could, somehow, blame the wound on the fall. After all, a suicide attempt is much more socially acceptable than...whatever this is. I could check into a treatment center and everybody would think I'd finally grown up like the rest of them. But, as I received nourishment, some of my reasoning capabilities returned. I have an idea. It's a mammal. Right? I mean, it can't breathe under water. Right? When I finish this salad, I'm going to fill the tub to the rim with the hottest water I can stand, and I'm going to take me a muddy bath. If W.T. wants air, he's going to have to let go to get to the top to get it. I'll be free. I can live. Or...I could drown the little bastard with a death grip on my family jewels. That's when I jump.

The OBX Sea Monster Incident There’s something about the persistence of the ocean that’s inspirational. Maybe that’s why so many famous people come from or live on one coast or another.

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Fiction The Outer Banks of North Carolina is kind of a different place. In the spring of 2008, me ‘n mama took a few days to travel down to that part of Dixie, shoot a beach wedding at Nag’s Head, and seek out some lighthouse photos for our art prints. I don’t want to jinx anything – writing this from the beginning of the trip home at the Norfolk, Virginia airport, attracting much unwanted attention from other travelers – but the journey down here went about as well as one who hates to fly could expect….up until “the incident.”

For the record, I don’t really know whether or not that’s true. Actually, I may have just made it up. But that seems to make sense to me. Especially now. Anyhow, we’re driving down Highway 12 toward Bodie Island, and I have to swerve to miss what I first thought was a dead Rottweiler in the road. As I passed it, I could tell it was what we call an alligator snapper – the biggest turtle I’ve ever actually seen outside a zoo. It didn’t appear to have been hit, so I pulled the car over and got out to go move it out of the road. The closer I got, the bigger that rascal appeared. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you it had a head about the same size as that of a Boston Terrier. Notwithstanding my unfortunate experience with WT, back in the early 90’s, my affection for reptiles, particularly turtles, remained with me. I had convinced myself that bad things sometimes happen, and sometimes nobody is to blame. The thought of leaving this big fella in the road to likely be hit, and possibly even injured, by some speeding

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tourist was unacceptable. Besides, I imagined, anything short of a Hummer hitting this guy at more than 50 mph was going to be totaled. So I pulled off into the tall grass beside the road and hiked back, while Becky sat in the rental car, leaning over the back seat watching me through the rear glass and laughing, to do what I could about getting him off the road. As I walked toward him, of course, I thought about WT. And I thought of the giant sea turtle that tripped me with her big front flipper as I wandered Satellite Beach in Florida - in the middle of the night - because it was too damn dark to see it there in the sand burying its eggs, because the Florida Turtle Cops wouldn’t allow me to take a flashlight. They didn’t want to freak out the turtles. Freak out the turtles! For a moment, that time, lying facedown in the sand in total darkness, I considered the possibility that I was going to become a meal. It literally scared the shit out of me. But I survived. Possibly because the odor ruined big mama’s appetite. It’s a survival mechanism. My vast experience with turtles has taught me better than to try to pick this big one up off the highway – as if I possessed the strength to do that but I wanted to get a picture before I did anything. As I walked up to it, a local schoolboy, maybe 12, came up behind me with a sucker in his mouth. “I wouldn’t get too close to him if I was you,” he warned. “No,” I said. “I’m gonna get him to bite this stick and I’ll drag him out of the road. “You better get a bigger stick,” he said. Smartass. I resisted the urge to ask this little turd if he had ever lugged this guy’s cousin around by the beanbag for several hours. A school bus already had traffic backed up southbound, and a van had the northbound traffic stopped. The bus driver was standing just inside the door, chatting with another stopped motorist, and about 30 kids were hanging out the bus windows. I could see this turning into an impromptu learning experience that they’d all be talking about when they got back to school on Monday. Here I am, making an impression on the impressionable young ones.

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Fiction “Be careful,” the kid said, “These ones can jump.” OK. I was glad the kid was trying to help, but what does some youngster know about turtles that I haven’t learned in a half century of intense study? “Yeah. Thanks, kid,” I said, “I think this’ll do fine. I got this.” So I stuck the stick down by the turtle’s head and he lunged at it, coming up about three feet off the ground. That was about two feet short of how high I jumped, screeching like a girl. “These ones right here, you gotta get ‘em by the tail and drag ‘em.” The boy continued, without even saying “I told you so.” Both of those lines of traffic, including that busload of impressionable children, were sitting there, watching, patiently waiting for me to move this monster from the road. I didn’t want to disappoint them, but, after seeing that thing jump, I was … (what’s the word?)…scared! Flashbacks. Beads of sweat dripping down my forehead and cascading off my nose. But I had to look cool…and brave…for the children. So I hauled off and kicked him (the turtle, not the kid) in the ass. Then he pushed himself up, like a dog, and slowly walked off the road. Almost.

