El Ojo del Lago - May 2022 by El Ojo del Lago

Saw you in the Ojo

 D IRE C TOR Y  PUBLISHER

David Tingen

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

COVER STORY

The Subtle Secrets of Malta, By Carol Bowman

Victoria A. Schmidt

EDITOR EMERITUS Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez

Graphic Design Roberto C. Rojas Reyes Diana Parra Morales

Uncle Kenny, a Hero Among Heroes of the Greatest Generation Author—Dr. Lori Swinehart

10 Charro’s Mothers’ Day Celebration, by Larry Kolczak Special Events Editor Kim Le Mieux Associate Editor Sally Asante Theater Critic Michael Warren Roving Correspondent Dr. Lorin Swinehart

12 A Mexican Village Wedding, by Gabriel Blair 20 Ballad of the Abandoned Cubreboca, by Tom Nussbaum 22 Centro Educativo Jaltepec Successful Virtual Open House February 15th 2022, Submitted by Carole Baker 24 Marion Davies and Me. By Leslie Johansen Nack 38 Mirage de el Dorado, Documento 512, by Robert Bruce Drynan 40 PHIL the harmonic hummingbird, by Dave McIntosh

Sales Manager Bruce Fraser Carmene Berner

53 Titanium Tillie, by Sue Schools 46 The Guatemalan Easter Parade, by Larry Kolczak 48 I Whistled and the Sky Danced, by Lillian Norma

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

50 I Talk to the Trees and They Talk to Me, For All of Us, by Don Beaudreau 52 And the Hits Just Keep on Coming: Tom Nussbaum 54 The Night of the Gypsy Boy, by Robert Bruce Drynan

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

55 Theatre Arts, by Sydney Gay 56 Why I Cannot Write A Political Poem, by Michael Warren 56 When will We Have Rain? By Kathy Koches

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

COVER IMAGE

Index...

VOLUME 38 NUMBER 9

El Ojo del Lago / May 2022

By Lorinda Tisdell

COLUMNS THIS MONTH

06 Editorial and Correction 14 Vexations y Conundrums 16 Ramblings from the Ranch 18 Life in the Laugh Lane 26 You and Your Doctor 28 Verdant View 30 Lakeside Living 40 Profiling Tepehua

Saw you in the Ojo

COLUMNIST

Editor’s Page By Victoria Schmidt

A Mid-day Mexican Stand Off

s there anything more frustrating than sitting in traffic on a hot afternoon and not being able to move forward? OK, besides not having air conditioning as well. Last Thursday, I found myself for 40 minutes in a line of traffic that went nowhere for no reason that I could see. I waited patiently, called my meeting and said I was running late and didn’t know why traffic was stopped. I thought, maybe a car accident like the frightening one the Tuesday before at the Walmart hazard intersection. Thank goodness there were no mortalities, but this stall was a mystery. People did the honk with no apparent resolution thing. My heart started pounding. Stuck in traffic is a panic button for me. Don’t ask, it just is. Then people started walking up towards the traffic light and returned. They would tell people what was going on. My grasp of Spanish being what it is, didn’t give me the understanding necessary. So, I get out of the car, and gimped my way to see for myself, and right away I was able to figure out I was caught in the midst of a Mexican Stand Off. Now, I know stubborn. I’m Scottish, and I was married to a purebred German. And it is my considered opinion that there is nothing more irresolvable than a Mexican Stand Off. Now I was starting to have shortness of breath. Transito was there, the police were there, surely they would stop this demonstration for whatever it is about. They are the officials, right? They stood and watched. Finally, a woman talked to transito and explained she needed to get to the hospital for her heart. And magically, a number of protesters started to ask people to move their cars, and they made room for this woman to get to the hospital. I hope she was OK. It was a long while later and ¼ tank of gas later that traffic began to flow. And days later I found that not only was the highway into Chapala but Hildago into Chapala was also closed off, and traffic throughout the city was a mess. But what was it all about? Well, I have it on good authority, street gossip… that the protesters were vendors from the Malecon and they were protesting a new government order to purchase a certain type of umbrella with a Chapala logo on

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it and they all had to buy it and display it or their vendor stall would be closed down. OK. Government wants it to look better but doesn’t want to pay for it. But the vendors, already having to deal with two bad years didn’t have the money right then and there to pay for it. And they were upset. More than a little upset. But I heard also from that same reliable source that the City decided they would pay for half and the vendors the other half, and I’ve been told the controversial additions were already on display. When I drove by the Chapala Malecon the other day, I didn’t see the umbrellas. But I was amazed by the number of satellite dishes on top of the tin units. And I believe we were just getting a taste of what driving, walking and bike riding will be like during the next two years as the new renovation projection through Chapala’s main street and other streets such as Ramon Corona. Well, at least they are going to repair the infrastructure which will help with the water problems of the future. I love Chapala and lived there 11 of the first 15 years I’ve been in Mexico. But I think I’ll be limiting my trips by car until their project is done. And if the resolution on the protest proves true, kudos to the city government for Victoria Schmidt compromising. CORRECTION: In the April Edition of El Ojo del Lago, the article entitled Slaying the Deer Slayers in Mexico: The Yaqui Experience should have read Submitted by Kelly Hayes Raitt, as it was not written by her but as stated in the first paragraph it was written by W. Dirk Raat. We apologize for the error.

Saw you in the Ojo

Uncle Kenny, a Hero Among Heroes of the Greatest Generation By Dr. Lorin Swinehart “Our roll of honor is long, but it holds no nobler figure.” —John Buchan, Pilgrim’s Way

he troop train, filled with soldiers, pulled out of the station near Fort Dix, New Jersey, and sped westward. In those faraway years of World War II, the men were in it for the duration. They had not been told where they were going or for how long. “Loose lips sink ships,” they were reminded over and over again. Late on a dark night, the train, now speeding along on the track of the old Erie Railroad, passed into Ohio’s Ashland County. Among the many young men destined for the faraway war was my uncle Kenny Sloan, then only in his twenties. As the train passed by the tiny village of Nankin, Ohio, Kenny gazed out the window into the night and saw the light in his parents’ farmhouse kitchen glowing in the darkness. That moment of pathos meant nothing to the steam engine pulling the train. It continued chugging on its way to the West Coast. Where were they headed? How long would they be there? What would it be like when they returned home? Would they be returning home at all? Those questions hung unanswered in the night air. In Kenny’s case, he was destined for the war in the Southwest Pacific. His journey would take him to Australia and other faraway lands. Like so many of his generation, it was a journey that would never really end. There was a superstition that was

Kenny & Dave widely believed during the dark days of the Second World War, that if a serviceman’s picture fell off the wall, it was a warning that he had just been killed or wounded in action upon some farflung battlefield. My parents had a picture of Uncle Kenny in his army uniform placed securely on a lamp table in their living room. One evening, while no one was in close proximity to it, the picture did a flip in midair and crashed to the floor. Of course, everyone immediately feared the very worst. While the wounds inflicted upon Uncle Kenny in the Southwest Pacific theater were not fatal, they were severe. An incoming mortar shell killed the soldier standing next to him. Kenny was wounded in the legs, causing his kneecaps to eventually be surgically removed. When I was very young, I regarded Kenny as larger than life, a man of the world, largely because for years he piloted the company plane for Archway Cookies, which was headquartered in our hometown of Ashland. With the passage of years and with greater un-

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derstanding, I came to regard him more as a hero because of the 32 surgeries he endured, without complaint, on his legs during the years after the war. Despite it all, he was the most cheerful and well liked of men. He navigated around town in a specially modified van with a power lift, provided by Disabled American Veterans. Whenever I shared a table with Uncle Kenny and Aunt Mary at a popular restaurant in my old hometown, downing mug after mug of strong coffee and talking over the state of the world, people continually stopped by to say hello to him. Most of my uncles who served during World War II remained mute about their battlefield experiences. I remember that Uncle Kenny spent a lengthy period in a military hospital in Melbourne, Australia. Given that it was Australia, mutton was the most frequent item on the menu. Uncle Kenny later said that he consumed so much that he was never able to look a sheep in the face again. I remember, too, his sharing that an Australian nurse whom he regarded highly for her kindness was accidentally electrocuted when she accidentally stepped on a hot wire in the hospital where he was sequestered. The good die young in wartime, as in any other time it seems. Five of my uncles served in World War II. My uncle David Sloan served in the Army Air Force, the precursor to the United States Air Force. He was assigned to Brazil, where he served as a motorcycle courier. Uncle Elmer served in the army and came under enemy sniper fire more than once while liberating enemy occupied European villages. Uncle Jack Stiebritz served in the U.S. Army as it battled its way across the sun-blasted wastes of North Africa, up the Rhone Valley of France, and into the heart of the Nazi fatherland. Throughout my boyhood in Ashland, Ohio, I treasured the few souvenirs handed down to me by uncles who served; coins from Australia, some with kangaroos engraved on their shiny surfaces, a coconut brought home by Uncle David. I still have the coins. When I was around eleven years old, I gave into temptation and chopped the coconut open with my Boy Scout ax, only to find inside a dried-up husk. I don’t know what I had expected to find. I only remember that I had liked it better when it rested unopened atop my mother’s china cabinet. My Great-uncle Col. Homer H. Sloan was based in London during the time when preparations were being made for the invasion of Festung Europa. One day, he managed to have lunch with his son, Harold, who was also in the army and would be part of the DDay invasion. They never knew wheth-

er they would see one another again. Uncle Homer was later headquartered in the Belgian city of Liege. Day and night, he could hear the strange barking noise made by German V-1 missiles as they streaked overhead through the sky in a series of three. He knew that the first V-1 was targeted on London, the second on the seaport city of Antwerp, and the third on his own neighborhood in Liege. Thankfully, Uncle Homer and his son both survived the war. Miraculously, all five uncles returned from the war and went on to live honorable, responsible lives. Like so many veterans of World War II, they said little about their time as soldiers. I remember only Uncle Kenny voicing his hope that there would be no more wars. Those of his generation were promised “The Best Years of Our Lives” once the conflict ended. That dream ended on June 25, 1950, when North Korean troops crossed the 38th parallel, invading their southern neighbor. Wars and rumors of wars have interrupted the peace of the world ever since, as they seem to have since the dawn of humankind. At this time, the world stands again upon a precipice, threatened anew with mass destruction, suffering, and death. Some say that the Third World War may have already begun on the day a few short weeks ago when Russian dictator Vladimir Putin gave the order to invade neighboring Ukraine. Some say it began years earlier, comparing Russia’s annexation of the Crimea to Hitler’s absorption of the Sudetenland. Only future historians will know the answer. For now, all anyone can hope for is that there never is a World War III. As dark and dreary as such realities may be and as anxious about the future they may cause us to be, one can only imagine how much worse the world today would be had it not been for the sacrifices of the Greatest Generation of World War II. We owe much to those who served and sacrificed in all our wars, even those that in retrospect seem ill-advised and less popular. Memorial Day is meant to be exactly what it is called, a day to remember those who served and sacrificed and all too often made the ultimate sacrifice. The bullies and bad guys, the autocrats and generalissimos do not give up without a fight. It seems that a new Greatest Generation is now hearing the call to defend all that is fair and kind and decent. Lorin Swinehart

Saw you in the Ojo

Charro Mother’s Day Celebration By Larry Kolczak

he village of Ajijic is steeped in the Mexican cowboy (charro) tradition. Even when competing in rodeos, the charro presents a cavalier image. He wears a classic sombrero, a silk bow tie, and a well-tailored, silver-ornamented costume that evokes the chivalry of an earlier age. So when I heard that the Ajijic Charro Association was hosting a Mother’s Day bash at their local rodeo arena, I wondered what it would be like. The stands were overflowing. The “banda” music was blaring. The tequila was—well, let’s just say available. This was, after all, a family affair. Every mother in the crowd received a free ticket for the dozens of prizes that would be raffled off that day. For entertainment, the crowd got to cheer on teams of mothers who competed for prizes ranging from food baskets to shiny new pots and pans. What? You were expecting perfumes and jewelry? We’re talking traditional motherhood here. The charro culture has barely emerged from the fifties... the eighteen-fifties! The competitions began with the old standards you might see at any Mother’s Day picnic: musical chairs, tugof-war. These gradually degenerated to more contemporary contests, such as the foot race where you had to chug a 14-ounce can of malt liquor and spin around three times before you started running. As a result, the distance they ran was considerably longer than the length of the track. Now that the contestants were sufficiently lubricated, they were invited to participate in a notso-traditional competition—pole dancing. “Gee, Ma, where’d ya learn that?” But if mothers wanted to graduate beyond the pots and pans and compete for the big bucks (about $100 apiece), they had to sign up for a more charro-oriented competition. The picnic was over. We were now talking fullbody-contact sports. All they had to do was retrieve a red bandana that was tightly tied around the base of the horns of a 300-pound bull calf. How hard can that be? Well, you might ask the charro who opened the gate releasing the bull. He wound

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up being chased clear across the arena where the bull helped launch him over the wall to safety. The bull’s horns were padded, but there were still several hundred pounds of prime beef on the hoof ready to take on all comers. This was not like flag football, where you just needed to snatch the bandana as the bull passed by. The only way to get the bandana was to wrestle the bull to a standstill and do your best to untie what my sailor friends used to call a “knife knot.” The women, each armed with only a blanket, strode bravely into the arena. I’m not sure to what extent the malt liquor helped. Perhaps the bull would have trouble catching them because they couldn’t run in a straight line. Some women tried the matador approach, but that only irritated the bull. It did nothing to stop him in his tracks. Some lined up like bowling pins, only to end up with a 7-10 split. A few thought they could tackle the bull by themselves, only to join the rest of the bowling pins. Eventually, the women got organized and began acting as a team. One grabbed hold of the bull’s tail, slowing him down. The bravest woman came in from the front, covering the bull’s eyes with her blanket. Others promptly came in from the sides, throwing their arms around the bull’s neck and holding on to the thrashing horns. Eventually, the front woman managed to untie the knot and wave the bandana in a victory dance. The crowd went wild. Hats and seat cushions were thrown from the stands like at a bullfight. The women paraded around the arena like proud matadors, tossing back the hats, and nodding in appreciation. Bruised and battered, these women had won the honor of shaking the hand of the town mayor as he handed out the cash prizes. But I think the real prize for these women was having earned the respect of the charro community. Their families and friends would forever remember that they were victorious in a rough-and-tumble sport worthy of the charro tradition. And one can only hope their families would forget that their mothers had ever participated in a pole dancing contest.

