Monthly Archives: August 2014

Cancer Doesn’t Care

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What kind of person are you? Are you kind to strangers, find pleasure in helping those in need, considerate of your neighbors, a steward of the earth, and loving to your family? Do you give of yourself even when it isn’t convenient, and do you nurture those you love even though they may not always show appreciation for your tenderness?

 

I know some special people who exemplify all that is good. While not without fault, these wonderful beings are for the most part joyful, warmhearted, and loving. They will bring their special brand of kindness to bear in difficult situations, think before they speak, and graciously give of their time to be there for others.

 

There are those who love to gossip, celebrate when others fail, and don’t mind their tongues. They seem to take our sunshine away, don’t they? These individuals may be quick to find fault in others, lack consideration, laugh when others fall, and maybe value money above all else. They will be nice to your face, but not hesitate to disrespect you behind your back.

 

None of us are perfect. But the problem I have in this moment is the realization that cancer doesn’t care what kind of person you are.

Cancer strikes good people. Cancer moves in without regard to how many karma points you may have built up.

 

Sometimes I feel it is invading the lives of good people more often than the “other” kind, and I have to say I’m angry about this. I’m at a loss for what to say or what to do when a friend loses a spouse, a child, a mother, father, brother, sister or other family member to cancer. Cancer has claimed good people who would give you whatever you need, whenever you need it.

 

Because cancer doesn’t care.

 

It is not that I wish this horrible condition on people I deem as “not good” or that I believe anyone is deserving to be invaded by this sinister disease. Not at all, but I just get so angry when cancer happens to good people. And then I cry for my friends whose lives have been taken and for others who are left to mourn their loved ones.

 

I was captain of a Relay for Life team in Washington State for five years. My teammates and I raised a lot of money for the American Cancer Society. We came together to show cancer that we do care. It was a precious 24 hours that made us feel we were doing something positive, together with the people who donated to the cause.

 

We gave our teams funny, clever names, sometimes with a name to honor a cancer survivor, or someone who didn’t survive, and together we put up tables and tents around the track where we camped for the duration of the relay. Some years during the relay it rained and the wind blew. We kept walking.

Susan, Frank & Julie

In 2006 The Nickerson’s Knights were awarded a Silver! Frank was in treatment then and he was very weak. He is a survivor and we are so happy about that.

My team was named “Nickerson’s Knights” for our colleague, Frank, who had stage 3 colon cancer. He has been cancer free for over five years now. Yay!

In the first lap we celebrated survivors! When darkness came, we lighted the luminaries to honor those who were survivors and for those whose lives were taken by cancer.

 

luminarias 2007.jpgCelebrating Frank.jpg

At least one team member had to be on the track at all times in that 24 hours of Relay for Life. We relayers held hands, walked together or alone, shared stories, laughed and cried for those who died and those who were in the midst of dealing with cancer. We showed we cared the only way we knew how—raising money and walking and running around a track.

 

HOPE 2007

A few of the relayers from Kamiak High School

 

Not a single person I know has not been somehow touched by cancer. We have all lost someone we have cared about. We loved them and now we miss them. We all know people who are living with it right now. We think about them and we do what we can to let them know we care, because cancer doesn’t care.

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Sharon, with her husband, Phil. She was a friend from junior high and high school, and she was one of the good ones! Her celebration of life was held in July 2014.

 

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Jerry was a great friend. He was an excellent photographer, a beloved teacher, and he could sing the blues. What a wonderful, funny guy. We miss you, Jerry.

 

 

I’m going to leave you with two questions:

  1. What are we, individually or collectively, capable of doing to rid the world of cancer?

  2. What can we do to ease the pain of those whose lives have been touched by cancer?

 

 

 

In a Book

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Blaring from the shop’s façade

A neon sign claims “OPEN”

Step in here; please search the

Shelves that cradle books for you

 

Revisit dreams; life’s pride and purpose

Devour pages one-by-one

Eat words slowly—as you wish

Satisfy your long-held search for meaning

 

Books bound by fragile, wrinkled hands

Or joined by man’s devices

How little it may matter to a reader

Aching only for a sweet taste of wisdom

 

Lines fill with letters meant to squeeze

And ring their finest colors

Hear the soft, faint sounds of solitary breath

Collected vapors singing— in a book

Feel me. I am Heat.

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“I am Heat, and I have come for her!”

