Beth's Column

Independent Bookstores Rock!

4/26/2018

This coming Saturday, April 28, is Independent Bookstore Day. Front Street Books in Alpine, TX in hosting a big celebration! I’ll join the party from 1-3 PM to sign and sell books, talk about books, or just talk. Also, if you’re interested, you can peruse a proof copy of the next Deputy Ricos tale, soon to be released.

Do you realize what an amazing accomplishment it is to keep a small bookstore alive and thriving in a little town with the giant Amazon.com choking out most “mom and pop” booksellers?

The owner, Jean Hardy-Pittman, is a strong, determined person, the epitome of a “West Texas Woman.” Jean knows books. She’s edited them and published them for many years. Also, Jean reads and reads and reads.

I have a theory about why her business has succeeded when so many others have failed. Jean has made Front Street an integral part of the Big Bend community. Also, she hires great staff—friendly people who love books and who love to read. They’re eager to help a shopper find what she/he wants or might like, or they are willing to let a person browse for hours. Have it your way.

I owe Ms. Hardy-Pittman and her superb staff a debt of gratitude I’ll never be able to pay. In 2006, a brand-new, nervous author walked into the store and handed Jean “One Bloody Shirt at a Time.” She surprised me by saying they’d take six, and after she read the book, she would contact me. I expected her to read first and then order books. I later discovered that Front Street Books staunchly supports local authors by stocking six of their books, good or bad. Local authors are given a chance at Front Street that they don’t get in many other places.

Fortunately for me, Jean liked “One Bloody Shirt at a Time.” She even wrote a beautiful review of it that went into a local publication. And she bought more books and more books and every book I have written. Thank you to Jean and her staff for actively promoting my work. If you go into the store and are not sure what you want, beware! You are likely to leave with a Deputy Ricos tale in your hand.

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Thoughts This Christmas

12/18/2017

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From Halloween to Thanksgiving and on through the New Year’s celebrations, I adore the holidays. I’m not a person to whine and moan if you say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” I respond in a friendly way if you say simply “Hey,” or “Have a nice day,” or “Merry Whatever,” or even if you only smile at me.

I don’t believe there’s a “war on Christmas.” Good grief, the Christmas holiday has taken over all the rest of them, beginning with Halloween. If there’s a “war” going on, Christmas is winning. Even here in Alpine, I was tripping over boxes of Christmas decorations while looking for something for Halloween in mid-October. So please stop worrying that mysterious evil forces are trying to take Christmas away from you. That’s in your head.

I believe this so-called war is just another sad ploy to make us fear and suspect people who believe differently than we do or who act or think differently than we do. It’s a way of pitting us against each other, as if another way is needed. While I think it’s criminal to do that to us, nobody seems to be going to jail over it.

This is the time of year we should be coming together with love in our hearts. I believe every day should be approached that way, but it should be especially true for a holiday bearing Christ’s name, wouldn’t you think? All he ever really asked of us was to love one another. So if you’re a Christian, you should take that to heart and stop fighting a war that doesn’t exist.

The passive-aggressive messages about “wrong” Christmas greetings started on Facebook and in emails even before we celebrated Thanksgiving. People who announce publicly what I can and cannot say to them in greeting most likely will just get passed over by me. Why risk the wrath? There are too many people with hearts full of joy and kindness to spend time with the ones who try to tell me how to feel and what to say.

Here’s an idea: I have a disabled friend who lives on a tight budget in Arizona. She doesn’t have children but, because she has a huge heart full of Christmas spirit, she is making a memorable holiday for a neighbor who is a single mother with a small son. My friend knows that this young woman works two jobs in an effort to support her family, but there is nothing left over afterward for toys, new clothes, or special holiday food. My friend has enlisted the help of her own family and friends and is providing the things they wouldn’t have otherwise. What a beautiful way to say Merry Christmas.

What if, instead of complaining, we all did just one generous, loving thing like that? Instead of running scared that Christmas is being taken away, make a bold statement of kindness in your community. It could be a random, secret act, or a bold action. Prove to the world that Christmas is alive and well. If it lives in our hearts, nobody can ever take it from us.

No matter what you celebrate, even if you don’t celebrate anything, I wish you love and peace and kindness in your life.

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The Ram Named Puffy

11/16/2016

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So we're crystal clear, I never had one speck of rancher in me, but I do love animals. By the time Puffy entered our lives, I had hand-raised calves, chicks, piglets, and an orphaned baby goat. If it's defenseless and needs help I sweep to the rescue like Super Rancher.

I learned the hard way why Cowboy said not to name them. But how can you spend hours with an adorable baby and not name it, even if the name is never mentioned to the cowboy?

My first hard lesson had come when I stood beside Cowboy at an auction and bawled—cried my eyes out—because he was selling "Norma." She was a Hereford calf who had not been thriving. Boy howdy, when I stepped up she thrived all right. Cowboy had said, "Don't name her," but he never said how to keep from loving her.

One day I sat in my office at Big Bend River Tours pouring over paperwork. In walked my husband and plopped himself down in a chair. He had a devilish expression on his face that caused me to wonder what he'd done now. I figured he'd bought a new horse until a lump in his jacket began to squirm.

"I don't want to know what that is," I said. Wasted breath.

He unzipped the jacket and out popped the fuzzy head of a tiny lamb, a newborn. My heart sank because I knew what would follow.

"He was born yesterday," Cowboy said.

"He's precious, but he needs to be with his mom." More wasted breath.

My cowboy proceeded to explain that the little guy was one of three and was the smallest. His mom was doing the best she could but there was not enough milk for three and he was being shoved out. “He will die,” he said in a whiny way, not like my stoic cowboy.