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A Mexican Village Wedding By Gabrielle Blair

“

ome at 6:00 pm sharp,” our Mexican maid, the bride-to-be, instructed me, “but the Mexicans are invited for 5:00 pm,” she explained with a giggle, “because they’re always late.” So I strode up the hill from Seis Esquinas to the venue to be there at 5:45. The big open-air eventos was already packed, the guests seated at white-clothed tables with center-pieces of real roses. As I took in the crowd— there must have been well over 200 people and more still rolling in—I realized that I was the only non-Mexican. One of the bride’s many sisters led me to a table marked reserved, close to the head table, which was decorated with bunches of balloons, flowers, and artificial strings of vines, defining the area where the civil wedding would take place. At one end of the huge space was the bar and open kitchen where four or five women were balling and patting mountains of tortillas. No one would go hungry. Men and women waiters, smartly dressed in black, dashed back and forth across the concrete yard taking orders for drinks and returning with bottles of beer and cold jamaica tea or orange juice in plastic cups. The male guests were dressed casual, but the women made up for it in tight, form-fitting evening dresses with lots of makeup and long hair stylishly coiffed. The little boys were in suits and the girls wore fluffy dresses and bows in their hair. I had chosen to wear a skirt and very light summer blouse, but the evening was hot and soon the sweat was running down my back. The disc jockey, contentedly beating time with his fingers, kept the music cranked to conversation-diminishing levels and then, at 6:00 pm sharp, the wedding march was piped in and the bride and her father, slowly hobbling with a cane, made their way to the head table. The bride’s floor-length dress was of a soft, metallic material in deep mauve. Her long, black hair was loose, adorned with a white-and-silver headpiece pinned to one side. The groom wore a white, short-sleeved,

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black-embroidered shirt and grey pants, the ensemble topped off with a white sombrero and dark glasses. The marriage ceremony was short, followed by family and friends taking turns at the microphone to spontaneously congratulate the couple. I was surprised when the mic was offered to me and, knowing my bit of Spanish would not do justice to what I would like to say, I spoke a few words in English, which no one seemed to mind. Then the guests lined up to hug and kiss the bride and groom and to give them their presents. Some loud fireworks announced the formal part was over and the fun was about to begin. A twelve-piece brass and percussion band, dressed in gold lame jackets and white pants, took their places on the raised stage, each with microphone. Their announcer, speaking faster than a machine gun, fired up the band to ear-splitting volume as the wedding couple took the first dance. The groom had changed into a pink shirt and jeans, but for some reason kept on his dark glasses and sombrero. Waiters scurried from the kitchen carrying trays stacked with Styrofoam plates of meat, rice and beans, and piles of tortillas. Children twirled and pranced on the concrete dance floor, and one tiny little boy marched in perfect timing worthy of a military parade, while almost no other couples chose to dance. When my eardrums were fit to burst, I decided not to wait for the wedding cake and took my leave. Way down the hill, when I reached home, I could still hear the music and I wondered whether others, stoked with a few more beers, might have ventured onto the dance floor. Surprisingly, other than the really loud music, the whole event was quite subdued. I think I was hoping for more of the extrovert joie de vivre that I have come to expect of a Mexican fiesta. Gabrielle Blair

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Ready or Not

he 1960s were a turbulent time. I was a child during a period of fear of nuclear power and discord in Cuba. Castro was discussed often, along with Russia and missiles that could hit U.S. shores. Parents mirrored concern and tried unsuccessfully to act like everything was under control. At my parochial school we received a memo to take home to our parents. This was unusual. The memo outlined the requirement that we each were to be assigned “dog tags” with our personal information and wear them at all times. We had to have an emergency evacuation bag at school. The bags contents were listed on the memo, in a list which outlined the following: Canned goods such as soup Several pairs of underwear A change of clothes Toothbrush and toothpaste I’m sure there was more survival gear, but it was so long ago I can’t remember it all. What I do remember is that our getaway bag had to have our name on it, for identification purposes. My mother, a frustrated artist, took this task as an art assignment. She sewed a beige bag with a drawstring top. A bright red band of fabric closed the top firmly. The final touch was my name, embroidered in bright red script, large and beautiful across the front of the sack. When I arrived at school, other students had pillowcases with their names inked hastily and sloppily as an afterthought, rubber bands closing the tops. I was so proud of my bag, I turned to the back wall of our class often to admire my mom’s handiwork, standing out amongst the pile of sacks.

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I had concerns about wearing my dog tag. I asked my mother why I needed a tag when I could just tell people where I lived and who I was. She paused, carefully weighing her words. She did not want to mention that I may be dead, so instead she informed me we may have to go far away when escaping and I might not be able to explain where I lived. I accepted her explanation reluctantly. To make everything even more frightening we had to watch a black and white government training film on what to do in case of an atomic bomb attack. There would be a huge bright flash and we were to hide beneath our desks and listen to our teachers. There was no mention of our instant incineration or radiation poisoning that I recall. Things were all hastily handled by teachers trying to underplay nuclear obliteration. Decades passed. Today I see our world once again talking about which countries are nuclear armed. Leaders are claiming allies and having photo opportunities with them. International groups are in perpetual meetings to address the state of the planet, and how to avoid nuclear annihilation. I stay perplexed that humankind has made so little progress in half a century for how to relate to other countries. I want to be optimistic, yet the news offers little positivity. I feel as helpless now as I did in the sixties. I want our world leaders to find a way out of the chaos, military aggression, and discord of our era. I cross my fingers in hope. Katina Pontikes

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COLUMNIST

RAMBLINGS FROM THE RANCH By Christina Bennett

very so often The Ranch is fortunate enough to have volunteers from all over the world happy and willing to walk and feed dogs, play with puppies and interact with our local staff and other volunteers. Sometimes those volunteers are teenagers that bring their enthusiasm and energy, brightening everyone’s day. Although most teenagers want to spend their spring break at the beach, Ian Shreve would rather work with rescue dogs. Eighteenyear-old Ian just finished his second spring break volunteering at The Ranch. He attends an International High School Program in Eugene, Oregon, and has also been in Spanish Immersion since age five. As part of his school requirements, he needed to perform some volunteer work in Spanish. His former neighbors now live in Ajijic and they connected Ian with The Ranch while he was vacationing here. An experienced “dog person,” Ian has also volunteered at a shelter in Oregon. He was very impressed with The Ranch, noting that the dogs have more space to run around and also more interaction with people than where he’s worked in Oregon. Ian found his experience at The Ranch to be extremely rewarding. He worked largely with the Spanish-speaking staff members at The Ranch and felt they were very friendly. He spent his time feeding and giving water to the dogs, walk-

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ing them, and assisting with vaccinations and veterinarian visits. Ian and his mom have also been Flight Angels, transporting dogs from here to adopters in Portland. Ian does have a favorite dog at The Ranch, a big, lovable Boxer named Victoria. Ian describes her as so sweet and loves attention. She’s calm, doesn’t jump up or bark much and simply adores people. Victoria is also easy to walk, despite her size. Ian finds it sad that Victoria has been at the shelter so long. “People are put off because she doesn’t really like other dogs,” he said. “But she’d be great for any home where she’d be the only dog. She’s not aggressive with other dogs when walking or anything and she just loves affection from people.” Katie, another teen volunteer, was also at The Ranch last summer. Preparing to enter college in the fall to pursue a career in veterinary medicine. Katie’s grandparents live Lakeside and her family has their own adopted Ranch dog they all adore, so when Katie got the chance to spend time at The Ranch she was thrilled. During her time she witnessed some of the surgical procedures the Ranch vets perform, as well as administering meds and vaccinations to the current dogs waiting for their forever homes. Most importantly for Katie, just like Ian, she was able to indulge her love of animals daily and give the wonderful Ranch dogs the attention they crave and deserve. If you would like to volunteer or learn more about The Ranch contact us at adoptaranchdog@outlook.com or donate by visiting our website at Theranchchapala.com.

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COLUMNIST

By Scott Jones

used to think I knew English before living in Asia with Brits, Kiwis, Aussies, Canadians, and Germans that speak better English than I. My first clue that I only spoke American was in London while trying to get a computer on the phone to accept my credit card. Ms. VoiceActivated asks, “Please state your card number.” I do so over and over, but she/ it cannot understand my pronunciation of the number 3. ‘“Three! Thry? Throy? Tarie! Thahry! Throw-oy! 2 plus1! 7 minus 4! We Three Kings, goddamn it! Is there an American computer in the office?” Thirtythree strikes and you’re out. I gave up. Another American and I were evaluating a British teacher-trainee learning to teach English to a Thai class. She asks the students, “What’s the silent letter in the word work?” We Yankees look at each other, simultaneously thinking: There are no silent letters in “work.” In English, it seems, there is—the “r.” She removes the “r” from the whiteboard and instructs the students how to say “wok” which they all have at home in their kitchens. She also says “Herb,” pronouncing the h, which was my uncle’s name, not a spicy plant, with a silent h. She failed American. I failed English. Spellings are not the same. “The two-metre neighbour with the cosy flat fantasised about a jewellery licence, flavourful haggis and coloured cheques whilst snogging his missis.” Try that through an American spellchecker. Meanings aren’t the same, especially around cars. The “boot” is the trunk, the “bonnet” is the hood and “petrol” is certainly not gas, which my “mates” who are not forgiving friends, have reminded me six million times. “You’ve got gas? Was it the spicy curry? Fancy some bicarbonate or a cork?” When I began to write a weekly column for Chiangmai Mail, an English-language newspaper run locally by two Germans, edited by an Australian, and read by the international community, it got very confusing. My British dictionaries and spell-checkers don’t always agree, since there are 500

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Photo 1: A very, very, very steep hill near Pai. The bikers are dead now.