“You might wanna tuck that string in,” he said, “He might think that’s a big worm or somethin’!” He was referring to the white drawstring hanging from the front of my kahki hiking shorts. I walked on up beside Goliath. “Kid,” I asked, “Don’t you have to be getting on home? I think I hear your mama calling. Hear that?” I put my hand up behind my ear. The kid threw his arms out to his side, like he was tired of explaining something to an imbecile. “I’m just sayin’, they eat eels and snakes and…”

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I didn’t hear the rest. Goliath’s massive head had shot forward and to the side and his huge jaws had opened and snatched my shorts, strings and all, right between my legs. Of course. As quickly as he had lunged, he retracted back into his shell, dragging me down by the crotch toward him. I laid across this shell, front to back, with my face being beaten by his smelly tail, like a windshield wiper across my nose, as the monster raised up and took off galloping into the woods toward the Atlantic Ocean. Through all the fear and pain, my curiosity won out, and my first thought was about how high off the ground I was and how fast he was moving. The Carolina kid and the big yellow bus and all the horrified school kids were getting smaller and smaller as the turtle banged my ass into trees on his journey, not able to see where he was going because my little friend was in his mouth and even his eyes weren’t as wide as my body. Aside from the trees, it was a relatively smooth ride. Like air shocks. And after I regained some of my composure I realized that what he had locked in his mouth was mostly a big wad of pants, and just a little bit of wiener, which popped free just before the Carolina kid disappeared from my sight, looking down, shaking his head. Four or five men were running behind us, losing ground, carrying sticks and screaming. We broke through the tree line and into the high weeds at the top of the beach and then started down through the sand toward the water. My confidence that this fresh water animal wouldn’t carry me down into the sea rapidly diminished. He wasn’t slowing down. I could hear the waves crashing against the shore and I smelled the salt air as this gargantuan brute carried me toward my aquatic grave. In all the scenarios I had concocted over the years, I never imagined it would end like this. It was just about then that the button popped loose on my shorts, and an idea was born. With my eight seconds completed, many times over, I quickly began to wiggle out of my pants to free myself, without regard to the fact that, here on the beach I found no reason this morning to put on underwear. Just as we came upon the wet packed sand I freed myself from my khakis and flipped over the turtle’s April, 2016 

Fiction tail, landing prostrate - face down again among the crustaceans and assorted dead things from the ocean – ecstatic to be alive. And the monster took my pants to Atlantis. Then a wave rolled in between my legs and reminded me that there were witnesses to this rather odd event. Many, many witnesses. I rolled to my side and, there it was, Bodie Island Lighthouse. I shook my head to clear my eyes and I could see tourists up there with telephoto cameras, pointed at me. Then, it sounded like every Saturday at the Little League park when I heard the laughter and chattering of children. I placed my chin into the sand and looked back up the shoreline, and here came all those school kids, and the bus driver, and the motorists from Highway 12. And, like a guy who had just wrecked a bicycle, I jumped up to prove to them I wasn’t hurt. That’s when the park security people tackled me back to the ground and threw a jacket over my exposed nether regions.

********** The next day was Friday, and already the story had made the tabloids around Nags Head, complete with amazing pictures. By today, Sunday, when we arrived here at the airport, the Norfolk paper had picked it up. And wouldn’t you know, there are a lot of flight delays. People have nothing else to do but read the paper, and recognize me, and point and laugh. A few of them even have the nerve to walk right up to me and ask “How’s the family jewels?” And I do not hesitate to answer. “Yummy. Want a taste?”

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April, 2016 

Editorial

10,000 employees, it’s a definite indicator of what’s to come. Earlier this month an article came out about what Clifford Hudson had said and let me tell you, comments on Facebook were flying left and right. Apparently there is a HUGE group of people out there who believe it’s just fine and dandy to raise minimum wage up to $15 an hour. And sadly, so do many Arkansans. Let’s put some things in perspective, shall we?