 

 

Somewhere in the middle of her chest I take hold. I hunker down for awhile gaining strength. She feels it. I know she does, because she moves uncomfortably, pulling at her clothes. It is her feeble attempt at getting some air movement between her skin and her clothes.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, I creep farther, invading her arms, shoulders and neck before flushing to fill her cheeks. Her ears turn visibly red; she is engulfed, feeling the burn now. In a rush I move from her upper body, pulsing quickly down to her toes. Before long I rise to the top again. I am waves of heat going up and down, up and down.

 

The first time I entered her body uninvited, it was a rush of energy that was almost a pleasure to her, but soon my strength improved. I practiced until I became perfectly efficient at filling all her tissue, her muscles, veins, cells and (best of all) her mind with my gift of heat.

 

Pleasure is no longer associated with my presence. Now her experience is more akin to an uncontrollable freight train to hell. I want to whisper in her ear, “Fear me!” but I feel pity for her in this moment.

 

Her usually straight hair is forming into ringlets. Drops fall from her face onto her white blouse. Drip. Drip. I’m doing my job well, aren’t I?

 

She focuses every ounce of her resolve, longing for relief from my hot, tight grasp. Ha! She can’t get to the window fast enough. She can’t rip off her outer garments quick enough. The panic overcomes her. She’s frantic.

“Open the window for God’s sake,” she begs. “Where is the damn fan?” 

 

Don’t look at me. I don’t know where her fan is. I don’t have time to hide things from her. I’m busy making her sweat. And I do so relish the time we have together. Her body is my vessel; I am her uninvited furnace.

 

Too soon I become tired of my little game. She is flustered and soaking wet. I am satisfied that my job (for now) is done. Even in this moment as I release my grip on her, I vow to take over her body again soon. For weeks, for months, possibly for years, she will live in dread of me.

 

Feel me. I am Heat. I am the heat of menopause, and I’m coming for you next.

Paying Attention

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I take a deep breath. I’m about to give my introductory lesson on the craft of writing to my 5th period class of rambunctious tenth graders. It is my responsibility to guide these 15 year-olds to a point where they can easily and successfully write expository essays (writing to explain). The second genre of writing I’m charged to teach them is to write persuasively. It is imperative that they get their points across.

You may agree that it is not easy to write well. Likewise, it is not easy to teach writing to teen-agers. Even though many excellent and creative teachers have worked with them before they landed in my classroom, I’m feeling pressured. I’m the last in line before they take the WA State Assessment of Student Learning. I must get them to the starting gate AND all the way to the finish line.

It is understood that these (mostly reluctant) students will need lots of writing practice to hone their skills; not just for the state test, but for communicating well as they move on to college and/or directly into the R.W. (Real World). Did I mention how much pressure I feel? It’s still early in the school year, but the state test is looming in the not-to-distant future.

Writing is a skill, but it is also an art form and a way to work through to your inner self. My goal is to have them focus on their ideas and then work to support them with solid details and examples. I tell myself that if they will organize their essays and make appropriate word choices, they will be well on their way to success.

But that’s not all. Knowing how to be skillful with sentence structures, using an appropriate tone or voice, and sticking to the standard conventions of writing–punctuation, grammar, and spelling–will be necessary to round out the task.

It is interesting to note that when I was teaching, my students did not have access to computers for the state test. How many of us write longhand anymore? We can rely on spell-check and we can easily delete and move text around using a computer. These students had to write legibly, in a booklet, using a pencil that the school provided.

Most of the kids have just eaten lunch before fifth period, and some of them are feeling a little drowsy. Getting their attention, coercing them to focus on my English curriculum, is never easy even on a good day. Hey! That must be why we teachers make the big bucks. Ha!

 

I finish up my introductory writing lesson with: “In a nutshell, you must decide on a topic, know your audience, as well as your purpose, and write in the appropriate form. These are the basics, ladies and gentlemen, so tattoo these into your minds: TOPIC, AUDIENCE, PURPOSE and FORM (TAPF).”  

I look around to see Jennifer fiddling with something under her desk, her eyes staring down at her hands. She is texting, damn it! Kevin’s head is bobbing. He’s obviously keeping time to the music coming from headphones hidden under the hood of his sweatshirt. Brittney’s head is on her desk. It’s only a matter of time before the drool starts. IS ANYBODY PAYING ATTENTION?

I switch off the overhead projector I used to show them examples of good and not-so-good writing, along with my carefully chosen and highlighted bullet points. The previous night, I spent two hours at home after work putting the finishing touches on this carefully crafted lesson. I swear it hasn’t been a boring lesson; I delivered it with humor (stand-up comedian style) and a grace unparalleled. I provided them with opportunities to participate in order to keep them engaged (awake).