Photo 2: Your brakes and wheels may survive the first hill, but not the next. dialects per square-whatever-theyuse-over-there. Instead of miles, it’s kilometers in Thailand, which is spelled kilometres. The temperature is Celsius, not Fahrenheit, unless it’s 40. “We’d love to have you in our country. Here’s the door in and the door out.” Unofficially, it’s now the Land of Smiles and warm ones greet me wherever I go. So besides the smiling faces, the spicy food, the cool seas, the hot weather, the soaring mountains, the sweet valleys, the loud parties, the silent temples, the real freedom, and the pace of life in Thailand, I love to ride through it all on a motorcycle. There is a wealth of classic roads less traveled, though you never know what will or won’t be around the corner. Scott was born in Fargo, North Dakota, but he takes pills for it. Life in the Laugh Lane at www.lifeinthelaughlane.com, web www.kingcobrapress.com and Amazon.com Scott Jones

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Ballad Of The Abandoned Cubreboca By Tom Nussbaum

here it was. In the middle of the sidewalk. Blocking my path. A black mask. A cubreboca, a mouth cover to protect someone from germs, COVID, death, and worse. Discarded. Abandoned. Lost. Had it fallen from a pocket or purse? Had it been tossed away with anger and frustration? Had it slipped from an ear where it had dangled like a drying Victoria’s Secret bra from a shower head? I stopped, studying it in its creased, crushed condition, an imprinted dusty footprint causing obvious pain. A wave of pity washed over me. I bent over to pick it up, to save it, to give it new life. As I reached for it, the mask spoke. “Don’t you touch me!” it ordered. I retracted my hand. “What?” I

sprung upright. “You don’t know me. You don’t know where I’ve been. And I don’t know if you’ve washed your hands recently. I don’t smell any sanitizing gel.” I stared at the trampled cloth, my mouth agape. I had never been lectured to by a mask before. “I wash my hands all the time,” I defended. “And who are you to ques—” “Mark. I’m Mark, the mask.” He paused and looked at my hand. “Car-

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rying your mask in your hand isn’t going to protect you.” He eyed it. His eyebrow arched. “Why does your mask have a marijuana leaf on it? You a pothead?” I looked around to see if anyone was watching, listening, witnessing this exchange. No one was. I bolted down the block. I could hear Mark, the mask, yelling in my direction, “Put your damn mask on.” I did. It wasn’t so much because of health concerns or safety, but because Mark was freaking me out. “Damn mask” echoed in my ears. As I started to cross the street, a turquoise Ford Edsel drove by, running over a plain white surgical mask in the street. A tire tread now covered the mask, partially hiding the logo of nearby Kildare-Welby Medical Center. The mask groaned. I stared at it. Our eyes locked. “Sir,” he whispered with a rasp, “can you call Dr. Ben Casey at KWMC and tell him he dropped me when he was lighting a cigarette? And then call an ambulance.” I nodded and moved out of the street. As I stepped onto the sidewalk and reached for my cell, I looked back. The mask was gone. I pivoted around and began to run. But another black mask, this one with a skeletal Catrina face on it, smacked me in the forehead. It was hanging from a spindly, dry, dead tree branch. “What are you doing there?” I asked with surprise. “Waiting for my ride,” he said in Spanish. “Oh,” I said, as if I understood the language or the answer, and moved on. On the next block, a pastel pink cubreboca winked at me from the sidewalk’s edge, by the curb. “Help me,” she pleaded. “I’m absolutely filthy. I need a bath.” She undulated seductively in the breeze. “I’m not touching you. I don’t know you. I don’t know where you’ve been,” I said having learned my les-

son from Mark, the mask. I looked at her more closely. “You are filthy. What is that black stuff on you?” “Mascara. That damn bitch used me as a mouth covering during the day and a sleeping mask at night.” Skepticism covered my face. “And you want me to take you home. No. I’m not doing that.” She glared at me. “I’m not a whore, you know. I just need a bath and want someone to love m—” I dashed away. But within a few steps I tripped over a well-worn, faded floral- patterned mask. “Be careful, young man,” she said. “Can’t you see how old I am?” “I’m sorry.” I studied her. She had a lot of wrinkles. “How old are you?” “I’m a veteran of the 2009 H1N1 epidemic.” I looked surprised. “Well, you look terrific, ma’am,” I lied, trying to show some respect. “Why thank you, young man. But you can move on. I’m sure you have better things to do than talk to an old mask.” She smiled as if our interaction had been the highlight of her day. I smiled back, nodded at her, and continued on my way toward my neighbor Miriam Maskovitz’s new business, a spa, where I was going to receive a facial, my first ever. I needed it because my skin was reddened and irritated from months of masks rubbing against it. As I neared the spa, a U.S. flag-patterned mask blew across the sidewalk, stopping at the wall next to the spa door. “Spare change, mister?” he asked. “Spare change? Why?” “I’m trying to get home.” “Home? Where’s home?” “Damascus, Oregon,” he answered with yearning in his voice. I shook my head. “I’m not giving you any spare change. You’re a damn ma—” Ignoring my refusal, the mask asked,” Did you go to Woodstock in 1969?” My brows furrowed. “Woodstock? Yes. I was there. Why do you ask?” “Because you’re having an acid flashback right now.” Panicked, I spun toward the door. As I opened it, its signage morphed from “Chutz-Spa” to “Cubrebocas R Us.” I entered. “Hi!” Miriam greeted me. Racks of masks, cubrebocas in all colors and patterns, waved at me from the wall behind her. “Flashback? Yes. I think so.” Tom Nussbaum

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Centro Educativo Jaltepec Successful Virtual Open House February 15th 2022 Submitted by Carole Baker Assistant Community Facilitator, Jaltepec We would like to take this opportunity to express our heartfelt thanks to our new Centro Educativo Jaltepec sponsors and to our current sponsors who continue to provide the financial and emotional support for our scholarship students that will benefit them and their families for three to four generations. Our annual open house was originally planned to be held at the campus of Centro Educativo Jaltepec complete with a lunch hosted by our students, to demonstrate their skills in hospitality through the preparation of a delicious meal. But once again the COVID situation meant a change of plan. Our team adapted quickly and prepared a 30-minute power-packed virtual open house which was a big success. Our team consists of Linda Buckthorp, Jaltepec Community Facilitator; Montse González, our Fundraising Coordinator; and Sandra González, Administrator and Coordinator with the BECA foundation in Guadalajara, as well as Carole Baker, Assistant Community Facilitator presently residing in Ottawa. In virtual attendance were supporters and sponsors from as far away as Mississippi, Texas, Ottawa, and Mexico. The focus of this year’s presentation was the entrepreneurial program, the virtual education program and the mentorship program. Director of Education Lupita Canepa introduced videos highlighting three successful alumnae who have gone on to earn secondary degrees and attain rewarding careers. However, the stars of the show were this year’s new scholarship students, all of whom have been blessed to receive full scholarships. Two are preparatoria students, five are first year students, and we had one asking for a second year scholarship as she had been able to pay for her first year at Jaltepec but was unable to continue without help. In addition, it was an opportunity to acknowledge the wonderful supporters who have committed to continue to sponsor their students for this year’s program. Four of these students graduated from preparatoria and are now in their first year, and six students have progressed to their second year and will graduate in August 2022. All of this group of 18 students sent video messages to their sponsors on their cell phones from wherever they were, at school or at home. The sound was not always perfect, but the messages came from their hearts. Sandra and Montse prepared PowerPoint slides of the videos of the students speaking directly to their sponsors, thanking them for their support and helping them to achieve their dreams. RECONSTRUCTION UPDATE Presently the institute is continuing to undergo extensive renovations. The conference centers have been completely rebuilt and are back to functioning under strict COVID rules. The rest of the campus has been totally demolished to ground level. Jaltepec is presently focused on completing the reconstruction of all the students’ quarters, and at this point it is projected that it will still take two more years to finish everything.

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Marion Davies and Me By Leslie Johansen Nack

hat makes a feminist? Is it the result of a smart woman living her life under the thumb of a powerful man? Marion Davies lived much of her adult life with the controlling and uber-powerful William Randolph Hearst. Her unconventional life meant she had to endure the scrutiny of that relationship with Hearst through the lens of the class and caste system of America in the 1920s and ‘30s. I lived under the thumb of my father Bjorn Erling Johansen who thought he had a right to my body, my mind, and my thoughts. We both became feminists, Marion and me, though I’m not sure anybody has ever called Ms. Davies that before. She never marched for

the woman’s right to vote and she never, that we know of, protested the mistreatment of women. But she ran a film studio, and made savvy real estate investments, at a time when very few women did. When I visited Hearst Castle a few years ago, a docent mentioned that Marion Davies saved Hearst by loaning him $1 Million during the Great Depression. That surprised and intrigued me—I wanted to

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know more about the woman who saved the most powerful newspaper man in the world. My research over the following two-and-a-half years fleshed out a complicated and sometimes difficult story of a young woman who made a choice at the age of eighteen to take up with a man thirtyfour years her senior. It changed her life and her entire family’s history, but she was under his thumb from then on. I saved my father. I didn’t have a million dollars, but I literally saved his life. He was unconscious and unresponsive with a high fever in the middle of the night as our sailboat headed toward an atoll. As the de facto First Mate, I jumped into action—at only fourteen years old, I had already trained for years for this situation by the very man who lay in his bunk unconscious. We had sailed to French Polynesia on our fortyfive-foot sailboat with our captainfather a few months earlier, with no mother in the picture. Two years of training on trimming the sails and steering through squalls, plus endless man-overboard drills had toughened me up. And navigating with a sextant—plotting and figuring shots—had me competing with dad to see who could get the most accurate position. But as I got better at all these jobs, the tension between us increased as he yelled at me, putting me down physically, criticizing my body, or worse, ignoring and disregarding me altogether. My confidence plummeted as his thumb pressed down on me. That controlling thumb pressed down on Marion as well. Hearst controlled her life and her career. Where Marion wanted to make comedies or play strong females, he insisted on her starring in wholesome family or historical dramas. And partly because she was caught up in a feud between Hearst and Orson Welles— his big thumb is Citizen Kane, where

she’s portrayed as a talentless bored alcoholic. I know there isn’t much to feel sorry about when it comes to Marion Davies, is there? The woman lived in Hearst Castle after all! William Randolph Hearst gave her every material thing he could think of. And yet, all along, she worked steadily and hard, churning out forty-four movies, and after twenty years in the movie industry, is never given credit for what she accomplished. Ultimately Marion never got out from under the thumb. Neither did I really, but you can. You have more legal and societal tools at your disposal, to help even the playing field of life. The thumb may look a bit different today for certain people, but maybe not. Women of color have a different thumb on them than white women do, that thumb is not always a father or a husband, it can be the whole system of institutionalized racism that women of color fight against every day to get equal opportunities and economic justice. White men are still running the world after all, though many evolved men are helping in our fight. Women make deeper inroads every day. Times have changed and we are all evolving, but we have much farther to go. The thumb still shows up somewhere in every woman’s life, pressing down, making some of us rise and push back against this unwanted authority over our person—and thus is born the feminist. Leslie Johansen Nack is the author of Fourteen, A Daughter’s Memoir of Adventure, Sailing and Survival, and her debut novel being published May 3 2022 called The Blue Butterfly, A Novel of Marion Davies. For more information, please go Leslie Johansen to lesliejohansennack.com

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YOU

COLUMNIST

and Your Doctor Are Your Medical Team By Jackie Kellum

ou might associate my name with my Ojo pet articles, and not necessarily human medical topics. I was invited about 12 years ago by Ojo’s then-editor, Alex Grattan, to write a pet column because of my extensive experience with fostering infant motherless kittens and puppies. The focus of my columns has been to help people understand their pets better, so they could provide their care in a more informative way. In many ways care of a pet is very similar to taking care of a human loved one, as well as ourselves. We are responsible for making decisions, observing changes, identifying medical problems, keeping medical appointments, possibly giving medications, etc. I believe we can all keep learning about how to best care for ourselves, and our loved ones. My professional career for 40 plus years has been as a licensed registered nurse, having worked briefly in New York City, but mainly in Northern California. During these years I had a wide variety of hands-on work experiences, including: medical surgical patient care; acute rehabilitation of spinal cord, head injury and stroke patients; teaching both the patient and family how to deal with disabilities; a visiting nurse, making home visits; an assistant director of nurses at a 186bed Medicare-certified Skilled Nursing Facility (SNF); a director of nursing of a 99-bed Medicare-certified SNF; manager of quality review at a non-profit “watch dog” organization overseeing care provided to Medicare recipients in Northern California; and lastly, as a manger of health services of a non-profit health care plan. I am not outlining my work experience for the sake of bragging, nor does it have anything to do with border promotions. All that I have listed is accurate and true. From my various work experiences and positions, I have gained

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a lot of insight about how to help a person become more involved and educated with managing their own health and working as part of the health team, as a participating member, and not as a bystander. The focus of my forth-coming articles is to emphasize that YOU, as “the patient,” are part of your own medical team! I emphasize team, as that is what it is. Decisions are not made in isolation. You have a vested interest in your own health as an active participant and should be as educated as possible about decisions and actions that affect you. In my columns, I will not give medical advice about medical conditions, which type of doctor to see, what tests should be utilized, what medications you should be taking, etc. These are medical decisions you must make with the help of your medical team. However, there is a wide area of general information and subjects outside of these above-mentioned specific medical topics that I can help offer guidance on, based on my experiences. My first suggestion is to have a primary care physician (PCP), aka a family doctor who will be your “main doctor” for your general health problems/conditions, and who will also coordinate your care if you see any specialists. If you already have a family doctor, good decision. If you do not and keep thinking you’ll wait until you’re sick and need a doctor to pick one, then not so good. When you are well and not acutely ill, you make clearer decisions as time is not pushing you into making a quick decision when you are already challenged with a medical situation. Think about that. Hope to see you back. Next article: What to Consider When Picking a Doctor. Jackie Kellum