He already knew I would fall for the tiny critter, so he could have skipped the impassioned plea I barely heard anyway.

My seven-year-old daughter squealed with glee when she saw the lamb standing on his unsteady legs in our laundry room. It was cold and what choice did I have? You can't put a newborn creature that just lost the comfort of his mother outside in the cold, or I can't anyway.

She ran up to him and hugged him and yelled, "Can we keep her? We're keeping her!"

“He's a boy," I said.

"Are we really keeping her?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Puffy, you're the very most cutest thing I ever saw."

The cowboy walked away, the coward.

So the baby ram was called Puffy and never seemed to care.

The next thing out of my daughter's mouth, "I'm sleeping with her tonight."

"No you're not, Margarita."

I put the two cutest things you ever saw to bed. Separately.

I got up three hours later because Puffy needed to eat and I recognized that cry. The Cowboy was doing his usual wee-hours thing, sleeping in oblivion. I made the formula and walked into the laundry-room-turned-nursery. There was my daughter, sleeping soundly and drooling onto Puffy's bedroll.

Fast forward a few months. My husband relocated Puffy to our "ranch" where he was reunited with the rest of the 8-head herd. Puffy was happy, my daughter not so much.

She moved on, as small children do. Then came a day that is seared into my brain. The cowboy brought Puffy from the ranch and I knew why.

Not Puffy. Not in my backyard.

"I thought I should do this while Margarita is gone," the terminator stated.

La la la. I can’t hear you. No way was I going to eat Puffy.

Fifteen minutes later, Margarita returned from her friend's house and flew through the door in a rage. "Papi said I can't stay outside with him and HE HAS PUFFY."

"I need to talk to you."

Her little face scrunched up. "He's going to kill her, isn't he?"

My child was aware of the fact that her Papi raised animals for food, but this was personal. This was Puffy. "Yes, he is."

"I'm not going to eat her." Now she was crying out loud.

"Neither am I."

"Why can't we just get our meat from the grocery store like everybody else?" My daughter wailed.

"Margarita, what do you think is in those packages?"

"I don't know, but at least it's not dead animals."

"That's exactly what it is. The difference is that somebody else killed them."

"That's better than Papi killing them!"

"No it's not. It's the same thing."

She ran away screaming that there were too many murderers and
she was going to go live where nobody killed animals. I felt proud
of her but I also feared for her because she had her mom's soft
heart for animals and a rancher for a dad.

Margarita came back a few minutes later and crawled into my lap and
sobbed. I cried along with her. It's hard to watch your child learn
of the cruel ways of the world.

At last she wiped her eyes and declared, "I'm not going to eat meat
if all of it is dead animals."

"I understand."

"You won't make me?"

"No."

"What about Papi?"

"He won't."

"Okay then."

That evening I made rice, beans, and a salad. Meanwhile, Cowboy
stir-fried lamb and vegetables outside in a "disco," a plow disk turned
wok placed over a fire. By then, a bunch of his friends had come
over and brought the usual accouterments: tortillas, salsa, and beer.

My husband came inside. "What's happening in here?"

"We're not eating Puffy," declared my little champion of farm
animals.

He plopped down next to her at the table. "I can’t eat Puffy, either.” He glared at me. “Never name an animal you raise for food."

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The Day I Met My Hero

8/15/2016

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I was a kid who loved to play baseball with the neighborhood boys and I revered Roger Maris. He was a hero right up there with Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth. I was a solid pitcher but an even better hitter…or else the boys were not that great.

A few years passed between childhood and the time I met Roger. I grew up and abandoned baseball, although not my love of it. And, I never forgot my childhood heroes of the sport.

I was working as an insurance agent in Gainesville, Florida and had accepted a job with a fledgling agency. They couldn’t pay me a salary but they’d split all commissions with me 50-50. It sounded like a challenge, a job made to order for this entrepreneur-at-heart, and I set out to succeed.

I knew insurance and I pounded the pavement in my high heels and dress-for-success clothing. It was the seventies and I’d entered a forbidden zone, formerly open to men only. I persevered. I wrote some large accounts and once I’d done that, I was hooked.

I discovered that Roger Maris and his brother owned a Budweiser distributorship in Gainesville and Ocala. Maris had played four seasons in the minor leagues and twelve seasons in the majors. He set the Major League Baseball record for home runs during the 1961 season with 61, breaking Babe Ruth’s record of 60 home runs in 1927. When he retired from baseball, he came to Gainesville. I wanted not only to meet my childhood hero, but to write the insurance on his entire operation.

When I asked about him, my male colleagues said, “Maris won’t see you.” “I never had the nerve to call on him.” “You’re not ready for the big leagues.” Yes, I was, but I didn’t just strut in and ask to see the hero. I did my homework.

I called and received the cold shoulder from the secretary. One day I dropped by with my card and met the formidable woman who stood between me and my goal. She was not much older than I was. I told myself I would not be intimidated by someone my age, but she won that round.

On my second trip to the Budweiser office, which I’d come to think of as The Office, I confided in her my love of baseball. She listened, bored and not afraid to show it. I left discouraged but not defeated. Maris once said, “You hit homeruns, not by chance but by preparation.” Meeting Roger Maris would be a homerun for me.

On my fourth trip to The Office I changed to badass mode. “Why won’t you let me see Mr. Maris or whoever does the purchasing? It’s customary for businesses to get quotes from various agencies. Is it because I’m a woman? Do you think I don’t know my business? Who do I need to see?”

A man strode into the room. He’d aged and I didn’t recognize my hero. I still thought of him the way he looked in the late fifties. “You need to see me. I have five minutes.” Aha. First base.
Then he turned to me and held out his hand. “I’m Roger Maris.”

