I just read an epistolary novel called The Correspondent by Virginia Evans. It reminded me of other novels of that genre that I read: 84 Charing Cross Road, Frankenstein, and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, among them. Letter writing is a long-neglected art of communication. I decided to write a letter to my mother. She died in 2004 and although I was with her almost daily for the last four years of her life, there are still memories to share and things left unsaid.
Dear Mom,
I love you, and I miss you. It’s been over two decades since you left, and I haven’t heard from you, not even a little tweak or shadow.
I remember going to the movie Under the Tuscan Sun about two months after you died. In the movie, Diane Lane walked through an old Italian house when a pigeon flew over and pooped on her head. It made me laugh because I was reminded of the time we were walking across St. Peter’s Square in Vatican City, and a pigeon flew over you and plopped its poop on your forehead. In both instances, everyone around said, “Don’t be upset. That’s a good omen.” I wanted to leave the theater to call you to tell you about it and make sure you saw the movie too. Then I remembered you died. I think that was when I really grasped that you were gone, and I couldn’t share that memory with you again. It hurt. Grief takes so many forms as it comes and goes long after death.
Mother dear, I regret that we had so many years of misunderstandings as I was growing up. I didn’t get you, and you didn’t get me. Fortunately for both of us, Daddy was there to referee. The two of you had different theories on child-rearing. Yours was to set standards and rules and make sure I didn’t deviate from them. Dad’s was to let me make mistakes, take responsibility, learn, and move on. He believed “I’m sorry” was better than “Mother, may I”. I learned from both of you, but of course, gravitated to Daddy’s way of thinking.
It wasn’t until we went to Europe together, I in my thirties and you, at age sixty, that we really talked and got to know each other as adults. I admit I dreaded going alone with you. I thought we’d fight the whole time. You wanted to make reservations in advance for accommodations in every place we stopped, and I wanted to play it by ear and see what turned up. No strings. We compromised; you made reservations in half the cities, and in the remainder, I was responsible for finding our hotel, hostel, or B&B when we arrived. Your choices were lovely hotels; mine were eclectic B&Bs and one very questionable hotel. I apologize once again for the bedbugs. I love being lost in a foreign place, talking with strangers, and finding my way around. You wanted everything planned out to the minute. You started packing a month before we left, with each item of clothing wrapped in its own tissue paper cocoon, and I threw things in a small suitcase the night before. We survived three weeks together and became friends.
As a child and teen, I was always pulling your chain, exploring the outer limits of the rules, as you tried hard to draw me back into line. I’m grateful we had twenty years to make it better, and I know we were great friends when you died. You left an indelible impression on my children. I’m glad they were adults by the time you died. They all have great memories of you. You are a wonderful grandmother.
That day had been the perfect spring Sunday for Ethan and Rhonda Hedgerton. Jonathan, their son, and Evie, his wife, had come for the afternoon with the twins. They made it a point to get together one Sunday every month to catch up on family events and activities. Jon and Evie lived about an hour away. On warmer days, they were at Ethan and Rhonda’s so the kids could swim in the pool. During cooler months, they met at Jonathan and Evie’s. Holidays were always at Evie’s and included her parents…she insisted.
The boys played in the pool as the adults watched from the patio with drinks. Ethan had Guinness, room temp, Evie had iced tea, Jonathan and Rhonda had G&Ts. Later, Ethan barbequed steaks for the grownups and hamburgers for the eight-year-old boys. Rhonda served a medley of oven-roasted veggies and, for dessert, special cream cheese-filled chocolate cupcakes that always made the boys squeal with delight. After the kids left, Ethan and Rhonda cleaned up the kitchen and patio. They settled in for the evening.
Ethan sat in his leather recliner with the footrest up and his stocking feet dangling over the end. He was reading the Times sports section. Other sections were scattered on the floor by his chair. Rhonda sat on the couch across from him, her bare feet tucked under her dress, and the cat curled up in the crook of her knees. She was reading the sixth novel in a series of Gilded Age Mysteries by her favorite mystery author, Rosemary Simpson. She found herself reading the same page over and over. Finally, she plunked down the book without putting her bookmark in it. Rhonda scratched Simone’s silky caramel head, eliciting a rumbling purr.
“Ethan…,” she paused to see if he was listening.
“Huh?” He answered from behind the paper.
“Why did you marry me?”
“I donknow.”
“Really, Ethan. Why did you ask me to marry you?”