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COLUMNIST

Verdant View

By Francisco Nava

“Ra, Ra, Sis Boom Bah”

n one of the grandest civilizations of all time, Ra was the ancient Egyptian deity of the sun and the month of May seems to be a month long tribute to the sun god, it being the hottest and driest month of the year here at Lakeside. The sun, which makes it possible for life to exist on Earth, is the closest star to the planet Earth. At a distance of 150 million kilometers (93 million miles), its gravitational pull holds the planet in orbit. Solar energy, light and heat radiate from it. What would life be like here on earth without the sun? Sunlight is highly dynamic. The sun moves constantly throughout the day;

also from season to season. Plants need sunlight to grow. Animals, including humans, need plants to provide food and oxygen to breathe. Without heat from the sun the Earth would freeze and there would be no winds, clouds to transport water nor ocean currents. Although most plants flourish in full sun, some vegetables and herbs are more tolerant of less light. Leafy vegetables need a minimum of 4 hours of

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sun every day, root vegetables need a minimum of 6 hours of sun every day and fruiting vegetables need the most, optimally 8 hours or more of sun to produce an excellent crop. Early civilizations around the world positioned buildings to face south to gather heat and light. Clerestory windows and skylights allowed for air circulation. These are elements of sustainable architecture. Selective shading and choosing building materials with thermal mass, meaning they store heat, are other aspects of sustainable (solar) architecture. Solar energy can also be used to make potable water, suitable for drinking. One method is solar disinfection (SODIS). SODIS involves filling plastic bottles with water then exposing them to sunlight for several hours. This process reduces the viruses, bacteria and protozoa in water. More than 2 million people in 28 developing nations use this method daily for their drinking water. The sun also gives us free and clean energy in abundance. It gives much more energy than we can possibly use. How and when can we take full advantage of this solar energy? I guess the answer is up to us to figure out. So keep your plants watered well this month and ask if their position in

the sun is optimal for their needs and growth at this time of year. What to plant in May This month is the hottest and driest of the entire year. Extra water is needed and possibly some shelter during the hottest time of day for you and your garden. Portulaca thrives, lantana, geraniums, pentas too. Look for them at the viveros. At this time of the year, it is usually too hot for pansies, petunias and primrose. Some gardeners have good luck with these in their cool, shade gardens…but for most these plants are “iffy” at best now. The Reina de la Noche blooms in May (look for these.) Start cucumbers, squash as well as eggplant, but remember they need lots of water (moist, well-drained soil). You could also put in sweet corn now, but most people wait until the rains begin. Plant seeds for gaillardia, coreopsis, coleus and cleome. Cut back ageratum, alyssum and petunias after blooming and geraniums too, removing their shaggy growth. They will all look better for it. Don’t forget to mist your orchids regularly. - “Sun, sun, sun here it comes.” Francisco Nava

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Kim LeMieux Email: kimslakesideliving@gmail.com Ph: +1-650-863-3928

The Lake Chapala Society host Open Circle every Sunday at 10:30am, a popular community gathering in Ajijic, to enjoy a diverse range of presentations. Entrance by the side gate on Ramón Corona, gate opens at 9:30am. We recommend bringing a hat and bottled water, and please remove containers upon departure. Use of mask is mandatory and chairs will be socially distanced. Please make your reservation if you want to attend. https://opencircleajijic.org/ reservation_form.php Check their website for upcoming presentations and if you missed a past presentation you can still enjoy it on line. https://opencircleajijic.org/ May 1, 2022 - Presentation by David Rosh: The Universal Threshold to Life: The Experience of Grief and Loss We all begin our life journey in a warm and protected space – the peace of our mother’s womb. It would seem the Creator intended for that amniotic universe to be paradise. What is true, paradise or not, is we all got evicted. I have come to see that loss is the SINE QUA NON for the journey. We are born via traumatic loss. We are endowed from the first moment with our most overlooked gift – our breath. Each new breath is born out of loss. David Rosh Then, the new born shows us that we come equipped with survival energies: pain, anger, fear and love. Although these energies have no moral value, when not honored, they can result in behavior ignoble, even villainous. Our learning the healthy expression of these feelings transforms not just “paradise lost” but the constant of loss into a JOURNEY TOWARD WHOLENESS. For most, if not all of us, a significant measure of those energies gets pushed down, ignored, rationalized, intellectualized, anesthetized through ignorance, addiction and/or dysfunctional programming. Whatever has been your most recent or painful loss, I invite you to an 8 week experience of transforming that loss into liberation and empowerment. That’s your win. In exchange for this service, I ask that you gift the Lakeside Food Bank, following each session, with an amount of your choosing. Win/Win David Rosh began his work as a priest and teacher. After earning a master’s degree in social work from Rutgers University he made his career as a psychotherapist, licensed marriage counselor and certified family therapist. His postgraduate studies and passion continue to be the study of transpersonal psychology. He served as Spiritual Coach with Hospice of the Valley for eight years. For over 20 years he led experiences of liberation and empowerment as a certified Grief Recovery Specialist with Arizona Banner Hospice having served some 8000 clients. He is a certified Infinite Possibilities Trainer. He proudly offers as his claim to fame walking “the wild woozy” while engaged in a Native American Vision Quest in the Adirondack Mountains of New York. May 8, 2022 - Presentation by Fernando Ausin Sustainability Leadership BioTU is a sustainability education program that inspires sustainability-minded leadership and a deep sense of community collaboration through practical education, local opportunities, and replicable solutions. We provide educational resources that support the restoration of local environments

Fernando Ausin

through feasible solutions that leverage ecotechnologies and that promote sustainable entrepreneurship within communities in a creative, conscious, and enriching way. After 13 years of a mobile educational program crisscrossing Mexico and beyond, BioTU is currently developing its first Sustainability Education Training Center lakeside at the CETAC01 technical high school campus in Jocotepec. Please join us in co-creating an innovative and inspiring methodology for today’s students and future generations. You can learn more about their work at www.biotu.org. Fernando Ausin is an international social entrepreneur with a strong passion for social justice and global sustainability. For the past 15 years, he has been studying the promise of survival for humanity from an indigenous perspective, traveling across 48 states in the US and most of Mexico to learn from scientists, academics and indigenous elders. He is the Co-Founder and Executive Director to BioTU, where he helps transmit their lessons to younger generations. He holds a BA in Latin American politics from Dartmouth College and has worked extensively as a consultant, educator and healer around the globe. For more information about Fernando, you can visit www.facebook.com/fausingomez/ May 15 - Presentation by Juanita Crampton Post Life Planning for Pets Ajijic and Lakeside communities are animal lovers. Expats and Mexican families are giving homes to many of the stray dogs and cats that have traditionally roamed the streets in record numbers. The question for us older expats, is what do we do with our pets when we can no longer care for them. The truth is many of us have pets who will outlive us. We are making end of life plans for ourselves. Are we making end of life plans for our pets? Post Life Planning for Pets is a new program Lakeside whose mission is to raise awareness about the need to plan. This is a program embraced by the animal rescue community as a way to minimize animals being Juanita Crampton dumped or abandoned when an owner dies. The program suggests guidelines for making a plan. This talk can offer a conversation and answer questions about planning for pets. Juanita Crampton is an Ajijic resident, retired here for 5 1/2 years. Animal lover and visionary for the program Post Life Planning for Pets. Formerly a business owner and co-creator of Sattwa Chai, a nationally recognized chai brand in the US and Canadian markets. Partner in Briggs and Crampton caterers and Table for Two in Portland Oregon. Social worker in case management with low income adults and in resource development for developmentally disabled adults. May 29 - Presentation by David Greenstein The Innocence Project, Wrongly Convicted Frightening and fascinating. Real stories of real people who have been freed by The Innocence Project, including some in Mexico. What happens when an innocent person is convicted and all avenues of appeal have been closed? The Innocence Project is not part of the legal system. It is private and has had over 1,000 people freed, some off Death Rows. Understand innocent is not the same as “Not Guilty.” I have given this talk to well over 10,000 people during the 9-years I did Enrichment Lectures on Royal Caribbean cruises. On many cruises this talk was voted one of the “Top Ten” best features of onboard “activities.” It won’t disappoint. Q&A period available after talk.

David Greenstein A Day In The Life Of A Despensa I’m just a bag of groceries — beans, rice, soap, milk, eggs. When we arrived, we were sorted into smaller bags called despensas at the Surtido Warehouse in Chapala. We were tossed by Surtido workers Cesar and Martha into the hands of Javier and dumped in the back of his pickup truck. Then off we went to the pueblo of Santa Cruz, where I get to ease the suffering of elderly, sick and out-ofContinued on page 34

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work folks who – without me – do not know where their next meal will come from. Javier owns a little tienda in town and he knows everyone on a first name basis. He served as our guide to the 35 families who were on the FoodBank Lakeside list to receive groceries this week, delivering the life-sustaining despensas to the families. Another 40 families receive their despensas next week. Javier unloaded my fellow despensas from the truck at various houses while Juanita, the coordinator who, like Javier, knows everyone in town, checked off recipients’ names. Dogs and cats were not forgotten, either. They got their own despensa. In March FoodBank Lakeside celebrated its two year anniversary. They are currently delivering despensas to over 700 families each month. In addition their partnership with Poco a Poco San Pedro Itzicán in the Kids Kitchen program, provides over 3000 nutritious mid day meals each week to children that are most at risk for food poverty in the indigenous villages east of Chapala. To learn more about volunteer

and/or donation opportunities, please visit their website at www.foodbanklakeside.org or their facebook page at fb.com/foodbanklakeside Gelli Printing MASTERCLASS with Dr. Blanca Ruth Casanova May 12 & 13 (Thursday & Friday) 11am – 1pm Learn how to make monoprints on gelatin with acrylics. This fun technique creates surprising and beautiful results. For beginning and advanced students. Cost per class: 400 pesos Cost for reusable materials for beginners: 1,300 pesos Teacher: Dr. Blanca Ruth Casanova, Ph.D., Art Educator and Visual Artist MATA ORTIZ CERAMICS MASTERCLASS with José Loya and Ana Pena May 24-27 (Tuesday – Friday) 11an-3pm Mata Ortiz pottery is based on the prehistoric Paquimé techniques found at the Casas Grandes World Heritage Site in the state of Chihuahua. In this four-day workshop, you will learn pre-Colombian and contemporary pottery techniques. You will hand build a pre-Columbian style pot from your own hand-made single piece mould. Pots will be finished using Mata Ortiz glazes and hand-made brushes. Pots will be fired on location. All materials, clay, plaster, brushes, glazes are supplied. No experience necessary. Instructor: José Loya and Ana Pena, Mata Ortiz Pottery Masters Cost for 4-day workshop: 2000 pesos Registration and enquiries : dianepearlclasses@gmail.com Lakeside Published Writer’s Group is back at El Gato Feo Cafe + Roastery with their “Meet the Authors” event. There will be 3 authors reading from their works and answering a live Q+A at the end of each reading. Authors will have copies of their books for signing. This event will take place the second Wednesday of every month. Next one: May 11th. Readings start at 11. Come early: coffee is available. Meeting held in the lovely salon of Estrellita’s Bed & Breakfast. (Where El Gato Feo Cafe is located) Open to the public.

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The Subtle Secrets of Malta By Carol L. Bowman

hree inhabited islands of the archipelago of Malta have supported civilization since 5900 B.C. Located in the middle of the Mediterranean, south of Sicily and north of Libya, many empires, among them Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, French, and the British, have claimed these lands. Each has left indelible cultural, architectural, and political marks on the terrain and its people. A web search of “Malta” bombards the seeker with an onslaught of ancient temples, beaches, walled cities, cathedrals, remnants of 150 years of British occupation, and spoken English, to boot. So many activities are crammed into such a small land mass that it makes a traveler’s head spin. It’s an escape to faraway places with strange sounding names, like Willie Nelson’s tune. My husband and I joined the frenzy on a recent visit, during “the time of COVID.” Starting with activities, billed as “not to be missed,” I felt a lingering tug away from the bucket list. At the UNESCO World Heritage Sites of Hagar Qim and Mingdra, where ancient freestanding temples date back to 3600 B.C., we marveled at the world’s largest 20-ton megaliths, but I winced at the row of tourist buses waiting to unload the hordes.