I walk over to my desk. I plop into my chair. I sigh. Other than that, however, I am calm and quiet.

I’m thinking about a time when a student told me he found it surprising that when he knew I was the most frustrated or upset, I became completely quiet. You see, I am often rather boisterous and I laugh a lot—loudly, as I banter with my students. I love teaching and have been told often that I am rather good at it. I have a box full of letters and cards from former students, who have praised me for helping them to succeed, even excel. (Their words). Professing their love, they sign off, saying they want to stay in touch. Now that’s the real paycheck.

Now I hear the familiar sounds of notebooks being stuffed into backpacks and the zippers closing them. Some kids are already up and moving toward the door. The bell won’t ring for another minute. Ordinarily I rail against this behavior—them getting ready to leave sooner than need be, and I hate it when they amass at the door before the bell rings. It’s as if they are a pack of dogs waiting for the bowl of food to hit the floor.  I am again struck with the realization that they can’t wait to get out of here!

As the bells sounds, two girls, one with pink hair and a nose ring, both with timid looks, advance to my desk. “Are you okay, Mrs. F.?”

It is a good question, and I don’t hesitate to smile and say, “Sure, I’m fine. Just a little frustrated that I can’t get everyone to pay attention.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” April says. “They are all just a bunch of bastards.”

 

Classroom Collage of Memories

Snippet of my Years of Teaching

 

The Baby’s Breath is Sugary

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Susie gives Cam a bath

 

The first year I lived with dreams of travel;

of climbing mountains in Switzerland with my love,

relishing spaghetti in Italy, sharing sushi in Japan.

 

In New York I would climb the Statue of Liberty,

and the morning mist would kiss her face.

Just like my love would kiss mine.

 

We’d stroll a Spanish village flanked with shops,

and holding hands we’d hear sweet music makers

strumming their guitars made of ash and alder.

…………

It must be two centuries ago when I felt my lover’s hands sliding

over my tender parts and places; in the days when we shared

our aspirations of roaming the world together.

 

But for now, our baby’s breath is sugary

and replaces long held desires for us to hail a cab in Barcelona.

With love and our red umbrella, we shield our infant son instead.

 

Our plans of travel replaced with little things

like watching him sleep. This precious child who has captured us,

and whose baby breath is sugary.

Do you judge me?

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Perhaps I am eccentric. Sure,

my oddness rises to the surface.

I question: whom among us is conventional?

 

Transporting to the aesthetic embracing

us, we revel in earth’s promises.

(not to be overtaken, but for buoyancy)

 

Will you strive to be an iconoclast

carving (tearing) my beliefs apart,

reducing my metal from its ore?

 

Perhaps I am eccentric and my peculiarity

rises from the floorboards, but I must not

permit ordinary vapors to fill me.

 

Nonchalant, secure;  disapproval does not worry me—

it isn’t hubris. Do not accuse me (please)

of being full of excessive pride, full of conceit.

 

I merely suggest we trust our guts, our instincts,

and listen to our animal voices; why not

permit mysterious spells to challenge logic?

 

Allowing an impulse—a sweet whim

to overtake us in moments of fancy,

to live fully formed, radiant, and crystalline.

in full measure

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cactus flower

 

Candied pineapple sits on my tongue

sensory, sweet and bursting with a

joy of homecoming and you

resounding off the walls

…memories swirling in

 

 

The rules were broken yesterday

hammered and torn into private pieces

mostly warped from personal pain

choked down to lie where nothing else matters

…where nothing else makes sense

 

 

Naught is heard or felt or known

to stop the flow, the flow of emotion

where only the small and tender can find

their way home where summer dresses hang

…in the closet next to winter coats

 

 

To scarcely touch and be touched

an awareness of my heartbeat

from an inner core of percussion

while sensations turn in swirls of hot dust

… blindly settling into corners

 

 

Back from the dark, the starched and strident past

of bent and broken chairs

the chairs that tried to place you there

You…sitting…there

…darkly handsome with perfect posture

 

 

Lips on mine at this feast

when you fed me candied treats

to coerce me into loving you

forcing sweets onto my tongue

…in full measured spoons

 

 

Only the small and fragile resolve

to find a place to fall undamaged

a place to rest, to please

to will and to allow

…for a hand to press a soft and tender thigh

My girlfriend says…

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My obsession with the English language is a form of obsessive compulsive disorder. That’s what my girlfriend, Donna, recently told me. I’ve heard that before.