“What’s going on?” Ethan lowered the paper a bit to look over the top at Rhonda.
“I want to know why you asked me to marry you.”
“It just slipped out.”
“You mean you had no thought? No intention? I could have said no, and things would have just gone on?”
“Ronnie, what do you want from me. It was forty years ago. I don’t remember what I was thinking.”
“You hadn’t agonized over popping the question?”
“I don’t remember. It seemed to be the right thing, the right time, I guess. What brought this on?” His paper was crumpled in his lap.
“Today, when the kids were here, Jon mentioned he and Evie were going to Hawaii for their tenth anniversary, taking the kids with. You said, ‘Hey boy, you just might get stuck for forty years like me’.”
“So?”
“Well, I saw a look pass between Evie and Jon. I felt like you had thrown cold water in my face. Stuck, you said, stuck.”
“Oh, get over it, Ronnie.” A peevish tone entered his voice.
“I can’t get OVER it. I want to know why you married me?”
“Look, I’m here, aren’t I. No visible chains. You’re making something out of nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if Jon and Evie noticed it. You must have had some thought about us being us.”
“I told you, I don’t remember.”
“That’s not good enough.”
With a sigh, Ethan responded, “I married you because of your soft brown eyes. I liked the idea of having sex with you, morning, noon, and night, without worrying about your roommate coming home.”
“That’s it…sex?”
“Pretty much.” Ethan paused. “Okay then, Miss Third Degree, why did you say yes? Why did you marry me?”
“Because I thought you loved me. I thought we had the same idea about family and our future.”
“I don’t recall ever talking about a future OR a family. I wasn’t really keen on the idea of kids back then.”
“So, we didn’t have the same goals?”
“Goals are something I do to advance my career, not live with my wife.”
“You go your way, I go mine. You work all week. You play golf every weekend and poker once a week. You go out with your college friends for dinner. We don’t do anything as a couple.” Ronda was getting visibly upset.
“I relax with my buddies, put work stuff out of my mind. I enjoy golf. It’s my excuse for exercise. I knew Skip and Tim before I met you. Skip is a bachelor, so there’s no couple to go with. The last time I invited Tim and Kim over for dinner, you told me you didn’t like her. After all these years, you said she was boring, opinionated, and talked too much. I don’t connect with your friends’ husbands. We don’t have anything in common. When I go out with Tim, Kim joins us sometimes, even Skip, and it is easy. Kim’s a kick and blends right in with the guys. For a couple of hours, we all have a good time.”
“You mean you go with them, and I’m not invited?”
“You’re invited, but I tell them you have mahjong that night or are babysitting the twins or something because you made it clear how much you disliked being around Kim. I think they get the picture. If you want to join us and listen to old college reminiscences, you can anytime.”
“We’re living here together for no reason. We’re like roommates.”
“Roommates with privileges,” Ethan quipped.
“Not so much anymore. You barely touch me. Our lovemaking is perfunctory. Like you just want sex but no commitment.”
“I barely touch you because after you started menopause, you said your skin hurt. You flinched every time I tried to hold you. You said you felt sweaty all the time. Over the years, I got used to keeping my distance. I felt like I was invading hostile territory. I don’t want to impose on you. I feel left out when I see you hug your girlfriends, even the guys in your book club, and our grandkids.”
Rhonda opened her mouth to respond, but shrugged her shoulders sadly.
“Hey, I haven’t noticed you being lonesome. You have your mahjong group, your tennis friends, your book club, and you go to dinner with your girlfriends for birthdays and such,” Ethan said.
“We used to go to concerts, plays, and movies, sometimes just us, but lots of times with friends. We used to go dancing and listen to live music around town. Now we just sit here and watch TV. You’re going to retire next year, and we’ll be stuck here looking at each other, wondering why. Why are we together? We have nothing in common except Jonathan and his family. Marj and Colin are planning a cruise the first year he retires, but you don’t like to travel. Bev and Spike are getting a divorce after thirty-six years together. What are we going to be doing?”
“There’s that word stuck again. I get seasick. I don’t like to travel because I like the food I eat here, the bed I sleep in here, and having everything I like, just where I like it…including you. I don’t want to worry about foreign money, foreign language, foreign food, and people I don’t know and don’t want to know.”
“Travel doesn’t have to be foreign. We could travel in the US. There’s a Denny’s or Applebee’s everywhere.”