Valletta Across from the seaside port of entry, we took the elevator up to the cliff’s mesa where the High Barrakka Gardens offer a respite before entering the capital city of Valletta. I politely pushed my way into a spot along the jammed stone retaining wall to gaze upon the beautiful Grand Harbor below. The original 1566 city gate into the smallest national capital in the European Union opened onto crowded, pedestrian streets. Trendy shops and cafes, tucked into neoclassical and baroque style buildings, swelled with tourists, eager to unleash their pent-up hunger for travel experiences. Our mission in Valletta: to visit the ornately gilded St. John’s Co-Cathedral, number 1 on the “not to be missed list.” The chivalric Order of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John had founded and protected this city over 500 years ago, and the eight-pointed Maltese cross emblem flag, adopted here in 1126, waved in the breeze from every light post. At the cathedral, the line of tourists waiting for entry streamed out the door. With an admission fee of 15 euros, and a requirement to dig out my vaccination card, I mouthed, “No, I’m not doing this.” From that moment on, I threw the bucket list away and allowed the subtle secrets of Malta to sink in. I strolled through centuries of quaint alleyways, studied clothing styles from laundry hanging outside terrace windows, and allowed my eyes, ears, and taste buds to do the exploring. Daphne Caruana Galiza As an alternative to the opulent cathedral, we searched for the memorial to Maltese investigative journalist and anti-corruption activist Daphne Caruana Galiza, who was assassinated by a car bomb on October 16, 2017. At the Great Siege Monument, I spied her picture on a simple, commemorative altar. Through her extensive reporting in the Sunday Times of Malta, Daphne singlehandedly exposed government corruption, money-laundering schemes, bribery of top officials, and the Panama Papers Scandal.

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Every country has its dirty secrets. Daphne Galiza revealed many of Malta’s by exposing unethical politicians. Daily death threats, her house set on fire, and, finally, her murder silenced this brave woman’s words and the truth. That same government declared a National Day of Mourning on the date of her funeral. At a local bakery, we grabbed two “must have” Maltese pastizzos, which turned out to be rich, flaky croissants filled with repulsive puréed peas. We shared the open space of St. George’s Square with locals who munched on identical pastries. They licked their lips with each bite, and contentedly swooned as if this was the most delicious late morning snack. It has to be an acquired taste, I decided, like scotch, and it has to be British. Mdina and Vittoriosa Two ancient, pedestrian-only, walled neighborhoods across the harbor from Valletta captured the feeling of a virtual history lesson. My favorite, Mdina, the old capitol of Malta, today is a well-preserved, impeccably maintained medieval town with a thousand years of stories to tell but only 300 current residents. Known as the “Silent City,” I tried to imagine the chaos that intruded on its quiet winding alleys, when film crews arrived to shoot scenes for The Game of Thrones, Gladiator and Troy. The other, Vittoriosa, one the Three Cities enclosed within the largest walled fortification is much bigger than Mdina, older than Valletta, and served as the original location that the Knights of St. John selected to govern the island. The city also overcame the attempted invasion of the Ottoman Turks in 1565. In both of these neighborhoods, unique architectural enhancements to the drab limestone buildings made the doorways, windows and balconies pop with color and imagination. Wandering through each town’s narrow streets, I couldn’t believe how fascinated I became with the history behind these architectural gems. Distinctive, elaborate door knockers, called il-habbata in Maltese, remain an iconic feature of residential front doors. Two identical door knockers, cast in bronze or brass, and positioned on opposite sides of colorfully painted, double wooden doors, made each entryway a work of art. The size of the knocker plus the elegant motifs of lions’ heads, nautical themes, or family crests symbolize the homeowner’s social status and wealth. In front of each door, a latticed wrought-iron half-gate with intricate cut-out designs, complements the striking entrance. This additional partial barrier allows the main door to remain

open so light and cool breezes can flow through. In ancient times, these gates prevented goats from entering. Milkmen of yore used to meander through the alleys with their herd, milking one on the spot to fill the order of a home’s mistress. The architectural addition of an enclosed, wooden second-floor balcony with either glass or mesh panes and fronting the street is considered a national symbol of Malta. The gallarya, which evolved during the occupation by the Arabs, had been introduced to provide Muslim women discretion when sitting on the terrace, without being viewed by passersby. Now, this architecturally rich adornment remains a “must have” for any homeowner. Second floor full-length windows with protruding curved wrought-iron grills mounted to protect the openings are known as “pregnant guards.” There are “nine-month, six-month, even ready-to- have-twins grilles, depending on the degree of bulge at the bottom. Ancient invaders hid beneath open windows and grabbed the feet of residents who stood there and dragged the victims off to use as slaves. The grilles provided protection for residents from this fate and later became a regular window security feature. A Dghaysa Boat Ride I longed to do one more thing before leaving Malta. We had circumvented the Grand Harbor for days, but had not boated across it. As if the gods were listening, as we exited Vittoriosa at the waterfront, a captain and his traditional water taxi seemed to be waiting for us. Originating in the 17th Century, this type of boat, called a dghaysa in Maltese, is cousin to the Venetian gondola. I loved seeing Valletta from the Grand Harbor, of passing by the ancient towns we had visited, of waving to boaters moored in the marina, with a brisk Mediterranean breeze blowing through my hair. Salisbury English Pub On our last evening, the hotel’s concierge advised, “You must have dinner on the waterfront.” We passed a quaint English pub just one block away, but continued walking down to the harbor. There, every restaurant was noisy and crowded with half-hour wait times. We headed back up the hill to the Salisbury Pub, a friendly place, filling up with locals. A plate of crispy fish ‘n chips, a pint of Maltese craft beer, and laughter coming from the booths brought back comfortable memories of pubbing in London and relief that we had rejected one last “must do” in Malta. Carol L. Bowman

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Mirage de el Dorado Document 512 By Robert Bruce Drynan

fter a long and futile search the adventurer sighted a mountain of glistening gemstones, (perhaps wet quartz crystals glistening in the setting sun from a recent rain). Approaching the mountain the expedition discovered a stone city that appeared to have been ravaged by a great earthquake, tumbled columns and buildings. The explorers entered a long street lined with empty houses and ventured down to a square. In the center of the square a towering column of black stone supported the statue of a man, left hand on his hip and his right pointing a forefinger to the North Pole. Each corner of the square contained an obelisk similar to those erected by the ancient Romans.

A great palace stood on one side of the square. The figure of a half-naked, clean-shaven youth crowned with laurel looked down from its entryway. Beneath the figure they discovered a weathered inscription:

On the opposite side of the square they found a temple in ruins: its walls inlaid with frescos of superior workmanship. On the portico of the temple they saw another inscription:

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“...About a cannon shot from the stone village, was a building, a countryhouse with a front 250 paces long.” The explorers “ascended the staircase of many colored stones which opened into an immense saloon, and afterward into 15 small houses, each with a door opening into the said saloon...” The size and grandeur of the ruins stood mute testimony to a once thriving and prosperous city of great importance, now home only to “swallows, bats, rats and foxes.” Who had lived there? And why had this opulent center of culture been abandoned? Inside one of the stone houses a large gold coin was discovered. On one side it bore the image of a figure on his knees, and on the other side a crown, bow and arrow. (A later twentieth century scholar, Rene Chabbert, claims there is only one gold coin that fits this description - the gold Daric. It depicts King Darius of Persia (521-486 BC) as an archer kneeling with a bow, quiver and spear. (Assuming this is the coin in question, how did it find its way into the depths of the Amazon?) The above paraphrased description was drawn from a manuscript in the Brazilian National Archive in Rio de Janeiro known as Document 512, written by a Portuguese adventurer, João da Silva Guimarães, who wrote that in 1753 he had visited the city he described. His account provided great detail without giving a specific location in the Amazon basin. Some scholars speculate that Guimarães may have stumbled upon the site of the legendary mine discovered and developed by Muribeca Días, a shipwrecked Portuguese mariner. As the story goes Robério Días, the mestizo grandson of Muribeca, approached the king of Portugal to plead for legitimacy and a title in exchange for the inherited mine of his grandfather. Mestizos were not regarded as acceptable for elevation to the status of nobility and the king attempted to swindle Días of his property without acceding to the mestizo’s petition. Robério Días was imprisoned, but eventually drawing on the wealth acquired from the mine, he bought his freedom. Robério died in 1622 without revealing the location of the mine. Document 512 of the Brazilian National Archive came to the attention of an English soldier and adventurer in the early twentieth century. In 1925, Col. Percy Harrison Fawcett, his son Jack, and Jack’s friend Raleigh Rimell set out into the Brazilian Mato Grosso in search of what he termed the City of Z. (The Lost City of Z is the title of a 2005 article in The New Yorker magazine by David Grann, later in 2007 he expanded it into a book and it may someday become a movie). Fawcett plunged into the rain forests of the Mato Grosso, and eventually

abandoned by his bearers and guides, disappeared in the wilderness with his son and Rimell, joining the long list of treasure hunters and explorers, who in their search for the wealth of El Dorado, had preceded him into legend. Tales of ill-fated twentieth-century adventurers pursuing El Dorado doesn’t end with Fawcett. In 1947 a New Zealand school teacher named Hugh McCarthy resigned his post, flew to Rio and studied the documents related to Fawcett’s expedition and disappearance, and then embarked on his own obsession. Deep in the Mato Grosso, McCarthy befriended a missionary, Jonathan Wells, who warned him of hostile natives inhabiting the region that he intended to enter. McCarthy refused to abandon his quest, so Wells gave him seven caged carrier pigeons and they agreed upon a code for messages the birds would bring back to Wells. Only three of the seven messages McCarthy dispatched reached Wells. The first to arrive, six weeks after his departure, was the third that McCarthy had sent. He had suffered an accident, been rescued by forest Indians and was recovering. The message reads in part, “When I regained consciousness, I was looking into the face of the beautiful girl. Her pale blue eyes made me think I had already died and gone to heaven. I have changed her name (from Tana) to Heather and now I am teaching her English. Tomorrow, I leave to continue my mission. . . “ Several weeks later Wells received McCarthy’s fifth message (the fourth never arrived) stating that he had reached the “snow-capped mountains” but was in “dire circumstances.” Having abandoned his rifle and canoe, he was “living on berries and wild fruits”. He wrote of turning back to his native girlfriend, but decided he would first scale those peaks to find “Fawcett’s Lost City of Gold or die trying.” The adventurer’s last epistle came with the return of the seventh carrier pigeon. McCarthy stated that he was dying and prayed that all of the pigeons he had sent had gotten through; “I hope my map arrived safely by carrier pigeon number six, so that you, of all people in the world will know the location of the City of Gold. It is magnificent and unbelievable, with a golden pyramid and exquisite temples.” He ended “My work is over and I die happily . . .” The map borne by the sixth pigeon never arrived. Wells chartered a plane to Rio de Janeiro and delivered McCarthy’s missives to the local authorities in hope that a rescue mission might be launched, but no such effort was mounted. Robert Drynan

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COLUMNIST

PROFILING TEPEHUA By Moonyeen King

President of the Board for Tepehua

moonie1935@yahoo.com

n Intergovernmental Government was formed in 1998 under the United Nations to draft legislation that would directly address and combat transnational crime. By 2000 they had drafted the Palermo Protocol which outlined the three P’s: Prevention-Protection-Prosecution aimed at combating human trafficking (Partnership came later). Throughout the world, women and children are at greater risk than men, the unequal rights of women world-wide places them in vulnerable positions to become victims. Of the world’s 20 million exploited people, only 1.9 million come from Latin America. The Asian Pacific Region has the highest number at 11.7 million and the Middle East the lowest with just 600,000 victims. In comparison to the cities, local areas like Tepehua have very little evidence of human trafficking as most sexual abuse of children takes place in the home. The homes are overcrowded, the inhabitants lack education and, since they qualify for very few jobs, most of the family is at home all day with time on their hands. Teenage girls that parents cannot afford to send to school become very early victims at the hands of brothers, uncles and fathers, who besotted with alcohol, make choices

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they regret later. Booze and drugs are the solace for the frustration of lack of labor. Although this abuse is still a number one problem in the homes, it is changing with education and the right choices. There is a long way to go but it is happening and the people of the barrios are looking for change. As the Internet makes pornography easier for the evil to spread, so does it make it easier for people to see there is another way of living. It comes with knowledge. Everyone has a TV no matter how poor. TV’s, computers, telephones and cell phones all can be found in the local dumps of a throw-away society, and the poor are entrepreneurs and fixer- uppers. Nothing is wasted. From the dark side pictured above there is huge promise. Giving the people the right tools they can take the path to a better life through knowledge, no matter how brutal that knowledge can be. It takes courage to ask for help and courage to give it, to commit to it. But if you look at history, change is all based on people helping people. Local governments seem to be the cause and not the cure. Once change is instigated, it is like a rolling stone. There is no turning back especially for the young, who are very resilient. They have to be because life in poverty can be very raw. Lakeside Chapala, where the living is easy...even if you are poor, you have the sun, fruits growing which everyone can share, and you can live outside most of the time under an incredible sky. At this time of the year in the distance you can hear in the evening the impatient grumblings of storms to come as Spring leads us into the rainy season. We celebrate water here as we celebrate the sun... and it is we the people who dirty our nests, so let’s clean them up ourselves. Spring is a new beginning.....