It’s a wonder I didn’t swoon or burst into tears. I introduced myself with my professional face on, but just beneath that was the dirty face of an adoring little baseball player. Batter up!

I gave him my spiel and told him why he should do business with my agency. He could count on me. Who knew what he thought? There I was, a brash young woman in my twenties.

He explained that he bought his insurance in a group policy with other Budweiser distributors and there was no way I could compete with that price. Undaunted and naïve (but long on confidence) I asked if I could be allowed to bid on the whole of them.

“You mean all the distributors in the country?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m sorry, but you’d have to approach Budweiser at the national level, and I don’t even know a name to give you.” The fact that he wanted to give me a name was all that mattered to me.

Until I ventured West and left insurance behind forever, I tried to get a name from Budweiser. That never happened, but I’ve attempted to live by my hero’s final words to me. “Keep on swinging, young lady.”

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Special People Call for Special Measures

4/29/2016

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This beautiful story was written by Carmen Ganser
Photo by Molly Dumas

She walked into the visitor center this afternoon around a quarter to three. She wore a loose, gray, short sleeved v-neck t-shirt and an olive green visor with blue jeans and dirty white tennis shoes. Her hair was chestnut brown, short and tousled, her skin quite tan for early spring. She had beautiful light brown eyes, framed by blonde-tipped lashes. They flashed with sadness and uncertainty. She was petite, but had strong, bold muscles on her arms and shoulders--like she had spent time lifting weights or boxing. Her sternum was ever so slightly pronounced, her posture perfect.

Unfolding the free park map they’d given her at the entrance, she approached the counter and moved toward me, the bookstore clerk.

“I’ve never been here before,” she offered, and asked what I would suggest she do during her visit.

“Do you have dogs?” I asked. “All by yourself?” Both were somewhat limiting factors in the intense spring heat of the desert.

“No dogs,” she replied. “All by myself, staying until Friday.” Today is Tuesday.

“Is it safe down here?” she asked.

“Perfectly,” I smiled.

Normally these days, I would have passed her onto whichever ranger was working behind the counter with me, but I felt compelled to help her. I told her about the campgrounds in the front country and car camping in the back country. I mentioned my favorite places: Lost Mine Trail, the Langford hot springs, Santa Elena Canyon.

She hadn’t brought anything with her. No backpack, no big hat, no bathing suit, not even anything to eat except water and tangerines! “I drove down here on a whim,” she explained.

Her face told me she thought she probably sounded crazy.

“The hot springs can be European-style after dark and there’s no kids around,” I winked, enticing her to go check it out. “Bring a flashlight.”

Though clearly intelligent, she was totally unprepared for desert hiking and camping and completely out of sorts at this very moment.

“So... it’s so beautiful here, you might want this trail map if you’re going to do any Basin hikes,” I suggested, grabbing the map from the end-cap where all the hiking guides rested in their plastic nests.

“My husband just died a few months ago,” she said, out of nowhere.

I blurted out, “Do you want to stay at my place tonight? I’m having lamb burgers and salad! Come over for dinner, we can go to town tomorrow and get you some camping gear.”

For my register spiel, I told her that I often think about renting out my spare room on Airbnb, but that it’s probably against the park housing rules.

“I’ll give you the camping fee just to park in your driveway,” she offered for her end of the bargain.

“I can’t take your money, but you are welcome to stay at my place as my friend,” I firmly counter-offered.

She now seemed in a hurry. She told me her daughter was eleven and at home. “By herself?” I asked, though I knew she wasn’t. I wondered where “home” was. My visitor mumbled about grabbing a dollar for the trail map from her car and ran out the door. A minute later, she returned and placed a faded, crumpled dollar bill, a grimy nickel, and a couple dull pennies on the counter.

Picking up a little on her frazzled manner, I hastily wrote my address on the yellow post-it note stuck atop the thin stack behind the credit card machine and drew her a simple map. “I get off work at 5:30. Come over. I never invite people to my house,” I added, so that she wouldn’t think I was a weirdo.

She responded, “I never tell people about my husband. I don’t know why I did.”

I knew somehow that she and I were supposed to talk more, about the desert, about loss and grief and love and life, and about letting go and moving on. But I’m socially awkward, and she was rushing to leave--perhaps she was a bit embarrassed. Her grateful eyes searched for my name tag as I told her, “I’m Carmen.”

“I’m Marlene.” She held out her hand for a handshake that would have been solid had we connected palms, but the counter is wide sometimes and it was all fingers grasping.

“If we never see each other again, I hope you have a wonderful visit to Big Bend,” I added with a huge smile--a real one, for her--feeling powerless, but hopeful.

About ten minutes later, after a few more customers, I dashed to the parking lot hoping to see her or what I imagined might be her SUV. But, of course, it was an afterthought--and too late. She had already gone.

The rest of my afternoon shift, I silently kicked myself for not giving her my phone number or for not inviting her over for coffee the next morning. (I make really good coffee, with love. You can taste it.)

Ten minutes before close, a loud, gigantic, deeply sunburned woman loped through the double glass doors, her dyed straw-like yellow hair yanked back into a strained ponytail at her crown, twisting the skin on her face into a freakish glare. Her large pillowy body was stuffed into a yellow, calf-length, terrycloth sundress the same shade as her hair. The back of my neck tingled and my chest turned cold.

“Can I borrow your phone?” she wheezed. “I need to call my lawyer and I’m almost out of minutes. I have a $15,000 check waiting for me and he needs an address to send it to and his office is closing soon... blah blah.” I tuned her out. “Blah blah blah blah....”

“Lucky you,” mumbled Claudia, a front-desk seasoned veteran. “We really don’t loan out the phone.” But we were willing to do just about anything to remove the caustic broad as quickly as possible.