“But you know how hard it is for me to sleep in a strange bed. My back aches if the mattress isn’t firm enough. I get cramps. My stomach gets upset easily with weird food.”
Rhonda shook her head and looked down at Simone, tears threatened to breach the edges of her eyes.
Ethan got up and walked over to Rhonda. Taking her hands in his, he pulled her to her feet, dumping Simone onto the floor. He put his arms around her carefully, then feeling no resistance, tightened his hug; his chin nestled on the top of her head.
“I’m winding up my last project at work. Next year, when I retire, we will plan things together again, maybe even a car trip. I’ve been so busy I didn’t realize we weren’t.”
He bent a little to whisper in her ear. “As far as stuck, I’ll borrow from Elvis, ‘I’m stuck on you’ and that’s a good thing. I married you because I thought you were sexy, and you laugh at my lame jokes. Your laugh, that starts deep inside you, fills the room and warms my heart.”
The prompt is to reimagine an old legend or fairy tale in modern times.
Goldilocks was a lively curious girl of twelve. She contributed to several blogs with a large following of her peers. One afternoon, taking her smartphone and her adventurous spirit, she went hiking in the nearby woods to boost her step count. Far into the woods, she discovered a charming eco-friendly cottage with solar panels, a rainwater-harvesting system, and a compost bin. The door was slightly ajar.
She called out, “Yoo-hoo? Anybody home?”
Having heard no reply, her curiosity overcame her good manners, and she walked in. It was a cozy place, and she quickly surmised that three beings lived there in harmony with the woodlands.
Inside, she found three bowls of oatmeal on the kitchen counter—one was big, with some foil over the top to hold the steamy temperature, and it was too hot. One was sitting in a bowl of ice and subsequently too cold – who eats cold oatmeal, she wondered? The third was just right with brown sugar and raisins on top. Being a bit peckish, she snapped a photo for her food blog before devouring the third.
Then she went into the living room and tried out three ergonomic chairs—one was too stiff and so high her feet didn’t touch the floor; one was too squishy with a fuzzy throw and a big dip in the seat, obviously made by an overweight being; but the third fit her perfectly. She noted the manufacturer of each chair so she could post a review on her lifestyle blog and moved on.
She noticed some trophies on the mantel in the living room. She took a photo of those too. None were familiar to her. One was for winner of Best Springtime Camouflage, one was third place for Spooking Adversaries, and another was winner for Best Berry Haul of the Year 2024. She wasn’t sure which blog site to post this photo to, positing she might start a new one.
Upstairs, she tested three smart beds—one was too firm, and the control was stuck on high, one too soft with the control stuck on low, and the third, with temperature control and lumbar support, was just right. She fell asleep in the third, dreaming of five-star ratings.
Soon, the Bear family, who owned the charming cottage, returned from their morning yoga in the park. Mr. Bear, Bruno, grumbled at the missing oatmeal, Mrs. Bear, Ursula, frowned when she saw the chair cushions that had been disturbed, and Baby Bear, Osito, found Goldilocks snoring in his bed.
“Look, Mama and Papa, I found a stranger in my bed,” he called out.
Startled awake, Goldilocks apologized profusely. The Bears, being progressive and mindful, forgave her—but asked her to respect boundaries, knock next time, and wait to be invited in. Before she left, she asked to take a selfie with the family to post on her relationship blog. They agreed and said she was welcome to come again.
Moral: Curiosity is wonderful, but respect and consent matter—even in fairy tales.
Sweet memories, buried for decades, that popped up when cleaning out my closet.
Last week, as an homage to the new year, I decided to clean out my “craft” closet. You know the kind. It has shelves and a big space to stack boxes on boxes on boxes. It was where I kept all the crafty supplies I used when our grandson spent his weekdays with us while his mama worked, before he started school. After he started school, he joined Odyssey of the Mind and, as the coach for his teams, I kept the closet full of even more stuff, bigger materials for costumes, props, and backdrops. There were at least seven years of mélange that I shifted and restacked over and over – paper, cardboard for building things, paints, plasters, rocks, plastics parts for cars and planes, shells, crayons, markers, stickers, clips, scissors, etc. – you get the idea. Now he’s seventeen, off on another course – competitive cycling, and crafty materials are no longer needed. I looked for filters for the water system in our frig and they were hiding under piles of all that important stuff. After I dug them out, I decided to clear out what was no longer useful. And there were three giant lawn-and-leaf-sized trash bags full. Some went to recycle, some to Goodwill, and lots to the trash. It made me think of the old radio show Fibber McGee and Molly. You have to be of a certain age to recall old radio shows. And that set me remembering, since I’m now a certain age plus one.