Is it my fault that I get upset when people say things like, “I seen that,” or “There wasn’t much people there,” or how about when someone writes, “Your a happy person.” That one really gets me. I find myself yelling, “It’s the contraction you want, YOU’RE, not the possessive pronoun, YOUR.”

Oh, and guess what? A lot =two words. It isn’t alot. Is it a lot to ask that you write it as two words? I used to ask my students, “Do you write a little as one word?”

The English language is a living language, so the common practices sometimes find their way into our lexicon. I predict that in my lifetime, the two words a lot, when used to mean a great number, will be acceptable written as a single word. I will have to get over it. Let it go. Oh heaven forbid.

Don’t get me wrong. I make plenty of errors. Big mistakes and itsy bitsy ones too. (That’s too as in also or excessive…not to, the preposition as in I went to the park).

People look at me funny when I tell them that I actually read the dictionary. I start to look up a word, and something on the page catches my eye and I start reading. Don’t you do that? One day I was looking up a word I didn’t know (there are many of those), and I read the definition for moot. What an eye-opener. I will bet you a million dollars that 99 of 100 people use that word incorrectly.

Moot

Contrary to common misuse, “moot” doesn’t imply something is superfluous. It means a subject is disputable or open to discussion. e.g., The idea that commercial zoning should be allowed in the residential neighborhood was a moot point for the council.

Here’s a test for you:

Correct? Incorrect?

Everybody must bring their own lunch to the meeting.

As an English teacher I spent hours reading my students’ writing and using my green, blue, or purple pen (red gets a bad rap) to give them feedback. It was the worst part of my job. It was my responsibility to actually teach these wonderful children how to communicate in writing, do it well, pass the WA State assessment of writing, and move on into the world with a sharpened pencil. It was my job to find mistakes and help my students not to make them. I took my responsibility seriously. Just ask them.

Okay, back to your test. If the subject is singular, the pronoun, to which it refers, must be singular.

 EVERYBODY is singular. That, in itself, may be news to you. But it is singular. Consequently, the correct way to write this is:

Everybody must bring his or her own lunch to the meeting. 

It sounds a bit awkward, with “his or her,” but it is correct. I suggest you find another way to get that information across so as to avoid having to use his or her. How about a simple, straightforward directive, “Bring your own lunch to the meeting.”

You can only imagine how much fun it was to be fifteen, in my sophomore English class, and having to put up with me constantly going on about such matters. Teen-agers spend a lot of time thinking about themselves–how they look in the mirror, how they look to each other, when is the next party, who will be at the next party, who likes them, who doesn’t like them, among many other things. Using good conventions in writing isn’t high on their list of things to think about. I had to be sneaky and creative.

For example, PUNCTUATION DOES MAKE A DIFFERENCE:

WOMAN WITHOUT HER MAN IS NOTHING.

or

WOMAN, WITHOUT HER, MAN IS NOTHING.

You see how two commas make such a big difference?

Writing well isn’t merely mastering the WRITING CONVENTIONS; there are a lot of other issues. The use of proper grammar, punctuation, spelling, and word usage are only a small part of what it takes to become a good writer. But I’m not going into the rest of it right now. Maybe another day.

Don’t think I can’t hear you sighing with relief.

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How about some bacon?

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Normally, fish is the only meat I consume, and while I’m not a vegetarian in the strict sense, I haven’t had red meat in 36 years. The sight of rare prime rib makes me nauseous. Most people love the smell of bacon frying. Not me. I have a problem with the odor and with the annoying, hot grease that spatters from the pan when you cook it. When I quit eating meat it had nothing to do with the inhumane ways of raising and slaughtering animals. I was not one of those nuts running around sobbing about cruelty to animals. I just didn’t like the taste of meat. In the years since I gave up red meat, I have learned a lot about the raising and slaughtering of animals so that we humans can have a nice pork chop, a rib eye, or a pepperoni pizza.

 

One such lesson came from Newsweek.  When I used to read Newsweek, one of my favorite features was the “My Turn” essay. These are essays from ordinary people who write about a topic of their choice. Many of the pieces are educational, teaching me something or requiring me to think about something in a new way. I found enjoyment reading these interesting, enlightening, sometimes amusing or sad essays. The one that sticks with me the most was written by a not-so-ordinary citizen. One of eleven children, Bobby and Ethel Kennedy’s son, Robert Kennedy Jr., wrote his essay to make the case against our country’s industrialized pig farming. This exposé falls into the category of shocking enlightenment for me. Kennedy’s sensory language described the insidious practice of holding the hogs in cages with no room to turn around, squealing sows barely able to birth their litters in these confined spaces, and their waste dropping through the holes in the steel floors, which in turn flow into acres of pig excrement lagoons.