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PHIL the harmonic hummingbird By Dave McIntosh

Painting by Ruth Kear On an early spring morning, when the day was just dawning, And the air was as still as a pond, Two hummingbirds dated, and in seconds had mated, Creating a natural bond. No time for formalities, or talk of moralities, Four seconds is all that’s required. Dad quickly took flight, it was a “quickie” alright, He’d done his job: it was all he desired. Procreation achieved and PHIL was conceived, Mum hummed off to build a small nest. Two eggs she did lay, quite common they say. She thought her brief life had been blessed. She nursed them and cherished, but one of them perished! SID Snake was rather hungry that day. So, when PHIL looked around, no sibling he found, And his mother had just flown away! PHIL gave a small squeak as his future looked bleak, With no adults to show him the way. But he emerged from the nest, to give his wings a good test, And something special occurred on that day. It was almost ironic, that the Royal Philharmonic, Were practicing their music next door. PHIL got quite excited, and within him ignited, A curiosity he just couldn’t ignore. He flew to a tree so he could listen and see The source of all the attraction. He whistled along and chirped with each song. It gave him so much satisfaction. But when a crescendo did rise, there were tears in his eyes, And frustration that he couldn’t take part. But as the notes rose and soared, it was a sound he adored, And music had stolen his heart.

Continued on page 44

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From page 40 Yet he had limits in choice, that gave him no voice, And he flew back and forth for some time. But was suddenly aware of a strange noise in the air. The humming he made was sublime! With each beat of his wings, he heard brass and heard strings, For percussion he’d tap with his beak. When he swooped through the trees, woodwinds filled the breeze, His orchestra was simply unique. PHIL’s symphony was rich, it had perfect pitch, As he danced from flower to flower. He needed the nectar and was an avid collector, As it gave him more musical power. His Allegro was cheerful, his Adagio tearful, His solo Cadenzas astounded! The more that he flew, his confidence grew, And the better and better he sounded. He had recently heard there was many a bird, That inspired orchestral creations. Nothing seemed wrong, with a bit of birdsong. He worked hard at his humming vibrations. There was Lark Ascending by Vaughan, Sibelius’s Swan, Beethoven’s Pastoral collection. The Nightingale Song would make PHIL hum along. With others he felt a connection. The trills of Ravel would make his heart swell. Delius’s Cuckoo was a work of esteem. PHIL thought it absurd, that a small hummingbird, Could join such an illustrious team. Yet progress was steady, and soon he was ready. And this may sound a little bizarre! He thought it was vital, that he give a recital, To show the public his full repertoire. If he could find a presenter, the renowned Lincoln Center Could well be the start of big things. Then perhaps he could get a firm date at the Met, To show off his musical wings. Alas, there was sadness, emerged from this madness, PHIL had enjoyed his brief moment of levity. His musical feat was short and was sweet. Hummingbirds are not known for longevity. It was amazing how fast two years had gone past, PHIL’S tempo had started to change. And he had to agree, that a high middle C Was now completely out of his range. He’d enjoyed flying high, with his friends in the sky, Creating music as he hummed along. He’d not missed a beat, and his life was complete, But it was time for his final Swan song. PHIL’s humming creations gave him great expectations, But we know they were just a delusion. But the lesson we learn gives no need for concern. If dreams are only illusion. They sometimes come true, and whenever they do, Particularly if they are euphonic, Our fantasy flights can be filled with delights. Just like PHIL’s, the humming harmonic.

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The Guatemalan Easter Parade By Larry Kolczak

few years ago, my wife and I took a trip to Guatemala. It was more like a pilgrimage. It was during Holy Week. As an amateur photographer, this trip was my dream come true. I hoped to document the world-famous Easter processions in the colonial city of Antigua, which go on for seven days and nights. Every church sponsors a procession, and there are dozens of churches in Antigua. Every night, the pious gather to decorate the cobblestone streets with intricate designs made of flower petals. Every day, hundreds of devout penitents, wearing medieval hooded robes, assemble in

the streets. Together, they shoulder huge wooden platforms bearing life-size statues depicting the various stages of the Passion of Jesus. Like a giant caterpillar, they shuffle two steps forward, one step back, inching along miles of flower-carpeted streets. It is kind of like the Pasadena Rose Parade, but upside down. The flower petal decorations are on the street and the floats pass over them. And instead of college marching bands playing John Phillip Sousa, there is a gaggle of amateur musicians playing funeral dirges. Procession after procession. Hour upon hour. Funeral dirges.

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For some unknown reason, my wife was quite interested in the music. I couldn’t imagine why, but she actually wondered if we could buy a CD—of funeral dirges. I guess she planned to use it for aerobics. Her Slumdog Millionaire CD was wearing out. And, for that matter, so was she. Over the years, her aerobics had gradually evolved into something a little more like Tai Chi. Slowerpaced music might be just what her Zen master ordered. So, when I saw a street vendor hawking CDs, I went over to hear his spiel. I couldn’t understand all of his Spanish, but I caught the gist. “Ladies and gentlemen, now you, too, can have your very own collection of the world’s most depressing funeral dirges. For just $19.95 you can endure hour upon hour of the saddest music ever written. This unique collection is not available in stores. Accept no substitutes. Act now, while supplies last.” So, I sprung for one. He was thrilled. It was his first sale of the day. Maybe his first sale ever. He crossed himself many times. And then, he skipped town. When we got home, we found out that CD was just a blank disc. There was nothing on it. Nada. Nary a dirge to be heard. Thank God. Meanwhile, I was ready to take my Pulitzer Prize-winning photographs. Camera in hand, I waded into the crowd of believers that lined the street. It was a truly uplifting experience. I don’t mean just spiritually. I mean physically. In that crush of humanity, my body was literally lifted from the pavement. When I finally returned to Earth, I realized that, while my spirit was being lifted, so was my wallet. And it didn’t take any nimblefingered Artful Dodger to do the job. While I was buried in that rugby scrum, even a Budweiser Clydesdale could have picked my pocket. I was lucky the guy didn’t take my pants.

What had begun as a photographer’s dream had become a traveler’s nightmare. There is nothing worse than being in a foreign country trying to get your stolen credit cards replaced in time to pay your hotel bill. And, of course, the customer service hotline operator had to be in Bangalore, India. That was a problem right from the start. Question one: Name. “Larry Kolczak. K-O-LC-Z-A-K. No, not C-C. No, not Z-Z. It’s C, as in Charles, Z as in Zebra.” I guess they don’t have a lot of Polish people out his way. Question two: Home address. “Number 24, Avenida 16 de Septiembre, San Antonio Tlayacapan, Jalisco, Mexico. Hello? Are you still there?” The good news was that the replacement credit card was going to be delivered by Federal Express. You know, “When it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight.” The bad news was that their motto loses something in the translation. “Overnight” becomes “Mañana.” And it didn’t help that the hotel where we were staying was named “La Posada.” Half the hotels in Latin America are named “La Posada.” I could picture that FedEx truck inching along, hour upon hour, behind the Easter processions. He probably dropped off my package at whatever “La Posada” he was closest to when he ran out of gas. Things were getting down to the wire. I began to panic. What if the new credit card didn’t arrive in time? How was I ever going to pay the hotel bill? I needed a Plan B. And then, it came to me. “Ladies and gentlemen, now you, too, can have your very own collection of the world’s most depressing funeral dirges. For just $19.95 . . .”

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I Whistled and the Sky Danced By Lillian Norma

Editor’s Note: Great Reading for the younger kids visiting.

ernice awoke with the early morning sun. Tingling all over and squirming with excitement, she jumped out of bed, ran to the window, and drew the curtains. The early morning dew twinkled on the grass and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the birch trees where the birds were chirping up a storm. Every morning she paused to listen, but she had more important things to do right now. Yesterday, Robert had promised to teach her how to whistle and she couldn’t wait. She pulled on a pair of blue overalls and a blue checkered blouse before racing down the stairs to the kitchen. Robert was sitting at the ta-

ble finishing the last of his cereal. He glanced up and smiled at his sister as she slid into her chair. Bernice smiled and asked, “Are you excited to teach me how to whistle?” “Yes, I am, just like I promised. We can start as soon as you finish your breakfast.” Bernice munched and crunched her way through her cereal and thought about all that happened yesterday. For as long as she could remember, Bernice had followed her older brother and his friends everywhere. But yesterday, his friends made it very clear they didn’t want her tagging along with them anymore. For many weeks, his friends teased him.

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“Aaah, Robert, is your little sister coming with us again?” whined Peter in a high-pitched voice. “Can’t she just stay home today?” “Doesn’t she have her own friends? Tell her to stay home!” chimed in Pablo. “Why don’t we just tell her we don’t want her with us anymore?” suggested Simon. Robert longed to tell her what his friends were saying but he didn’t want to hurt his sister’s feelings. Yesterday afternoon in the playground near their house, Simon marched right up to her, put his hands on his hips and shouted, “Look, Bernice, stop being such a pest. We don’t want you tagging along with us everywhere we go, okay? Get your own friends and leave us alone.” His friends stood beside him nodding their heads in approval. Bernice shrank back in fright. Her face crumbled. She stood stark still looking at Simon as tears welled up in her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered, her shoulders heaved and tears streamed down her face as she turned to run home. She burst through the back door, ran up to her bedroom, and threw herself on her bed. She sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. When Robert returned, he called out, “Bernice, where are you?” “I’m in my bedroom,” she answered. Robert raced upstairs. Bernice was sitting in the middle of her bed making friendship bracelets. She looked up and told him how much his friends had hurt her feelings. Robert really loved his little sister. He walked over, sat beside her, and put his hand on her shoulder as he tried to console her. “Look, Bernice, I know you want to learn to whistle like my friends and me, so I’ll make a deal with you. If I teach you, will you stop tagging along with us?” Bernice looked up at her brother through red-rimmed eyes. How she longed to whistle like the boys. But she was not ready to stop hanging out with them yet. “I’ll think about it,” she shrugged and heaved a long, sad sigh. “Suit yourself,” said Robert as he shuffled off to his own bedroom. After a while, Bernice threw her legs over the edge of the bed, leaned forward, and cupped her face in her hands. She remembered all the fun times she had had with Robert and his friends. She wanted to be just like them. She wanted to be just like Robert. Still feeling sad, she jumped off the bed, went downstairs, and out the back door. She sat on the top step watching her brother and his friends play marbles. She tried to understand

why they did not want her with them anymore. What did I do? she wondered. In the past, when the boys went fishing, Bernice went fishing. When they went swimming, there was Bernice splashing around in the water pretending she could swim. When they rode their bikes to the baseball field, her short little legs pedaled as fast as they could to keep up with them. Bernice loved spending time alone with her brother, as well. Robert had been teaching her how to since she asked him how to tie her shoelaces when she was only three. He had taught her how to eat spaghetti one by one without smearing the tomato sauce all over her lips and chin. He taught her how to ride her bike when she outgrew her tricycle. But now he promised to teach her the best thing of all. How to whistle! No matter how hard she had tried to whistle on her own, the only sound she made was a WOOOOOOOOOOOO that petered off to a faint nothing. She wanted to continue playing with Robert and his friends but what she wanted more than anything in the whole world was to pucker her lips and whistle. Besides, she thought if she could whistle, maybe they would welcome her back to join them in all of their adventures. She couldn’t wait to tell Robert that she would agree to his bargain. As soon as she finished her breakfast, Bernice and Robert went up to the bathroom to practice in front of a mirror. “You have to hurry and learn fast because my friends will be here soon. We’re packing a lunch and going even farther in the woods today to build a new fort,” he told her. “Okay, I’m ready!” she exclaimed. “Look, all you have to do is tuck your tongue behind your bottom teeth, pucker your lips, and blow through the tunnel,” Robert instructed her. “Watch me,” he said as he whistled to show her how to do it. “Easy-peasy.” Robert beamed. He always said easypeasy whenever he taught her anything new. “Easy-peasy,” she said, smiling back at him. Bernice puckered her lips, curled her tongue, and blew. A faint rush of air was all she could manage. Robert showed her again but this time more slowly. Bernice took a deep breath and tried even harder. Still no whistle. She blew and blew, each time getting redder and redder in the face. This time it was not “easy-peasy” for her. Finally, Robert burst out laughing. “You may not be able to whistle but you sure would be good at blowing