My parents both worked when I was a kid. Before I was old enough for school, Mom took me to a woman’s house on workdays. I don’t remember anything about the woman except that she, and consequently we, listened to the radio all day long. In those days, the 1940s, the Golden Age of Radio, families enjoyed a variety of great entertainment.
There were no other children in her house. She was very nice to me. I did puzzles, coloring books, and crafty things while she cleaned her house. Soap operas, variety musical shows, suspense, game shows, and comedy programs played on the radio all day in 15 or 30-minute segments. I remember Fibber McGee and Molly, One Man’s Family, Guiding Light, Kate Smith, The Aldrich Family, Baby Snooks, Bing Crosby, Jack Benny, various game shows, and The Shadow. They were the background chatter all day long. I don’t recall what they were about because, as a pre-schooler, I wasn’t listening very closely to them. I remember theme songs and bits and pieces of repetitive dialogue. I remember the spooky voice saying “The Shadow Knows”.
Fibber McGee and Molly were a married couple, sort of like Lucy and Desi. One thing that stands out in my mind was when Fibber opened his hall closet, and chaos rained down with the loudest clatter, bang, boom, squeak, and Molly would say, “Dear oh dear, Fibber, look at all that junk that fell out of your closet. When are you gonna clean it out? T’aint funny, McGee.” My craft closet reminded me of Fibber’s.
Additionally, a memory floated to the surface a few days later with a song from the same era as Fibber. I woke one morning with the inimitable Kate Smith singing in my head, “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain”. The Kate Smith show was on every day at noon. That was when my babysitter would sit me down at the table for lunch. I’m sure she made a variety of things, but all I remember is home-made tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I don’t remember the lyrics of the song, but when I recalled the tune, I could taste tomato soup.
Through the magic of the internet, you can now listen to those old-timey programs.
Link to Kate Smith singing “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain.”
This headline popped up on my phone and caught my attention.
The UN’s top court has opened a landmark case against Myanmar, accusing the country of committing genocide against its Rohingya (Muslim) minority. The case, filed by Gambia, alleges that Myanmar’s military launched a campaign of violence in 2017 that forced over 700,000 Rohingya to flee to neighboring Bangladesh. The population of Myanmar is predominantly Buddhist, with 90% Buddhist, 6% Christian, 4% Islam, and less than 1% Hindu.
The International Court of Justice (ICJ) in The Hague has begun the hearings, marking the first full genocide case it has taken up in over a decade. The hearings will span three weeks and will include oral arguments, witness testimony, and expert examinations. Gambia alleges the Rohingya community has been subjected to horrific violence and destruction, including atrocities such as gang rape, sexual mutilation and infanticide. The case is significant as it could set precedents for how genocide is defined and proven, and how violations can be remedied. The outcome of the case is expected to have broader implications, including potential repercussions for other genocide cases, such as South Africa’s petition against Israel over its war in Gaza.
Usually, I avoid political news, domestic and international, because it is painfully negative. But this headline stopped me cold because Myanmar is a Buddhist country being charged with genocide. That seems like a huge oxymoron, incompatible, incongruous. Buddhism is considered the most peaceful religion worldwide with its emphasis on non-violence, inner peace, kindness, and respect for nature. This doesn’t even seem real.
What is happening in our world? Riots in Persia, riots in Venezuela, riots in the U.S., riots in Uganda. Can’t we all get along? Give Peace a chance? I have a hard time believing the rioting is the fault of the religions because all the major religions preach peace. The scriptures of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism, all Abrahamic faiths, share messages that encourage unity and peace.
So, it means that bad actors in these countries are ginning up revolts based on criteria that they know will cause division within the population. I can’t say this is new news. It has happened over and over for centuries. Sometimes the issue is real, such as slavery in the U.S. Sometimes it is fabricated by lies like those that were the prelude to the hatred of Jews by a segment of the German population. How do we differentiate the real problems from those that are manufactured intentionally to cause internal strife within a country? What are the power struggles that motivate? Is it money, resources? I believe, more likely, it is an effort to consolidate power among the few to subjugate the many.
“Out of clutter, find simplicity. From discord, find harmony. In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.” — Albert Einstein.