 

His prose conjured a stench enough to induce vomiting. His word pictures were enough for me. Because of his essay, there is a part of me that chooses not to eat pork mainly because of the practices of industrialized farms. I was teaching high school English at the time I first read Kennedy’s essay, and I gave my students the assignment to read, discuss and then write a response to it. The experience of reading, talking and then writing about industrialized pig farming was not enough to make my sophomores give up their BLTs or to stop eating sausage, but that was not my goal.

 

As critical thinkers, we must examine the many sides of an issue. Could my students open their eyes and minds to the evils of industrialized farming? Or at the very least give some thought to how much farming practices have changed over the last century? Are some practices better than others? Whatever happened to the family farm? What are the experts saying? It seems that there are a lot of people wondering about these important issues. And while I am no authority on this topic, it seems that since the time of his essay in Newsweek, Kennedy has become quite the authority.

 

Many more people are whooping and hollering about the evils of industrial pig farming because they are listening to the many who are authorities on the subject. Maybe you want to know what they are saying. If so, watch the documentary, Pig Business. Go ahead. Put down your ham sandwich and watch it. Or go online and read about the big business of pig business. Look at the pictures. I dare you. Familiarizing yourself about this issue might just make you squeal like a pig.

Read more:   http://nationalhogfarmer.com/mag/farming_waterkeeper_lawsuits_target

Six Words Can Say a Lot

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It’s your life. Make it work.

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The road is long. Get going.

I had three sons. No daughter. (a six-word memoir)

Time out, time in, time out.

Have fun, give hugs, get love.

 Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on. (Jimmy Buffet)

Take a shower and get clean. (good advice)

Um, six words can’t encapsulate me.

I only live for the moment.

He said, she said, who cares?

Too little and far too late.

And eventually we all will die.

The mailman brings me bills. Damn.

Wherever he goes, black clouds follow.

It’s the summer of my life.

It’s hard now, but easy later.

Where should we go? To Mars?

Let them eat cake. Me too.

Baja dreams

Birds, flowers, pots, turtles, skulls, pomegranet.

I found happiness in my heart.

pattern 2

Who put sand dollars on the beach?

When will I ever learn? Tomorrow?

“Life’s a bitch, get over it.”

“I’m not very good at this.”

“I don’t know, do you know?”

I dance like I am invisible.

Six words are not nearly enough.

Time’s change, People change, That’s life.

silk sunflower

Sunflowers brighten our lives, don’t they?

 

I was a teacher. Not now.

Always create, have fun, die later. (philosophy)

Work hard. Take chances. Can’t hurt.

 

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It pays to get up early!

“…sounded like a good idea” Part II

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On one of many trips to La Paz to the bank, we also saw a doctor about my husband’s ear drum fiasco (a whole other story). El sol–the sun– shines hotter in La Paz. The humidity is higher in La Paz. We turn into big, slippery, balls of sweat. Happily La Paz is a mere 1.5 hours from here on a beautiful highway, but it always promises to be hot. It was so much fun the first day; we thought visiting our friends at the hospital and the bank would be fun the next day too.

Soon after the doctor visit regarding the holes in Greg’s eardrum, we stop (in a bus zone) in front of a pharmacy where I jump out to purchase a prescription while Greg stays in the car with the car running. Greg has lost 90% of his hearing in his left ear and doesn’t hear the horrendous noises coming from the idling car. After my success in getting the prescription, I hurry back to the car. OMG! I have never heard such racket coming from a vehicle. I can’t believe my ears. A man waiting for the bus looks at me and points to the spewing smoke and pinches his nose with one hand and points to the car with the other. Well, as if the weather isn’t enough to make us cranky, the VW has decided to blow up. In a bus stop zone. On a busy street.

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The van is so great when it’s operational. This picture is from one of those good times

We call our friendly VW mechanic, Rogelio, who has patched up the Westfalia several times before, and his shop is conveniently located about a mile away. He kindly sends a nice young man, Rafael, aka Rafa, to our rescue. While waiting for Rafa, Greg investigates and suspects it is the alternator causing the ruckus.

Rafa arrives and after handshakes and introductions he comes to the same conclusion and he calls his friend who has a tow truck. Once our car is hooked up, Rafa invites us into his car and off the three of us go to Geraldo’s, the best VW repair shop in La Paz. At this point in the story, it is important for you to understand one tradition in the Mexican culture: start work early, take two-hour lunch breaks and come back to work till 7:00PM. We arrive right in time for their lunch break. We will wait for two hours in this stifling heat to find out our car’s fate.