Do you want fries with that? By now I’m sure everyone has heard or seen the ridiculous protesters outside fast-food establishments nationwide who are demanding that minimum wage be raised to $15 an hour. Believe it or not these members of the entitled crowd have actually succeeded in having their demands met by some crazy liberal cities such as Seattle and Los Angeles. In fact the California legislature is even considering raising the minimum wage to $15 an hour for the entire state. Sorry California, but if that happens you can forget being called the “Golden” State anymore because that will pretty much kill off the economy. Apparently, these geniuses don’t realize that when the wages go up, so will the costs. Just ask the CEO of Sonic Restaurant, Clifford Hudson. In the company’s quarterly conference call last week, Hudson made this statement: “There is no doubt this is going to be inflationary as this relates to the consumer product.” He went on to say that price increases would not be a political move but rather a way to keep Sonic profitable. And guess what folks? Sonic may only be one company, but with

Right now in the state of Arkansas, you have teachers, journalists, nurses and business majors who are graduating with 4-year degrees and are only making $15 an hour. For example, if you were a new teacher with a bachelor’s degree and you went to work for the Batesville School District? Your salary would be $31,310. You know what that is? $15.05 an hour, that’s what. Say you went to a more “urban” area in Arkansas. North Little Rock for example. There, a new graduate teacher with a bachelor’s degree would start out at $34,510. So that’s just a LITTE bit better. At least you’d be making $16.59. But just suppose you came from a small rural area such as Dumas, and you wanted to teach in that school district? A new teacher at the Dumas School district would start out at $30,122. That is LESS than $15 an hour. So I suppose when all the burger flippers in Arkansas got their raise, the school district would be forced to raise that teacher up to $31,200 just to meet minimum wage. But I can promise you, none of the other districts who have people making just a few cents over, are going to give ANY of their staff a raise. Well, maybe the janitors.....then you’ll have janitors making the same as the new teachers. In what world does this seem even REMOTELY fair?

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Editorial And let’s look at some other occupations. The Department of Human Services is currently looking for family service workers in several counties across Arkansas. They require a bachelor’s degree in Social Work. THAT job would start you out at $30,700. Yep, $14.75 an hour. So I guess those social workers who have some of the most emotionally challenging jobs around, often dealing with abused and neglected children, would ALSO get bumped up to $15 an hour, just so they could make the same thing as Johnny Fry-boy. And don’t even get me started on some of the state newspapers. 8 years ago when my husband first moved to Little Rock, before he went into teaching, he interviewed for a job with the Democrat Gazette. With a bachelor’s degree in journalism and 8 years experience, know what they wanted to start him out at? $26,000. And don’t for one minute think that just because minimum wage goes up to $15 an hour, that all these other employers would just magically out of the goodness of their hearts, raise every educated, skilled person’s salary too. It doesn’t work that way. Trust me, if you are a nurse with a 4 year degree making $15.02 an hour, when the McNugget dude get’s bumped up to $15 an hour, YOUR salary is going to stay the same. My son has been in college for the last 4 years and that entire time, he has worked part-time at Wally World. He started out making $7.25 an hour and over the years, is now up to $10 an hour. Recently, Wal-Mart decided to raise their starting salary for ALL employees to $10 an hour. Do you think my kid got a raise? Nope. 4 years of experience and seniority meant nothing to Walmart. And trust me, ignorant legislatures may be able to force the state to raise minimum wage to $15 an hour, but they certainly can’t force all the schools, hospitals, nursing homes, and newspapers to give all their employees a raise. What it’s going to come down to, is Barney The Baconator with his GED asking “do you want fries with that?” making the same exact salary as the folks who are educating your children and saving your lives.

I’m not trying to put down those who work in fast food. I did it myself when I first started college. And yes, I was making minimum wage but not ONCE did I have the bloody AUDACITY to think I DESERVED to be making the same thing as those who had invested time AND money into getting their degree. I especially get irritated when I hear people demanding these salaries and claiming they are “forced” to work fast food and “can’t” get ahead because they are a single parent, have no education, can’t get a sitter for the kids to go to college, and any number of other excuses. Have you seen the scholarships and grants that are available for single parents? Have you looked into applying for daycare vouchers? Have you considered taking online courses so you don’t have to get a sitter at all? Have you thought about taking advantage of student loans which don’t have to be repaid until you are out of college and employed in your field? Heck, if college isn’t for you, have you considered going to trade school? Do you have any idea what welders make? Or airplane mechanics? What about the management program at your fast-food job? I have a good friend, a single mom, who got her MBA and worked as an assistant manager at Wendy’s. And just GUESS what her salary was? $15 an hour. So get over yourselves, entitled crowd. Learn to WORK for what you have. The only job that starts at the TOP is a post hole digger.

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Afterword

? Magazine April, 2016 ď&#x20AC;