A good maxim to begin the new year. The world is and always has been in chaos. Disorder and disharmony reign at all times, somewhere in our world. It is the human condition. Try as we might, we creatures, supposedly endowed with reason to think our way through adversity, instead use hard times and harsh words as a springboard to lash out with uncontrolled emotion. Emotion, it seems, is our human vice and virtue. Too often it overcomes rational thought, rational action. It is the catalyst for hate and anger, as well as for love and empathy.
I try to find peace from within and let madness straggle down its own path away from me. No, I’m not sticking my head in the sand. I am acutely aware of what is going on. I am also aware that I am powerless to make it stop, in the worldwide sense. No one has been able to in the millennia of human existence. Many have tried to lead toward peace and were rewarded with more hate and even death. Hateful words only engender more hate. “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” – Buddha. I can only contribute to my little corner of the world with my own actions and words.
Celebrating the joy that comes with every day brings calm. On the darkest days, there is always a little gem, a glimmer of happiness, if you pay attention. Watch for it. “Deceit is in the hearts of those who plot evil, but those who promote peace have joy.” (Proverbs 12:20) The connection between peacemaking and joy is clear; those who work towards peace experience fulfillment and happiness.
It is my prayer every morning. Let me be an instrument of peace. Find my balance. Make at least one person smile and be happy we had an encounter, whether in person, by writing, or by phone. Be grateful for every living spirit, for they all have a place in our world, a reason for being. Remember, forgiveness is the portal to peace. Don’t let petty or ignorant words muddle my day. Be kind, it costs nothing and is a blessing to others and to myself. It is the source of peace.
I don’t always achieve that goal, but it is uppermost in my mind to start my day. Distractions, annoying tech issues, physical discomfort, negative media (when I allow it in), and my own higgledy-piggledy thought processes can derail me from being present and conscious moment by moment. Joy gets lost in the commotion, but it usually resurfaces when I stop to recenter myself. I realize my very good fortune, the love surrounding me, and I’m grateful. I pray and, in my own tiny way, strive to help others find peace and joy in their days.
How do you find fulfillment in your days?
Some inspiring quotes by wise people, the Old Testament, the Quran, and the Bhagavad Gita:
“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.” – Gautama Buddha.
“If we really want to love, we must learn how to forgive.” —Mother Teresa
“Let us forgive each other – only then will we live in peace.” – Leo Tolstoy.
“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” – Mahatma Gandhi
“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.” – Mark Twain
“We seek peace, knowing that peace is the climate of freedom.” – Dwight Eisenhower.
“You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” – Mahatma Gandhi.
“The world is not a mere reflection of our thoughts; it is a reflection of our actions.” – Albert Einstein.
“And the servants of the Most Merciful are those who walk upon the earth easily, and when the foolish address them harshly, they respond with peace..” (Quran 25:63) Be a messenger of peace, even in adversity.
“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings…” (Isaiah 52:7) Be a messenger of peace.
“We must come to see that at the end we seek is a society at peace with itself, a society that can live with its conscience.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
“But if you pardon, overlook, and forgive, then indeed, Allah is Forgiving and Merciful.” (Quran 64:14) Forgiveness is a divine trait and a means to achieve inner and outer peace.
“Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.” (Psalm 34:14) Encourage an active pursuit of peace by making conscious choices to foster harmony.
“Delusion arises from anger. The mind is bewildered by delusion. Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered.” Bhagavad Gita
“Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
“Nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral questions of our time; the need for mankind to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to oppression and violence.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
“The disunited mind is far from wise; how can it meditate? How can it be at peace? When you know no peace, how can you know joy?” Bhagavad Gita
Prompt: Write a short poem, story, or essay in ten minutes using these five words: snooze, black, pocket, dollar-store, Egypt. This may be the beginning of a story when I get the nudge to continue it. I know next to nothing about pyramids, antiquities, or Egypt, so I’ll need to do a little research in order to continue the story.
As always, a prompt challenge tickles my brain in so many ways. This was quick fun. I admit I looked up the Egyptian script after writing the story in which I just wrote “his name was written in Egyptian script”.
SNOOZE AND SUP BED AND BREAKFAST
Simon stepped off the plane in Cairo with a huge grin on his face. This was going to be a great summer. He had snagged a summer internship studying Egyptian pyramids. He was as excited as a six-year-old in the dollar store with ten bucks. He went toward baggage claim to collect his luggage and scientific toolbox. Standing there with a sign that read حرينومتساويين, and under that “Cairo Institute of Antiquities” was a swarthy man who stood about 4’6”. Simon walked up and bent his 6’3” body and said, I believe you are looking for me, I’m Simon. The diminutive man responded with a big white toothy smile and shining black eyes, “Salaam Ustaaz, My name is Asim. I’m so glad you found me. I hope I spelled your name correctly.”