By this time we are very hungry, so we head to the Chinese restaurant, called Comida China, down the street. La Paz is so international when it comes to food, and they love their Chinese restaurants. Oh sweet air conditioning. Ah, blissful air conditioning. It is 95 degrees in La Paz with a heat index of 107, so the air conditioning is blessed relief. After a long lunch of five different items that all look and taste the same, we stroll on the Malecón–a promenade or boardwalk along the seaside. Stroll makes it sound like fun, doesn’t it? The reality? Let’s just say that walking around La Paz in midday heat is something much less than fun.

The foot that I injured a year ago, doing Zumba in an exercise class, is killing me from all the walking. (I don’t realize at the time, but I find out later, that I have broken several little bones in my foot and it has not healed well). It is miserable in this heat, our van is broken down, and my foot is throbbing with pain.

We need to get out of the heat. Although it was great that we got towed, and that they would squeeze us into the car repair line-up, this is not my idea of a good time. After a long, grueling day of walking and waiting, we surprisingly get our alternator patched up and the capable guys at Geraldo’s get us back on the road at 7:45 PM. The mechanic’s parting words are a warning to us to replace the alternator belts sooner, rather than later. Greg says he has a new one in the van and will do it in the next week or so. We are on our way again.

………………………

We make it all of about three miles away. I hear a loud snapping noise. What’s that? You may have guessed it. The belt from the alternator has snapped and we must get off the road before the car blows an engine. We only run one red light and make one illegal U-Turn before pulling off the busy street. Well, well. We are in another bus stop zone…all I can think is thank God for bus stops. Being the bright and happy person that I am, I find this sort of funny in an ironic sort of way. We are driving a VW Bus and this is the second time today we are finding ourselves broken down in a bus zone.

Irony is a weird thing. It has the initial sense of being rather humorous, or at the very least coincidental, and then it hits you right between the eyes! It’s déjà vu. It’s The Twilight Zone. Oh, it’s irony all right, but it is not funny.

Greg drags himself from the car and finds that the water and coolant have spewed. These are signs of the real possibility of a blown engine. His reaction is one of fear and loathing for our bus. This just can’t be happening. It’s getting dark and traffic is horrendous. Dark does not mean cooler either.

Sweat is trickling down in places I’m too much of a prude to mention. This must be one of the more trying moments I can remember. My usual sunny disposition is being tested, and I’m failing the test. Greg never has a sunny disposition to start with, so it isn’t as big a pendulum swing for him.

We try calling Rafa’s friend, the tow truck guy, on his cell again and again, to no avail. Remember, we don’t speak Spanish. And it’s still really, really hot. Sunny Disposition Susie thinks, “This is such an adventure.” 

What the hell are we going to do now? In a moment of desperation, Greg just takes off walking. He’s going to see if he can find someone who can help us. He doesn’t have much of a plan really.  At least he’s doing something. I just can’t walk another step with my swollen, painful foot, and yell this to him as he’s dodging cars in the intersection on his way across this main street. “I’ll wait here!” I scream, but I know he doesn’t hear me because of that 90% hearing loss in his left ear, not to mention the horns honking as he runs in the street in search of whatever he is in search of.

Half an hour later he comes back to the car where I am all by myself on a busy street in the dark dripping with sweat. But my man has come back with more phone numbers for tow trucks. I don’t know how he did it, but he did.

Because I’m the so-called Spanish speaker in the family, it is my turn to be of use. I dial the first number. I’m muddling along with these people on the phone trying to explain our dilemma and working equally hard just to understand whatever they are saying at the speed of light, and holy crap! I am so hot!!!! My foot is swollen and throbbing and the lunch I ate (Comida China) is gurgling in my belly causing excruciating pain. What the hell? We’re broken down for the second time in one day, in a bus zone, calling for a tow truck!

Finally I get hold of Jesus. In Mexico many men are named Jesus. It’s pronounced Hay soos. But I think of it more as Jesus, as in the Son of God. I think, but am not sure, that Jesus understands me, what we need, and where we are. It’s a lot like praying.

We wait and we wait. Now we break into hysterical laughter. We’re going insane! It’s all like a bad movie and we are the stars of the show. After about ten minutes that seem like three days, Greg gets out of the car and decides to throw the remnants of our lunch in the trash. Thank goodness he does too, because lo and behold, there is Jesus in his tow truck! He’s been waiting around the other side of the building looking for us.