After I got home from my last shift of the week, I didn’t walk my dog, just in case sweet Marlene decided to show up. I didn’t make the lamb burgers, so I’d have something to serve in case she arrived. Eventually, I did eat the rest of the bar of dark chocolate with my bedtime tea (and some guilt), when I realized she wasn’t coming.

I hope she’s okay out here in Big Bend, and that she heals a little, and a little bit more. The driveway is always free.

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On the Trail

4/27/2016

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The time is September of 2008. The place is Ojinaga, Mexico. Observing the peaceful beauty and outward normalcy of the pueblo, you could not tell that bad things are happening.

Two unusually brutal murders interrupt Capitán Benito Escalante’s weekend visit in Texas. One perpetrator, a gringo covered in his victim’s blood, is behind bars. The other is, for now, still in the wind.

As the capitán says, “Crime doesn’t stop just because the police captain is busy.” Who is the woman claiming to be the gringo prisoner’s friend? What do a box containing a fifty-year-old mystery, a man with “eyes like a cat,” and a homeless boy with a sobering secret, have to do with the murders? What does the blind curandera know?

Capitán Escalante invites you to ride, run, and walk along with him as he tries to figure it out. “Invite” might be the wrong word…his tale of intrigue and adventure will force you to turn pages until all questions are answered. When he rests, you can rest. Then everybody can take a breather on a bench in the shade on the plaza.

But not for long.

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What I Wish I'd Said

4/19/2016

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Many people have asked how the April 12th “Fort Davis library event” went. The answer: Beyond my expectations, to say the least. People came to see me and speak to me and listen to what I had to say. It's humbling and exhilarating.

You see, I'm two distinct people. One wants to stay at home and write. Just write. She is a "don't-bother-me-go- away-I’m-busy" recluse. She could live in a cave above the Rio Grande and be perfectly happy. That is, of course, if someone brought food and drinking water. And coffee. The other woman wants to travel all over and speak to people and spend time with friends. Yeah, I live with both of them and a head full of characters.

The Event began with a reception at the Limpia Hotel. The people, the sun-filled room, the food, and the wine made magic. I didn't drink wine because I didn't want to risk being too talkative and spilling everything to my library audience later. “Elizabeth A. Garcia, Author” needs to have a few secrets.

I was privileged to meet a few wonderful Facebook friends in person, some of the charming Limpia staff, and I made many new friends. The surprise of the evening was a couple who recognized my name from years ago when I ran Big Bend River Tours in Lajitas. They lived there! But here is the best part. They used to go to our family restaurant, Garcia’s, in Paso Lajitas, Mexico.

They went on about a young man who had met them at the river in his truck and showed them around the pueblito before taking them to the restaurant. He changed their views on Mexico and Mexicans. They didn’t talk long before I recognized the young man, and I said, "That was my son, Manuel!" Those two happy, caring people transported me back in time 30 years. What an unexpected treat.

Of course they asked about Manuel, and I had to say that he died 6 years ago. Instead of a stab of pain, I felt joyous. Joyous that he had lived and that his kindness and enthusiasm for life had touched so many. And joy that he had been mine for a few magical years. It was as if he came and sat down with me and I could see him smiling. How could an event go wrong that started like that? And I reminded myself that if I stayed at home all the time none of that would've happened.

After the reception, we moved to the library where people were waiting to hear me speak. OMG, the pressure—the stage fright! Once I'm "onstage" that settles down a little. It’s fun to talk about my writing and hear readers’ various takes on it. Do you know that when you say, “I love Deputy Ricos!” you are speaking to my heart? Ditto if you say you love Jed or any of my other characters.

Speaking of Jed, someone asked about The Reluctant Cowboy and I spoke briefly about it. I wish I’d said that it’s my favorite book. I wish I’d said more than “It’s a coming of age story about a young bull rider who also happens to be gay.” That is such a cop-out answer. I wish I had said that I love Jed more than any of my other characters because he is strong, he’s beautiful, and he’s innocent and wise at the same time. He knows who he is and stays true to who he is in the face of some terrible things. The question caught me off-guard and I botched it. I wish Jed could have been there to talk to you. Then it would be clear. Anyway, thank you for asking the question because almost no one ever does.

“I know who all your characters are,” a reader said. I think (hope) she meant to say that the people in my books seem real. I wish I’d said that although not one character could’ve walked into the library with you, you can sit down with them anytime you wish.

Someone asked about my new novel (coming soon), The Trail of a Rattler. I also wish I’d been a little more forthcoming about that. I said, “It’s about a policeman in Ojinaga, Mexico.” Wow. Way to sell your next book, Beth Garcia. I have a mind and heart full of things to tell you about him, for he is much, much more than a policeman in Mexico. I’ll reveal some of those things in my next blog post.

When I published my first book, One Bloody Shirt at a Time, it was a tentative step into the world of sharing my work and putting my heart and soul “out there” for anyone to see. It was frightening, but it was also the beginning of a great adventure whose gifts continue to be revealed to me, one person at a time; or sometimes a whole roomful of people at a time.

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What about Love?

3/15/2016

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I have tried to stay quiet on what is happening in and to my country. Every time I start to write something for my blog, I end up in a rant. Who needs that? I don’t want to add to the collective anger, and I sure don’t want to be a political pundit; we have too many as it is. I want to make people laugh, and I want to spread love and hope. That is still my desire, but now things have gone too far for me to stay silent. A cowboy pushed me over the edge. You know the one because I’ve written about him before; my last name is his last name.

Last week, he came to Alpine and I met him for lunch. Before we even established our health and all that polite stuff, he said, “Beth, I want to ask you something.”

He sounded so serious it scared me, and I’ve not written anything about him in ages, so it couldn’t be that. What he wanted to ask me completely broke my heart.