up balloons!” Bernice was crestfallen. Robert had never laughed at her before when he was teaching her new things. “You hurt my feelings,” she sobbed. Robert had not meant to make her cry. “Keep practicing,” he encouraged her. “If you haven’t learned by the time I get back, I will show you how to whistle with your fingers.” Bernice was determined to learn so spent most of the morning in front of the mirror pursing and curling and blowing until her entire face hurt. “Why don’t you leave it for a while,” her mother called up to her. “Come and read some of your books to me while I work on your quilt. I just have a few more swatches to sew and then I’m all finished. Come keep me company.” Bernice loved reading so she gathered up an armful of books and went downstairs to the den. She plopped herself down in front of her mother and read book after book until it was time for lunch. As soon as she finished her lunch, she raced to the bathroom to practice. A sharp little sound came out. She couldn’t believe her ears. She tried again. Another sharp sound! She ran downstairs to show her mother. “Wonderful,” her mother said as she hugged her. “Now what shall I do with a whistling girl, hmm? Maybe after you’ve helped me with the grocery shopping, you can whistle your brother home for supper!” Bernice was so excited that she whistled all the way to the grocery store, up and down every aisle, and all while she and her mother put away the groceries. As soon as they finished, she threw on her jacket, skipped out the back door, up the garden path and into the woods to show her brother she could whistle. Along the way, she whistled at the trees, at the flowers, and even at a rabbit that ran across the path. On and on she went, whistling at everything in sight until she came to the clearing she knew so well. Bursting with pride she raced right into the middle, looking to the right and to the left. The boys were nowhere in sight. She called out to them. “Robert! Peter! Simon! Pablo!” She called to the top of her lungs, “I can whistle!” She ran to all their hiding places but they were nowhere to be found. Then she remembered that Robert had told her they were going to a new place to build a new fort. Feeling confident, she decided to go find them. After a little while, she started to panic because it was getting dark. She called. She whistled. No one answered. It was a bit scary so she

started to run back to the clearing. All of a sudden, she stopped. Where was she? Everything looked the same but different. She couldn’t tell in the semidarkness. Somehow, she had taken a wrong turn. Not knowing what to do, she sat down on a rock to catch her breath. Robert had always protected her so she knew he would come looking for her. Pulling her jacket tightly around her shoulders, she looked up and saw a wondrous sight. The sky was ablaze with color. It made her so happy, she started to whistle. As she did, the lights in the sky moved. She whistled again. The lights moved again. Now she couldn’t help herself. She was so excited she forgot all about being lost. With her head thrown back, she stood up and moved to the rhythm of the sky. “We’re dancing!” she yelled up to the sky. She was so entranced by it all that she didn’t hear Robert come up behind her. “What are you doing?” Robert asked her. “Oh, Robert!” Bernice shouted as she turned and threw her arms around him. “I whistled and the sky danced!” Lillian Norma

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I Talk To Trees And They Talk To Me

For All of Us By Don Beaudreau

lmost a decade ago the United Nations General Assembly set aside March 21 as International Day of Forests, a time to honor and raise awareness of the importance of forests, and trees in general. Some countries also celebrate Arbor Day or Love a Tree Day. In Mexico, that day is on the second Thursday in July, which this year occurs on July 14. But I have always been in awe of trees, not just on one day of the year. Individual trees have been my sacred totems, nurturing me with deep moments of contemplation. Indeed, I worship trees in the sense of the original meaning of the word worship: to find

worth; to find an adoring reverence or regard. That is to say, I have had a deep relationship with trees, rather than thinking of them as mere things. In fact, I talk to them . . . and they talk to me! In contemplating this incredible gift of creation, I realize that trees have enriched my entire life. I have had lots of time to think about what is really important to me while I have sat under them, climbed them, planted them, pruned them, and swung right side up and upside down and sideways from them. So it is about the spirits of the trees I write, and how when we human beings revere trees, we revere ourselves; and how when we malign trees, we ma-

El Ojo del Lago / May 2022

lign our own spirits. Indeed, each tree is unique—each one has its own birthing and blossoming story, just like us. And each tree and human being will die, some tragically and needlessly. ***** The sacredness of trees is deeply rooted in religious conceptualizations of early humanity. This concept is based on the fundamental idea of the unity of life in nature. The idea that groves of trees were sacred places can be traced back to the hunting and gathering people of the Paleolithic era. In ancient times, the worship of various trees was prevalent in Egypt, Arabia, Persia, Assyria, China, India, Ceylon, Rome, and Greece, among many other places. Indeed, throughout early Europe, nature—trees in particular—were reverenced. The archetypal journey into shamanic knowledge taken by the Scandinavian god Odin includes his climbing a tree—The World Tree. This act allowed him to journey into deeper awareness, to a more profound state of consciousness, to a glimpse of the sacred. But Odin’s quest is not merely his own, because it symbolizes the universal experience of shamans in all cultures at all times. In effect, the tree symbolizes a ladder to another world, another state of being. But with the coming of Christianity into northwestern Europe during the seventh century, conflict occurred with the indigenous spiritual beliefs and practices. One of the first churchmen to hold high political office in England, a fellow known simply as Edgar, demanded of the priesthood that they forbid such practices as necromancies, divinations, incantations, sacred circles, and tree worship. Still, even today people around the world worship trees. Some Indonesians believe that holy spirits reside in the banyan tree. Native Hawaiians have a similar concept. Various tribes in Africa strictly forbid the cutting down of trees and the hunting of animals within sacred groves. The Native American tribe, the Lakota, revere the cottonwood tree. It is used in their ritual Sundance, and is placed in the center of the dancing circle. Sun Dancers pray to the Great Spirit for blessings on all people. ***** Of particular note for us who live in Mexico, is the Tule Tree, near Oaxaca City, MX. I have visited this sacred tree twice, and have always been in awe of it. This 2,000-year-old Montezuma cypress tree, El Arbol del Tule, is one of the oldest and largest trees in the world. It also is reported to be the widest tree in the world. Its existence is chronicled by the ancient Az-

tecs. Indigenous people of the area consider the tree sacred. According to Mixtec myth, humans originated from this and all cypress trees. A crucial point to consider is the idea that the conservation of nature was enhanced due to this veneration for trees and plant life held by people throughout the world in ancient time and even today. But with that loss of a sacred perspective has come mass destruction of our forests, plants, and animals. Tragically, the God of the Old Testament who instructed Adam to have dominion over the earth (meaning to be a caretaker) has been misinterpreted by people to mean domination over the earth. We no longer understand the wisdom of our forebears: their awareness of the interdependence of each aspect of nature. But let me tell you a personal story of how some people are attempting to return to this ancient teaching. Many years ago I was in Israel planting a tree in a section of a hillside garden named after Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. It was an emotional experience for me to realize that in that war-torn land, I was performing a symbolic act of peace in the name of a man who spoke for peace. It was a worshipful moment for me. Indeed, Israel is a land whose people are planting millions of trees, turning a desert into a forest. Each tree is symbolic of the renewal of life, and of the hope for peace. I planted a little oak tree in Israel that day. But hopefully “my tree” now provides a bit of shade and nurtures the land. I think of the hymn “Vine and Fig Tree” whose words speak of that hope for peace with these words: And ev’ry one ‘neath a vine and fig tree shall live in peace and be unafraid. Nevertheless, this adaptation of the words proclaimed by the Old Testament prophets Isaiah and Micah express a hope that has yet to be achieved. Indeed, the idea of the tree is crucial to the symbolism of the biblical Creation story—and of its many interpretations down through time: And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. But the story tells how Adam and Eve disobey God and eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and are therefore cast out of the Garden, lest they also eat of the Tree of Life and live forever. ***** How we have lost sight of the reverence for trees and nature in general, that humanity once had in abundance! Remember Joyce Kilmer’s poem: I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree. But people have destroyed such “poems.” The

fact is this: trees are dying. Born 500 million years ago, trees are in the midst of their death throes. Consider these sad statistics: *10,000 years ago, before agriculture, more than 15 billion acres worldwide were covered by forest. Today, barely 10 billion acres are forested. *50 acres of rain forest are destroyed each minute. That’s about 27 million acres a year, an area equal in size to the state of Pennsylvania. *40 percent of Central American rain forests have been converted into pastures for beef production, 90 percent of which is exported to the United States primarily for use in the fast food market or in pet food. *2.8 billion trees are cut down in the world each year; the United States logs more than any other country, more than twice as much as Brazil. *A 100-foot-tall tree provides the wood and paper products consumed annually by the average American. *We require oxygen and produce carbon dioxide; trees and other plants require carbon dioxide and produce oxygen. Any significant loss in forested land directly affects the Earth’s atmosphere for other forms of life. By consuming carbon dioxide, trees mitigate the greenhouse effect. Ogden Nash recasts Joyce Kilmer’s poem with these sadly relevant words: I think that I shall never see A billboard lovely as a tree. Perhaps, unless the billboards fall, I’ll never see a tree at all. Well, imagine a planet as barren as the rocky moon: a dry and dusty place that once was called Earth. This bleak image is a possible reality within the next century or two! The majority of scientists tell us this. They predict that within a very short time we could kill off ourselves and all other animal and plant life. It is neither a horror of science fiction nor a prophecy from the Old Testament, but a scientific fact that humanity the consumer could become humanity the consumed. The sea, land, and air around us in-

teract with each other, and all life depends on this harmonious relationship. But along came humanity as homo faber (the toolmaker), claiming what was promised to us in the Garden of Eden: dominion over the earth. But didn’t that mean we were entrusted to be caretakers of the earth, not its executioners who poison the sea, destroy the land, and pollute the air? I conclude my thoughts with another image of my trip to Israel: I am traveling on a tour bus when our guide points out that we are passing Mt. Arafat, the place where some believe Noah’s Ark was discovered. I think about that in relation to this essay of mine about my talking to trees. Certainly, Noah, of biblical fame, had a warning that the Flood was coming, and he believed it. He told others about their impending destruction. But they wouldn’t listen to him. So, Noah went into the more abundant forests of his day and found trees to build his Ark. We moderns have a warning of planetary destruction, too. But what are we doing about it? Not much, indeed. And if we do little or nothing to save our planet, there no longer will be trees left with which we can build our Ark. It really is a matter of life and death for all of us!

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And The Hits Just Keep On Coming By Tom Nussbaum

’ll never forget it. It was our senior year. My high school had a tradition. We held an annual male beauty pageant—it was a satire of real beauty pageants and could be really stupid and, sometimes, gross— to raise funds so the less fortunate in the class could go to prom. Guys wanted to be in it to help friends rent tuxes or buy prom dresses. It was one of my favorite things about going to John Hancock High. That, and the name of the school. Go, Fighting Roosters! There were, like, thirteen dudes competing my year. Matt, Zack, Jessie, Mahal, Jake, Diego. My boys. They all were in it. And some guys I didn’t

know. Oh, I’m Kris Stone. Anyway, we’d finished the formal wear walk through, which really wasn’t that formal. More like suits than tuxes. And we’d finished the Pick-Up Line Competition, which was gross. We were heading into the talent portion of the pageant. I was kinda worried about it. See, I’m known for my dancing and I knew some of the other guys wanted to dance, so I decided I was gonna try stand-up comedy. Jake played his guitar and sang something by a guy named John Denver. Never heard of him. And Matt juggled. He was pretty effin’ good, too. A guy I don’t know played the school

El Ojo del Lago / May 2022

fight song on a harmonica. Mahal did an African dance. Kris Carter, the gymnast, did some tumbling stuff in shorts and no shirt so he could show off his pecs. What an ass! A guy named Liam danced, but way worse than me. And then it was my turn. I was doing my routine—I was doing OK. People were laughing—and I started my bit about the cheerleaders. “Everybody knows that the entire squad has been hittin’ on that hot teaching intern from Morrow State, Mr. Kreske. I mean, have you seen his face? Even I’m interested in him. And I ain’t gay.” They audience howled. “I’ve heard that Emma Warner and Chloe Levine have been giving Mr. Kreske BJ’s.” In the beat that I waited to add the punch line, I heard gasps, boos, and guys’ laughter from the audience. But I also heard an angry, “What the hell!” from back stage. “Black Jeeps! Drawings of black Jeeps because he drives a really awesome one,” I spat out. But it was too late. Zack stormed on stage from stage left, yelling, “Chloe ain’t giving him BJs, asshole.” And without warning, he punched me in the jaw. I fell to the floor. I remember hearing him shout, “Don’t ever say my girl Chloe’s name again. Ever!” Then a bunch of the guys were pulling him off the stage. It was

sorta chaotic. And the curtains closed. Zack was disqualified from the contest. I didn’t make the Top Five. Because of that joke, Principal Sherwood told me later. And Diego Guzman won. He deserved to. He played Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” on the cello. He was awesome. People talked about what Zack did for days. Pissed me off. Like who cares what he was thinking. Or what was gonna happen to him. I was the one who was humiliated in front of all my peers. And my jaw was bruised and sore for over a week. And the damn vid has had like 12,000 views on YouTube. Zack didn’t get kicked out of school for hitting me because I asked Sherwood to go easy on him. I mean, Zack was one of my boys. Then. He did get banished from prom, however, and he wasn’t allowed to attend commencement. But he did graduate. After it happened, I had to answer the same question a million times: Why the hell did you tell such a sucky joke? And since then, I’ve had recurring nightmares about getting clocked, falling backward, hitting my head hard on concrete, and bleeding out while people watched and laughed. I had no idea then that such a brief moment would haunt me for so long? Our class’s 10-year reunion is coming up this summer. I’m scared to go. I don’t want to see Zack. I don’t want to listen to people asking, “Remember when Zack Roberts hit you at the Mr. John Hancock Pageant?” And then, after a pause, “Who won it anyway? Do you remember? Does anyone remember? Does anyone care?” I feel bad for Diego. That was supposed to be his moment to shine. Zack ruined it. And I kind of feel like Chris Rock. Tom Nussbaum