This particular Jesus is about 300 pounds, dripping with sweat, and has several missing teeth, but I swear to God I have never been so happy to see someone in my life. I jump out of the car and run to greet him. I stop short of hugging him and exclaim, “Oh, Jesus! Muchas gracias!!!” He is equally excited to see me, or maybe it’s just because I am so excited to see him. We all begin laughing for some reason, and I tell him, “Cinturon roto!” I’m pretty sure I just told him our belt was broken. At least I hope that is what I said.

He hooks the VW up and we squeeze into the front of his truck with him. I can’t be certain, but I could swear he has no headlights in his truck. We are going five miles per hour, listening to authentic Mexican music on his radio (the kind with accordions), and we get about a mile before the hydraulics begin to slip and the front end of our car is no longer riding high. Jesus applies his brakes, and in one swift motion which is impressive for such a big guy, he’s out and adjusting the hydraulics.

As we continue on our merry way, Jesus and I are doing our best to carry on a conversation in Spanish. I understand enough to know he asks me where we live and after I tell him vivimos en El Pescadero–we live in El Pescadero–, he wants to know where I was born. I only know he is asking this because we have recently practiced asking, “When were you born?” in our Spanish class last week. At this point I am getting pretty excited about being able to actually communicate with Jesus and I elbow Greg, as a way to point out to him how absolutely fantastic it is that Jesus and I are actually speaking in Spanish with each other, but Greg is so focused on the task at hand and he fails to feel the thrill.

Once we arrive at Geraldo’s (again) and Jesus disconnects the car, he seems concerned about what we are going to do next. Jesus wants to take us home. We live 1.5 hours away, so we decline his generous offer and we tell him we’ll be fine. The three of us heartily shake hands and Greg gives him 500 pesos for his trouble. Mucho gusto and hasta luego, Jesus! This means that we enjoyed meeting him, and we’ll see him soon. Why am I saying I’ll see a tow truck driver again soon?

It’s about 9:30PM. Now what? We go for beers (Greg) and limonada–limeade–(me). Back to the Malecón. More déjà vu. After a few drinks and some belly laughs, we are soon trudging to the VW that is sitting across from the repair shop. Now it’s 10:30PM, still in the 90s and still humid. Greg says, “You aren’t going to like sleeping in the van.” I know what he means. There is no breeze. The humidity is off the charts.

As fate or luck or God would have it, a great guy, Omar, that Greg met at Los Cerritos last week, has an identical VW van as ours, and he has also been at Geraldo’s, getting his oil changed or something.  Omar told us earlier in the day that he and his traveling companion were spending the night in the hotel across the street from the VW repair shop. In fact his Mexican friend, Lalo, owns this hotel.

As we approach our broken down VW, we see them all standing a mere fifteen feet away on the sidewalk out front of the hotel chatting. Oh thank God (again) Lalo says he has a room for us! And it’s got air conditioning and an internet connection. It also has three barking dogs and two crying cats, but it has a shower and a toilet and it is so clean it’s almost sanitary enough for surgery. Seriously clean. What a relief to have such a clean and comfortable room with a bathroom when you’re sick all night ridding yourself of the Chinese food you had for lunch.

I awoke next morning with a sty in my left eye and a big red spot on my face from an insect bite. I have bags under my eyes and I have no deodorant or clean clothes to put on. Before checking out of the hotel, we each take a shower and I even wash my hair. The hotel coffee is more than passable. We have to put on our stinky clothes from yesterday, but somehow we can’t wipe the smiles from our faces. The car gets its new belts and new coolant, and the mechanic tells Greg our engine is not ruined.

It has rained really hard in the night as we slept, and it continues raining all morning. Our world takes on the incredibly sweet smell of rain in the desert; trust me, there’s nothing quite like this sensory experience. We are driving through standing water on the roadways feeling genuinely blessed and marveling at the kindness of the people of La Paz. The total cost of two tows, repair, new belts and hotel stay is about $100.00 USD. We are more determined than ever to learn to speak Spanish, and to do whatever it takes to build our dream home in the Baja!

It will be a long time before I eat Chinese food again.

Buying a lot and building a house in Baja Sur sounded like a good idea?

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The troubles we were having here to get our house built are partly because of the Mexican way of doing business. This all started a few years ago. I actually wrote this piece during the time it happened.

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I guess we were pretty naive when we bought our property. What am I saying? I KNOW for certain we were. Nothing has happened as promised by our real estate agent. I know what you’re thinking. Who in her right mind trusts a guy trying to make a real estate deal? And by the way, I don’t know why they call them deals. As for real estate guys, in all fairness, our agent is a great guy who has helped us in many ways. He is someone we consider a friend. We didn’t ask the right questions, I know that much.