“If a Republican becomes President, do you think I’ll have to go back to Mexico?”

His question stunned me. I couldn’t get one word to come out of my mouth. My heart had become wedged in my throat.

He mistook my silence. “You don’t know if I’ll have to go or not, do you?” He glanced around as he spoke, as if armed enforcers were already advancing.

My god, people! This man has lived and worked in peace and hope, and within the law, in the USA for forty-five years. Yet he feels the climate of hate all the way down in out-of-the-way, edge-of-the-country, Terlingua, Texas. Think about that for a minute.

“No,” I finally managed to say. “Why do you think you’d have to go back?” Of course, I knew the answer to my question. I was just stalling for time, trying to think of some way to take the horrible sting out of my country being shamed by a front-stage, hateful sham of a man who is not even worthy of polishing my cowboy’s boots.

And I knew that going back to Mexico wasn’t what upset him. What had upset him was being lumped in with an entire group of people who are now being called rapists and murderers. “All Mexicans are rapists and killers.” That is just as stupid and ridiculous as saying, “All white people are educated and think for themselves.” Ha! We all know how untrue that is.

How about this unbelievably stupid statement? “The Mexican government is smarter, much smarter, and more cunning. And they send the bad ones over because they don’t want to pay for them. They don’t want to take care of them.” This is a direct quote. There are so many things wrong with this statement I don’t know where to begin.

I’ve only loved one adult immigrant male, so I can only speak to what I know. Cowboy is not a rapist or killer. He doesn’t even cheat on his income taxes. He is so morally straight-arrow that in all the years I’ve known him, I never admitted to him that I tried all kind of drugs in the 60s. He lectured our kids until I thought they’d go out and become narco-trafficantes just for spite. Of course, they didn’t. They heard the angst and passion in his voice when he spoke of the harm done to Mexico by drug cartels.

No country sends their citizens to the United States. The overwhelming reason people come to this country is for freedom, for a chance to improve their lives and their children’s lives, for work. Work is the reason my cowboy came here, and it was the reason my grandfather came from Austria ever-so-long-ago. He did not come to rape and plunder. He wanted to work. He died in an explosion because unsafe factory work was what was available to immigrants at that time. Fortunately for me, he left behind a tiny son who would grow up to be my father. My grandfather was considered a lowlife, and he was WHITE. So imagine how people of color feel.

Okay. Rant over. I’ll get down off the table now.

As I studied my ex-husband’s face, a face I adore, I thought, please, please let love win. Love is the only thing that can. If love doesn’t win then we all lose; every one of us, no matter our color.

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To Make the World Dance

1/19/2016

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Carlton Leatherwood lived a newspaper career in Houston before moving to the desert and the starry dark skies of Terlingua. His book, "Big Bend People" offers insight into the people who give the Big Bend of Texas its texture and flavor.

            To Make the World Dance, by Carlton Leatherwood

Oh, my god, seven hours of glorious music to herald the New Year, 2016. There was in all probability more—in Terlingua.

Mark Lewis, fiddler extraordinary, is too cautious when he says we are becoming a music town. We are there. Otherwise, there's no explaining the three-hour Townes Van Zandt Tribute hosted by resident Butch Hancock on January 1 at Starlight Theatre and the four-hour “legacy” the following night at refurbished La Kiva.

And I was sitting at what Butch calls spitting distance all that time without motivation for a beer.

The Tribute featured Butch and son Rory, Jimmie Dale Gilmore and son Colin, The Mastersons (the sound man put the mic right up to the guitar), local singer/songwriters Jim Keaveny (and wife Anna Oakley on fiddle), and Hank Woji. And a “cast of thousands” who had new friend Teresa beating on my chair as she exclaimed to the lyrics of Townes.

Newly wed, river guide, and Starlight waitress, Sandi Turvan, took seriously the serving of a party of 10 nearby.

The next night, late La Kiva owner Glenn Felts was remembered as the Hancocks, the Gilmores, and the Whitmore family, including Bonnie and Eleanor, all took the stage till midnight. Marti Whitmore sang “Over the Rainbow,” a favorite of my childhood, and she and husband Alex sang their “Little Opera Girl,” with her favored high notes.

As was proved in opening performances of the New Year, Terlingua is not only a music town, it is a family town.

Meanwhile, a young man who plays a mean saxophone when he comes to town is casting a scholarly eye on its music scene. Chase Peeler, a university student, is writing a dissertation on it for his Ph.D. He chose the border community because he loves the Big Bend and there's a lot of music.

“You typically associate vibrant musical communities with big cities,” he said, “at least I always have. And coming down here and seeing how many musicians there are and how much music is happening on a daily basis got me really excited about spending more time here.”

"As you may know," he explained, "I'm working on a doctorate of music at the University of Colorado in Boulder. I'm in the final stages of it. I'm writing the dissertation right now." But he also loves the outdoors. He is employed by a fly fishing shop and has hiked the 2,181-mile Appalachian Trail.

I gave passing mention to fiddler Mark Lewis.

He says, “I try to be a student in all things. A fiddle is no exception.”

In the previous year's Townes Tribute, he had played fiddle in the closing number with the Hancocks and the Gilmores. Earlier in the evening, the Ghost Town Porch Dawgs—Mark and Hank Woji—had played.

What was that night like for the performer? I asked.

“Hank and I play quite a few Townes Van Zandt songs,” Mark answered. “One I sang at the Tribute I had played in California with my bluegrass band for years. It's called the 'White Freightliner Blues,' and I've always loved it. It's one of Townes' songs that has the capacity to drive like a bluegrass song. So that's what we opened with that night.