Titanium Tillie By Sue Schools

first visited Lake Chapala in 1997, when I came down with friends to compete in the Mexican National Chili Cookoff, capably captained by Ann Whiting. I remember waking in my room at Real de Chapala, hearing birds and a lawn mower in February. What? And green leaves, flowers, and children splashing in the pool (their little lips were turning blue, but still . . .) An expat couple led a group of us chili cooks to dinner at Cozumel’s Restaurant, on the Chapala Malecon. There were about 24 of us, taking over the inside dining room and having a blast. Most of us ordered the Shrimps Azul special and took advantage of the free margaritas. I also seem to recall a Mexican musician and all of us dancing in a conga line. With the following sunrise, several of us might have regretted the tequila, but greeted the morning with smiles nonetheless. So, after falling in love with Lake Chapala, I returned every year when possible, finally winning the championship in 2008, its last sanctioned year. I returned to Dallas, Texas, and proudly displayed my silver trophy around the law office, bragging that now that I was to represent an entire country at the world championship, my friends might consider referring to me as “Your Highness.” A smartass pal quipped, “Your Hiney?” (It’s tough to get respect.) Following my dream, I retired here in 2009 and have treasured almost every minute of it. I still have a soft spot for Cozumel’s, and love to sit at the outdoor cafe to watch the local families strolling along. (How do those local women walk in stiletto heels on cobblestones?) I was delighted to return recently to my favorite boardwalk table, expecting an exotic sunset. I had been housebound for weeks following minor surgery and this was my celebration. I was very pleased to be joined by my friend, Megan Tingen, who has lived here for 46 years. She still loves the charms and cultures of our local neighborhoods, with lots of stories and memories to share, plus her Irish humor.

Our meal was being served when she turned to me and asked, “What are you going to name it?” I’m well past child-bearing years and in fact couldn’t even have had children, so was not expecting grandbabies. I’ll admit I probably had a dumfounded look on my face, but some might say that’s my normal expression . . . “Duh?” “What are you going to name your new hip?” Ahh. “How about Titanium Tillie?”

Megan and I both had grandmothers named Nellie, so Tillie was mutually agreeable. But, there are points to ponder: Or, if I’m to feel cuddly and warm to this device, should I name him “Steely Stan?” Will I have to declare Tillie as a dependent when I go through the airport metal detector?” “Or will she require a separate probing, cavity search . . .?” Ouch. I’ve heard of a woman who returned to the States for her hip replacement. They didn’t have the proper size and used one that was a tad smaller. Now she “click, clicks” when she walks. It’s my left hip that was replaced. If I dance with a man who has also had his left hip done, should I lead? My last boyfriend played with his metal detector more than me. Does that mean he’ll be attracted to me again? Supposing Fred is my best friend and he’s extremely healthy. We’re together and being chased by a snarling, slobbering water buffalo. How does one go about tripping Fred? (asking for a friend)

Saw you in the Ojo 53

The Night of the Gypsy Boy By Robert Bruce Drynan

(Motel Las Fantasías, Los Teques, Venezuela)

he last vestiges of day had fled. The rich spicy aroma of recently trimmed hedges of rosemary permeated the warm evening air. A Moorish pool stretched the length of the rectangular garden. Black wrought iron lamps cast a dim light along the arched arcades accommodating the recessed entryways to exotic Sheherazadian fantasies. Lamp posts on the garden pathways reflected on the surface of the pool. At the far end a multi-tiered fountain added gentle sounds of falling water. The full moon shed its silvery light on the pool and glittered off the falling water of the fountain. Chirping of tiny frogs added a serenade as they strolled

to the salon where the Niño Gitano awaited. “Come on, we shouldn’t miss the Niño Gitano.” They entered the dimly lit room. A small platform in front was unoccupied. They found seats in the back of the room in a cushioned booth. After a few moments of silence the beam of a single spotlight burst from the ceiling and centered on the platform. In the circle of light on a low stool sat a youth cradling a guitar. He didn’t appear to be more than twelve or thirteen years. He dressed simply in faded jeans and a T-shirt. A swatch of black hair hung over his forehead as he studied the instrument. His hand

stroked the strings. A single powerful chord reverberated through the room and receded into silence. The boy gazed up into the shadows. He appeared unaware of the audience. His face was beautiful, still child-like, soulful. His black, liquid eyes stared off into some infinity beyond this small auditorium. He struck a new chord. She thrilled to its vibration. Her eyes were drawn to his hands. The fingers were long and graceful. There was a feminine essence to the boy, but his manner was not effeminate. He had a grace showing through the face of a youth that would someday mature into a devastatingly handsome young man. She imagined this slim youth in the flickering shadows of a gypsy encampment a magic spell about to begin. His fingers came to life. They danced across the strings, the chords light and transporting. Sound seemed to trickle and lilt through the room like a mountain cascade building to the crescendo of a waterfall. The boy’s face held an ecstatic glow. His music thrilled, an ode to joy, to the glorification of life. The cascade faded to background and a wild sprite joined in, to spin and pirouette through the room. Her spirit soared with the boy as his exuberant fingers flew across the strings and frets. Then his music segued into a deep tristesse. The mood shifted seamlessly, naturally. His fingers hadn’t for an instant paused their action as he carried his audience into a totally new sensation. Minor chords, the very soul of the music of the Gypsy swept through the room, evoking tragedy, past sorrows, forgotten passions clutching at the innermost depths of the human heart. It sent atavistic ghosts dancing around ancient campfires, light flickering, throwing shadows deep and mysterious. His music soared, it subsided, cried in agony and then whimsically, laughed with joy. As with the suddenness of his beginning, his hands struck a final reso-

nating chord and it shimmered into silence. The room plunged again into darkness. She drew close to him, her hip pressing against his. She grasped his hand in both of hers and held it tightly in her lap. They had completely forgotten the presence of others. The music had enclosed them in a world entirely their own. She waited, almost holding her breath. The light came back on and the boy resumed his virtuoso performance. El Niño Gitano held them in complete thrall. They were alone, intimately alone. His mystical music sang only to them. It cried out the passion, the joy and melancholy of the Gypsy, but the flavors, the rhythms and lilts of the Venezuelan folk crept into his themestotally original, and yet eternal. The thundering signature chord filled the room and fell away into silence! Again they were plunged into darkness. She felt him against her. She turned her head, but could see nothing. She clutched his hand; laid her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence, each absorbed in union with the other. El Niño Gitano broke into the dark silence, striking a throaty chord. It vibrated with energy. The room remained in darkness. This new theme, while dominated by deep chords, teased with a growing hint of exuberance in high counterpoint. The sprite of light notes trilled, twisted and danced, enticing a lover, but with a growing dominance of throbbing sensual energy. In the darkened room this barely pubescent youth aroused a deep, primitive sensuality. The music absorbed her. Her flesh burned, her heart pounded. She couldn’t get close enough to him. It possessed him, too. They leaned into each other. She drew his hand deep between her thighs and crushed it there. The passion throbbed, the sprite danced, the music soared, and then subsided into a gentle caress. And then it soared again with urgency. This child, this boy, this gift given in the most unlikely of places! A dim glow appeared at the back of the room. Shadows departing, the passion had to be consummated! She rose, clinging to his hand. She drew him with her. He followed her into the shadows of the garden, down the arcade toward their room. The redolence of the rosemary remained in the air. The echoes of the boy’s music followed them. Robert Drynan

El Ojo del Lago / May 2022

Theater Arts: Incredible But True By Sydney Gay

y friend Joni Eareckson broke her spine in 1977, a swimming accident. Completely paralyzed, she no longer could use hands, arm or legs. Destiny brought us together. We were young women learning to adapt to abnormal live styles. I had been twelve years in a wheelchair. Our doctors “prayer-team” physicians encouraged us to develop skills in art and music, at the time this seemed impossible; nevertheless, it became a journey of discovery. Prayer doctors sincerely believe the “healing spirit” of Christ provides the power to conquer pain without prescription medication. As our individual journeys unfolded, their faith led to courage, courage led both of us to incredibly successful careers. Holding a toothbrush between her teeth, Joni turned tragedy into works of art displayed at the Getty Museum. Aside from painting she wrote forty books, recorded several musical albums, and starred in an autobiographical movie of her life. The movie “Joni” is featured on YouTube and Amazon in both Spanish and English. Some years ago, Joni and I were invited to join entertainers on a Princess Cruise to Alaska; her wheelchair rolled into the theater, parked on stage she said to the audience, “My disabil-

ity teaches me what it means to pray without ceasing. When I invite the spirit of God into every cell of my heart, brain and body, I am strengthened to create all sorts of things. I wrote a song for you.” The orchestra began to play, and her voice rang out like a bell. As for me, Sydney, my prayer doctors filled me with the courage to ignore my disability and work again. I am not the greatest singer in the world, but faith strengthened me to produce a musical dramedy in Ajijic “Una Chica Llamada Gay, A Girl Named Gay”. With the support of Lake Chapala’s beloved Mark Rome, Cindy Paul, Jimmy Barto and Gerardo Murillo, we raised funds for Ajijic Cares and homeless families with medical needs. 2022 is our eighteenth year of performances. This year’s program “Incredible But True” gave ex-pat residents, Karen Moebs, Lila Wells, Susan Q.Miller, Dave Salyers, Kathleen Durham and Sally Jo Bartlett the opportunity to tell their own stories. Rehearsals for Christmas begins throughout the month of May. For audition contact information: g o o g l e s yd n e y @ yahoo.com, 376688-3636. Sydney Gay

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The Ojo Crossword

Why I Cannot Write A Political Poem Because my heart is weary. Because the angel of death is singing and dancing on the rooftops. Because my words are only words and lies have become the normal currency. Because I am a flute and not a trumpet. Because there is so much pain in the world and if I speak of it my Muse will leave me to find another lover.

Michael Warren

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El Ojo del Lago / May 2022

When Will We Have Rain? By Kathy Koches kkoches@gmail.com

“

pril showers bring May flowers,” or so says the nursery rhyme from my childhood. But here in Lakeside, where I now live, this is not the case. April can be hot, but May is usually hotter, often reaching the high 90s with NO showers in sight. A common pastime for Lakesiders is to make a bet on when the rainy season will start. Will it be late May? Early June? Mid-June? Everyone seems to have an opinion. And then there are the

“rainbirds” that everyone is listening for. Who will be the first to hear them? These cicadas live underground and only emerge when the rains are imminent. We eagerly await their “singing” and then, when they do emerge, we wish they would quit making all that noise! The hills surrounding the lake are dry and brown, just waiting for some rain. But when it does come it will only take a couple of weeks for them to return to their beautiful lush green color. Being from Washington state, I am used to many months of rain, unlike here at Lakeside. I love walking in the rain, feeling the cool water on my face, and inhaling the fresh air. Soon little rivers will spring up everywhere and the waterfalls will once again be flowing. The lightning storms over the lake will once again dazzle us with their beauty. A newcomer asked me just the other day when the hills will be green again. I just laughed and welcomed him to one of Lakeside’s favorite pastimes, predicting the rain.

Saw you in the Ojo 57

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El Ojo del Lago - May 2022

Articles inside

The Night of the Gypsy Boy, by Robert Bruce Drynan

Theatre Arts, by Sydney Gay

I Talk to the Trees and They Talk to Me, For All of Us

And the Hits Just Keep on Coming: Tom Nussbaum

I Whistled and the Sky Danced, by Lillian Norma

Titanium Tillie, by Sue Schools

The Guatemalan Easter Parade, by Larry Kolczak

Marion Davies and Me. By Leslie Johansen Nack

A Mexican Village Wedding, by Gabriel Blair

PHIL the harmonic hummingbird, by Dave McIntosh

Charro’s Mothers’ Day Celebration, by Larry Kolczak

Ballad of the Abandoned Cubreboca, by Tom Nussbaum

Uncle Kenny, a Hero Among Heroes of the Greatest Generation

Mirage de el Dorado, Documento 512, by Robert Bruce Drynan

Centro Educativo Jaltepec Successful Virtual Open House February