“That’s supposed to be my name?”
“Ustaaz, I didn’t know how to spell it, but I did my best. I will take you to your accommodations.”
Asim led Simon to an old jeep that was covered in a 10-year layer of Arabian desert dust thick enough to be armor.
“Where will I be staying for the summer?”
“Ah, Ustaaz, you have great accommodations at the Snooze and Sup Bed and Breakfast in the Dhjoser pyramid.”
“At the pyramid?”
“Yes Ustaaz, they have a lovely bed and breakfast at the third level.”
“You use the pyramids for hotels?”
“That and other things.”
“But the pyramids are sacred antiquities to be studied and protected.”
“You see, we have so many, and most are not very interesting, so our government decided to put them to use. It has helped our economy since the US bullied its way into the fossil fuel market. Only two kilometers away from your bed and breakfast is the Pick a Pocket Casino, also in a pyramid. It is rated very highly by Conde Nast.”
Sure enough. Asim pulled up in front of a small pyramid with a marquee reading Snooze and Sup, Bed and Breakfast. He helped Simon take his bags and equipment into the lobby. There in front of him was a dimly lit tunnel with ramps crisscrossing up to the third level and beyond.
When Ken and I moved to southern Arizona to be full-time residents in 1997, we left behind our three kids, all adults, our two mothers, two brothers, and a sister, plus all their families. Throughout our forty years in Bellevue WA, as we established our family, we always spent the holidays with all of them, sharing meals and family traditions. Our first Christmas alone had a daunting, hollow feeling of abandonment, even though it was Ken and me who left the family for our Arizona life.
When we were first married, we spent Christmases just we two, and we didn’t miss anyone because we were so focused on each other and being together. However, after our first child arrived, we were always in the midst of our two families during the holiday season. I decided to find a way to shake the Arizona Christmas blues. I found an ad in the Arizona Star for volunteers to help make Christmas memories for children in Nogales. We signed up.
The patron of the volunteer operation was Jose Canchola, who owned several McDonald’s franchise restaurants. The volunteers all met at one in Nogales. Every year for thirty-one years until his death in 2008, Mr. Canchola hosted a Christmas party for underprivileged children from Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. Jose was born in Chicago to immigrant parents and rose by hard work and persistence to become a business and political leader in Southern Arizona. Besides owning restaurants, he was a part-owner of the Arizona Diamondbacks major league baseball team, and served as mayor in Nogales for a time. His philanthropy was legendary.
On Christmas day, we left for Nogales in the dark morning hours, arriving about 7:00 am. We loaded our backseat with toys and some clothing to add to the contributions of other volunteers and businesses. We were taught a few rudimentary sentences in Spanish to use to help guide them. We learned what our jobs were and waited for the first busload of kids to arrive at about 8:00. We were told the children were from the very poorest part of Nogales and the mountains around it. Buses went into Mexico, collected children in and around Nogales, Sonora, and brought them across the border to Nogales, Arizona, to Mr. Canchola’s McDonald’s restaurant. Bus load after bus load of kids were dropped off to be fed a McDonald’s lunch and receive gifts of clothes and toys.
One large room of the restaurant was heaped with gifts for kids. Toys on one side and clothing on the other side. Each child was greeted at the bus by a volunteer and either taken into the dining room for lunch or brought into the big room to choose clothing, a backpack, and a toy. Then they switched, and the lunch group went into the big room, and the other group went for lunch.
I worked in the toy/clothes room, and Ken worked in the restaurant serving lunch. It was timed perfectly and, as one bus load finished choosing gifts and eating lunch, another bus pulled in with another group of kids. There were about thirty minutes between buses. One group was loaded back onto their bus, returning to Mexico as the next bus was greeted. It was rapid fire with no time between bus loads. I cannot tell you how many children were served that day, but we didn’t stop until after dark, at least nine hours, probably fifteen busloads of kids.