“After we were done, I stayed up there, off to the side of the stage,” Mark said. “I went back and sat in the doorway so that I couldn't be seen. But I watched the whole show, and watched those two fathers and their sons play, see another generation coming into music. I saw a guitar not necessarily being passed, but shared.

“At the end of their set, Butch said anybody who wants to come up and play with us, come on up. We're going to do this last number. I thought, how can I miss an opportunity like this? So I grabbed my fiddle and tuned it up. And then they launched into the tune 'Pancho and Lefty.' I found the melody and enjoyed being part of the music process. The music process brings me joy whether I'm sitting with my buddies on the Porch or on the stage with my heroes, like those guys.”

Before you and Hank got together, I noted, you were playing quite a bit on the Terlingua Ghost Town Porch.

“I still do. I'm a street musician. I started out as a street musician, playing for the joy of playing rather than seeking an audience and a recording contract. I seek joy from collaboration. And when I find a friend and we sit down to collaborate—and we begin to find each other musically—that's as good as it gets for me.”

In his conclusion of the interview, Mark said, “...I'm not sure what Terlingua is becoming…but it might be turning into a music town...”

And I close this blog with the story of a musical romance.

“Yes, the Porch brought us together,” Moses Martinez said quietly.

His wife, Brandi Humberson would elaborate later that they “played our first music together on the Porch late one night. But the first time we really played together was at open mics at La Kiva. We had our first kiss there, and I made my first $20 playing with Pablo (Menudo) there.”

And Moses would add, “That's where we grew. Glenn (Felts) gave us the opportunity to get comfortable with an audience, to really hone my guitar skills. I miss him for that. He's very missed.”

Brandi agreed. “He was that supporter of music, that free spirit that cared about having a good time and hearing some good music.”

Is Terlingua a music town?

The wife commented, “I'm pretty sure anywhere Moses plays is going to be a music town.”

And the husband's dream: “I have a fantasy of all these musicians on the road in a traveling caravan. I believe that we are good enough to make the world dance!”

Mr. Leatherwood's book is available at local Big Bend area bookstores and also at Amazon.com

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Lighting the Menorah

12/29/2015

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There I sat in Union Square on a cool, clear San Francisco night. “All is calm, all is bright.” Across the street, Macy’s conveyed a glittering “come hither” with their multi-colored lights and a wreath in every window. I can’t vouch for calm, but they were bright all right.

The towering tree in the center of the Square provided a beautiful focal point and drew my eyes back again and again. Yet all of the glitter and glitz seemed too commercial. Strangely, the larger-than-life window display at Macy’s was taken from “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” Wasn’t he the kid looking for meaning in the overly-commercialized holidays? I felt a lot like Charlie.

Margarita and Amber walked in front of me as we headed away from the center of things. I followed without question, happy to be going anywhere with them. They stopped at a huge Menorah near the main entrance to the Square. A Menorah? Interesting, but why stop? I’ve found that when it comes to the experience of Life, if I’ll just go with the flow I receive something I need. So it was that night.

My girls had stalled, so I entertained myself by looking around at the incredible mix of bystanders. San Francisco never disappointed when it came to people-watching. Someone with a microphone announced that it was almost time to light the Menorah. Fine, but why were we staying? And indeed, why were there Asians, Italians, and Mexicans hanging around—to mention but a few of the ethnic groups represented. It seemed as though the majority of onlookers were not Jewish, yet there we waited…for something. If I were a religious sort, I’d say we had been called. But wait.

The next announcement: “Rabbi So-and-So will address us now.”

I almost groaned aloud. What could a bearded old man have to say that would be relevant to me? I wanted to move on. There was so much to see. My girls didn’t move so I stayed put.
A bearded man (not old) approached the microphone and welcomed us. My attention was drawn away for a moment by a man passing out tiny candles with an aluminum foil base for catching dripping wax. If we have candles, my inner child observed with glee, maybe this won’t be so boring.

Candle Giver said, “In a minute we’ll bring a torch and light a few candles, then you can pass the light to each other.” I liked the metaphor, and when I glanced around, everyone was engaged.

The rabbi spoke about the heroic endurance of Jews and explained the meaning of Chanukah. It’s a lovely story, but I already knew it and my mind wandered, making up one-minute tales about the various interesting people surrounding me.

My mind snapped back when the rabbi said, “Deep within each of us is a light. Maybe you’re familiar with it and maybe you’ve not discovered it yet. Your job as a human being is to find your light and shine it as brightly as you can. Don’t let anyone stop you, and don’t let others cover your light or dim it. Shine it full-strength because your light is essential to this world.” I’m doing a bad job of paraphrasing, but you get the drift.

He was talking, of course, about LOVE. The light is love. I had heard this message from many different mouths, mouths of various religions. Christ said it before there was ever “Christianity,” and many before him and many after him, “Love one another.” It’s so clear. How can we be getting it so wrong?

I looked around at the faces watching the Menorah—Protestants, Jews, Muslims, a couple of Buddhist monks, Roman Catholics, and atheists. It hit me. This is what Americans need to do in response to the fear and hate-mongers. We need to stand quietly, with respect, and hear people of other faiths speak. At the bottom of every religion is love. Nothing else matters. Ironic, isn’t it, that it took a Jewish rabbi to bring back my Christmas spirit?

****
Speaking of light and love… As we prepared to leave San Francisco, the girls left me alone a few minutes at the entrance to the ferry building while they went to check on the departure times and places to eat lunch. Across the way from me sat a man in a wheelchair. Late thirties in age, he was missing one leg and had the ragged look of a homeless person.

He watched me, which was fair enough since I had started it by watching him. My heart wanted to give him money, a place to live, a bowl of soup, hope, a way to start over. I couldn’t do any of that, so I smiled. He returned my smile and in doing so, shone his light on me full-strength. The brilliance in it was so heartfelt and beautiful that I’m still thinking about it days later.