Because of where we are building (one tier away from the beach), we need an Enviro Permisso–environmental permit. It costs a mere (cough) $5,500.00 to obtain this “permission” to develop our property. To navigate the system we are working with an engineer who speaks not one word of English. The contract is in Spanish too. We do not speak, understand or read very much Spanish. You see where this is going.

The engineer, Jesus Jose Prieto, is a nice enough hombre–man, and I’m sure he knows something about the service he is supposed to provide to us, but he has not been able to procure what we need for this environmental permit. He said it would take about 4-5 weeks. Jesus took samples and photos of the cactus on our property. These photos were only of the cacti that are protected by the Mexican government. He did this part of his job in record time. But it has taken three long months just for him to inform us that our paperwork was not satisfactory. Instead, we also need to get a Power of Attorney from the bank that holds our fideicomiso. The title to our property is legally in a Mexico bank trust—a fideicomiso.  This trust is required of foreign land owners. In order to sign for all the permits we will need along the way, the bank is asking us to do a Power of Attorney. Huh? What? Well, this means we will be able to sign for ourselves for what was ours in the first place. We will need a variety of permits along the way. It seems that the fun will continue for a long time.

The bank’s requests are now our problems. They want all our documents in Spanish done by a certified translator and notarized by a notario–notary, who is a circuit judge, unlike a notary in the USA. In all fairness, I will take this opportunity to mention that we are in Mexico. Putting our docs in Spanish seems a reasonable request, but it costs more money and it is inconvenient. I know. I’m whining. As for the notario, he has special stamps and seals for our documents. The seals are beautiful too. Small children and the Mexican government love these seals. And who can blame them? They are shiny little works of art. After a couple of false starts, we did manage to obtain these documents, in Spanish, but during the process, we found out we also had to get an attorney in Todos Santos to write a letter (in Spanish) to formally let the bank in on any possible plans we have now or may have in the future. In order to do a n y t h i n g on our lot, we have to share our plans with them. Remember, el banco—the bank—holds the trust.

Now here we sit with a cold drink, a much lighter wallet, translated documents with pretty seals and stamps on them. We’re on our way!

Wrong. Now the bank says we need an apostille–a type of certification document with a fancy seal–from the state of Nevada where our LLC is. Did I mention that our lot is in an LLC? That was one of the selling points. We didn’t have to pay closing costs to Mexico to buy a US “business.” LLCs are more like monkey business if you ask me, but we fell for it. Oh really? We’ll save $8,000 in closing costs? Terrific! I’m pretty sure somewhere along the way my mother told me that you never get something for nothing, but I probably just ignored her wisdom.

Seeing that I am the secretary of our LLC, it is my job to go online to the Nevada Sec. of State, and investigate this requirement. Piece of cake! It’s right there at the internet site. I fill out the order form for an apostille and now I have to MAIL it to the Nevada Secretary of State with my credit card info and my signature. Have you tried to mail anything to or from Baja? The mail within Baja is pretty good I’m told. Someone mails you something and two months later you get it. Maybe. Our experience with mail outside of Baja has been less than stellar. Our friend in Washington mailed us a large envelope in December of 2010. They received it in the post office in Todos Santos in June 2011. Who needed those bills anyway, right?

I filled out the order form for the apostille, scanned and emailed it to our LLC Nevada attorney who agreed to mail it for us. He didn’t mention money, so I’m thinking he is doing us a favor.

I’m asking the Secretary of State’s office to send the apostille to my mom’s address in San Diego, as we will be there a week from now. The Mexican bank says they will accept an electronic apostille in order to get our “package of documents” off to Mexico City where there is this ONE PERSON in all of Mexico who can grant us our Power of Attorney. Gee, I hope he isn’t on vacation. This is supposed to take a month from receipt of our request. I would like this omnipotent person to think of it as more of a demand, but we must remain polite in this gentile society. Please take these translated documents, all ten of them, plus the apostille from the state of Nevada, and allow me to sign for developing my own property. Muchas gracias! 

I still have to give the bank the original copy of the apostille when we get back from San Diego, which is going to take at least two weeks to receive from Nevada. This is an optimistic guess. I’m crossing my fingers that we will still be in San Diego when it arrives. If I get this in time, I will scan it and email it to the sweet little bank in Mexico that has us by the throat. If I don’t get it in time, I will slit my wrists.