I marveled at the fact that the parents of all the children had faith to put their kids on a bus headed to the U.S., knowing they would be cared for by strangers and returned with gifts and a full tummy. The children were as young as two, on up to ten or twelve. Some kids came in family groups with the eldest looking after one, two or three siblings. A few of the children asked if they could take a gift to a sibling who wasn’t able to come on the bus. Some took a sack lunch of a hamburger and fries back with them to siblings who were left behind. The kindness and generosity of everyone involved was a heart-lifting experience. We were all there for the kids.
Very few of the children spoke English well, but most understood it a bit. My job was to take a child to the clothing area and find for them a shirt, jacket, pants, or coat that fit and that they liked. Shoes were available if they wanted a pair. Most picked out one item of clothing, but a few chose two or three items. Then I took the child to the toy side of the room, and they picked out a toy for themselves or sometimes one to take back to a sibling. Each child expressed their happiness at receiving the bounty they took home, some with words, most with their smiling, happy faces.
Ken told me about little ones with drippy noses that he had to wipe before they had their meals. None were obviously sick, but they were not in the best condition either. All were eager to dive into their yummy Mickey D’s. Hamburgers and fries disappeared in minutes.
One small boy sticks out in my mind. While several of the kids had been part of this gift program for a year or two, many were there for the first time. Their bright eyes grew enormous when they took in the stacks of toys and clothes. One little fellow named Luis was about six. He went into the restaurant first, and when he finished his lunch, he came to the big room. I took his hand and welcomed him, and asked what he wanted for clothes. I’ve since forgotten it all. He picked out a jacket, tried it on, and decided to keep it. Then we went to select a toy. I don’t remember what he chose, but his little arms were full. I walked him out to the bus, he got on, turning to smile at me. I watched other kids load and was about to go back inside when a bundle of love tackled me around the waist. It was Luis. He left his gifts on the bus and jumped off to give me a goodbye hug. He looked up at me with the most gorgeous, sweet smile and said, “Gracias, amable dama.” My heart melted. Tears come into my eyes now as I write this, nearly thirty years later, because I can still feel his hug and the look in his big brown eyes. Another volunteer translated his words, “Thank you, kind lady.”
Ken and I drove back to Oro Valley that night, exhausted but with full hearts. We experienced the essence of Christmas. GIVING and SERVICE to others. Our family now included all the children we met that day, even though we will never see them again. It was and is the very best Christmas I ever had.
We moved to Tucson from the Pacific Northwest, where gray skies and moderate temperatures abounded. We laughingly called rain, liquid sunshine, in an effort to not feel left out when the rest of the country experienced bouts, sometimes whole days of bright skies. The first year and into the second year in Tucson, I marveled that Dillard’s, Sears, and Penney’s stores offered sweaters and even jackets for sale. Why oh why would they have such useless apparel in the stores? I dressed year-round in shorts and sleeveless tops…for the first two years.
Then my blood became as thin as pomegranate juice. I discovered I NEEDED a sweater, especially when going into stores because of the excessive air conditioning. I needed a sweatshirt, sometimes a jacket, for winter, to wear with full-length pants. I began to need long underwear as temps dipped below 80° in November.
Relatives and friends who don’t live here think it strange. 80° is my bottom-line temperature now. Anything below that I consider frigid and requires supplementary attire to combat goose bumps. Long underwear is a staple. Heaven forefend if the atmosphere drops below 50°! I become bundled like an Eskimo. I scan internet ads for excursions to the equator. Fortunately, those chilly temperatures only occur at night when I’m snug in bed with quilts and comforters and a warm hubby beside me.
On the other hand, I can comfortably live in 105°. Of course, I go from my air-conditioned house to my air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned store and back again. I’m not standing outside all day or working in the blazing heat. I worry about those who work in temps up to 115°. I asked Jeff, our landscape guru, how he and his team worked outside all day without expiring. He said they start early, at dawn, when the temperature is milder, and as temperatures rise, their bodies adjust. They are covered head to toe in protective clothing, so the sun doesn’t directly hit their skin, and wear big hats to shade their faces. They drink gallons of water. The dry desert heat evaporates perspiration before you even know you have sweated. They usually quit work around 3:00 pm, which is the hottest time of day.
Yesterday, dressed in a long-sleeve top under a long-sleeve sweater and long fleecy pants, I went to the grocery store. Bright sunshine lit my world. I watched people going in and out of the grocery store. I could pick out the snowbirds, winter visitors, immediately. They wore shorts and tank tops. They thought they were experiencing summer, that 68° and sunshine meant it was warm outside. I could only laugh to myself. It was exactly what I thought thirty years ago.
wonkagranny 