I had shined my light. He shined his. No money, words, or goods exchanged hands. Yet we made contact, human to human, and it was wonderful. A homeless man gave me a gift I will always cherish.
Merry Christmas.

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California, for Real

12/4/2015

5 Comments

I made it to California, no more “California dreaming” for a while. The important thing about arriving here is that I made it to my girls. I was an exhausted, depleted wreck, but when I saw their faces, I knew everything was all right. It seems I made a very long trip to a brand new place in order to come home.

Right now I’m watching rain and leaves fall with equal abandon. The wind is forceful enough to sway the limbs of the huge trees that surround me. They’re wearing their best colors—gold, yellow, rust, and many different shades of brown. Some show off red berries and some, red leaves. The wind is trying to strip them bare but we’ll see. Many trees hang onto their leaves as if they believe they won’t have the energy to produce more ever again.

Early this morning there were deer grazing in the “yard.” In reality, my girls’ yard is a small spot in a forest with a photogenic view in every direction. I’m talking about forested mountains, giant trees—all sizes and kinds of trees—and a lake. What’s not to like? Even a woman with her heart planted in the desert can’t help but appreciate what this area has to offer. I know a magical place when I see one.

From this large picture window, I usually get a clear view of Lake Berryessa, but today there is fog. Yesterday there were ducks and geese. I’m sure they’re still hanging out, but I can’t prove it.

For a while, the mountains are shrouded, and then they come into view in a hazy way. As the fog dips and lifts in and out of canyons, I realize how layered these mountains are, like the ones I love in Texas. After a few minutes, all of it disappears for a while.

The scene I'm watching is as purely autumnal as any I’ve ever witnessed: ground a carpet of discarded leaves, showy splashes of color everywhere I look, leaves still dropping, steady rain, fog, a damp chill in the air, and a bright, warm fireplace inside. Some would call this a dreary day, but I see it as absolutely perfect—nature doing its thing with pizzazz. What will it do tomorrow?

That place in me from which all writing flows is filling up again—I feel it. I don’t even know what to call it, but when it’s empty I’m miserable. When it’s full, I’m whole and alive. At last, I feel the urge to write instead of procrastinate. That makes me happy.

And my girls are coming home for lunch.

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A Healing Touch

11/19/2015

19 Comments

I want to tell you about something good…something so good it makes me tear up to write about it. Twelve years ago I met a man who changed my life forever. I’m pretty sure he saved it. You see, this man is a doctor. He’s one of the foremost pulmonologists in the world, and he lives in San Angelo, Texas.

A friend who also lived in San Angelo told me about this doc and wouldn’t stop bugging me to see him. I had given up on doctors, even pulmonologists, because none of them had ever heard of my disease. I was “fighting” the disease by ignoring it. Yeah, that always works.

In truth, I only agreed to see this specialist so my friend would give it a rest. He also suffered from a rare and incurable lung disease so I gave him the courtesy of a listen.

I am the woman who tries to put a positive spin on everything, yet I drove the five hours from Terlingua to San Angelo with mixed feelings, none of them very positive. I insisted on going alone so I could cry all the way home without anyone to shush me. The medical profession in general had failed me since 1985, when I’d been sent home to die. “You have this fatal disease, but we know nothing about it.” “You probably have about six months.” “Good luck.”

Thanks a lot.

Did I dare hope some “San Angelo specialist” would help me? Against all odds, I did dare. Just a little.

Before I ever met this doctor, I was given breathing test after breathing test. After those, his nurse took the most comprehensive medical history I’ve ever given anyone. Then she said, “You were diagnosed with a disease in 1985? Please tell me the name of it.”

“Lymphangioleiomyomatosis.”

“Say what? Can you spell that?”

“No.”

She left it blank and took me into the examination room where I would finally meet the doctor. He came in, introduced himself, and shook my hand. His hand was warm and strong and his smile made it to his eyes. I warmed to him a tad.

He placed the test results and my new folder on the exam table and studied them. I knew that he knew I was in trouble, but he stayed calm and asked, “What brings you in today?”

“I have a rare lung disease that nobody seems to know.”

He had his back to me for a moment because he was washing his hands at the sink. “The name of it?”

I told him and added, “Have you ever heard of it?”

He turned to me with an incredulous look on his face. “Of course I’ve heard of it! I’m a pulmonologist.”

Tears sprang into my eyes.

He finished drying his hands and then he said, “The disease you have is now referred to as LAM. Were you diagnosed by lung biopsy?”

“Yes.”

“What year was that?”

“It was January of 1985.”

“Did you say 1985?” He couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Yes.”

“What did they tell you?”

“That nothing was known about the disease and that I should get my affairs in order. They gave me six months to live.”

“Doctors should never do that.”

“I’m glad they did because I set out to prove them wrong. And I have.”

“You certainly have.” He gazed at me as if I were a rare pink unicorn.

After a bit more talk, he said I would need many more comprehensive tests. I told him I had no insurance due to preexisting conditions and would not be able to afford those tests.

He took my hand and looked into my eyes and said, “I will never charge you one dime for anything. I don’t need your money. I want you to live. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I could barely speak. I felt I was in this presence of a holy man. I was, but I hadn’t taken it in yet.

“I want to be a part of something this fantastic. God wants you alive for some important reason and I feel called to help. I cannot say no to God.”

I have come to know this doctor well in twelve years of seeing him every three months. He cares for me as if I am his own mother. True to his word, he has never charged me one dime. He treats me as though I’m his only patient. He is so full of love; it spills all around him. When he touches me I feel the healer in him, as though I’m being touched by a deity. And I always, always feel his love. Sitting here, far from him, I can still feel it. I know I could call him right now and say I needed to see him and he’d say, “Come on.”

This amazing doctor’s name? It’s Mohammed-Ammar Ayass. He is Syrian. He is a devout Muslim. He’s a pulmonologist, a cardiologist, AND he’s also an internist. I have never known a better doctor or a more brilliant man.

Like all people everywhere, Syrians are a mix of good and bad, beautiful and ugly. Why would people assume they’re all terrorists? Really? What we need, what every country needs, is more human beings like Dr. Ayass. What if he had been turned away from our shores?

19 Comments

A Healing Touch

11/19/2015

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A Rio Grande Affair

9/1/2015

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A Rio Grande Affair

Recently I had an opportunity to stick my toes into the Rio Grande. The river is no longer the formidable barrier it once was, and it can seldom be rafted, but the mud along the bank still squishes. Birds still swoop at the surface, turtles still dive into it, the water still moves downstream, and it still smells like damp desert. I still love it.

We have a history, this river and I. Thirty-three years ago, I saw it for the first time. It might have been its historical significance or cowboy movie memories, or the surreal beauty of the land it divides, but I had goosebumps at first sight. And I fell in love, not just with the Rio, but with the rugged, wild terrain on both sides of it.

This Florida girl, accustomed to sandy beaches, lakes, crystal clear streams, swamps, and more greenery than is healthy, fell hard for the Big Bend country—everything about it. The immense open spaces with nothing to block the view, jagged peaks, hidden forests, steep canyons, and the widest sky I had ever seen, spoke to me in a way nothing ever had.

At the time, my familiarity with Mexico pretty much began and ended with Speedy Gonzalez cartoons and of course, all those insulting stereotypes from old westerns.

I stood at the top of a nature trail at Rio Grande Village in Big Bend National Park. The idea of a foreign land “right over there” was even more intriguing than the famous river. From the top of the trail I could admire both sides, the mountains that stretched out in all directions jutting towards the sky, the vegetation growing along the banks, and then I spotted a man, a Mexican man, dressed all in white and wearing a wide sombrero, hoeing in a garden in Boquillas, Mexico. Ordinary, you might say, but my heart rate sped up and I got a little teary-eyed. I wanted to laugh and cry and dance at the same time. And I had no idea why.

How would I have known that I would meet, fall in love with, and marry a Mexican man? Or that my future self would learn to speak Spanish and cook Mexican food? Or, that without question, I would take in a chubby little Mexican boy and raise him as my own? If you had told me I would stay up until two in the morning making tamales with my mother-and-sisters-in-law on Christmas Eve, I would have thrown up my hands and sworn there was no way that would ever happen.

I have spent so much time in Mexico it has become as much a part of my life as my country of birth. I’ve attended weddings, quinceañeras, funerals, births, and deaths—and more dances than I could ever count. I’ve wandered its shores, explored its mountains, and camped in its wilderness. I love its people with all my heart.

How would I have known then that I would go to work for a river outfitter and enjoy the work so much I would eventually own the company? I would raft all the canyons and most of them more than once, on trips guided by some of the most fun and life-loving people I have ever had the pleasure to know. Every river adventure was different and each held its own magic. There was always something new to learn or to admire or some side canyon to explore. After sumptuous dinners and campfire conversation, we would fall asleep under a ribbon of stars or stay up late to watch the full moon illuminate the canyon walls.

It runs in my veins now, this muddy river. Who knew it would be so hard to drag my toes out of its mud?

Thanks to Big Bend River Tours for the use of the photo. This was taken by Hank Mosakowski many years ago in Boquillas Canyon.

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Introducing Vi Dotter

8/26/2015

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This morning I’d like to share a friend’s blog with you. Vi Dotter lives within the Big Bend Ranch State Park, between Presidio and Lajitas. One of the things I enjoy the most about her is her enthusiasm for where she lives. There is nothing “ho-hum” about Vi!

This link takes you to her post, “4 Things I Learned on The Most Scenic Road in Texas.” Please note there are more posts and interesting things to read/explore. You could spend days on there!

I hope you enjoy Vi’s excitement about the Big Bend Country as much as I do!

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fmydesertlove.com%2F2015%2F04%2F4-things-i-learned-on-most-scenic-road-in-texas-fm-170-river-road%2F&h=XAQHNjqvX

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Hold My Calls

6/23/2015

14 Comments

I made an announcement a few days ago that Deputy Ricos Tale 5, “A Reasonable Explanation,” will be released in August. Somebody asked what happened to “The Hardest Word.” Good question. That was a working title and in the end it didn’t make sense for this novel. My publisher liked the title and so did I, but I can’t write to fit a title. It doesn’t work like that.

“A Reasonable Explanation” is the same novel I started, but it didn’t go where I thought it was going because Deputy Ricos kept taking it other places. The plot I had in mind would have made sense for the former title, but it wasn’t to be. One thing is clear to me: the deputy no longer cares what I think.

The imagination that brings forth fictional works also brings all the bugaboos you can imagine. As I write on Tale 6, I’m sometimes gripped by panic. What if my readers don’t like the new novel? What if I never finish another one? What if? What if?

“So what if they don’t like it?” counters Deputy Ricos with a lot of attitude for a woman I could erase with a tap on the delete key.

The problem is that I won’t/can’t erase her and she knows it. She is in me and I am in her. If she and I never wrote another tale, she’d still be with me as long as I live.

I think I struggled to write about 80,000 words on Tale 5 before my character yanked it away from me. “Good grief,” I could just hear her say, “You have no idea what you’re doing. Go read or something. I’ve got this.”

It’s with you, Deputy Ricos. Please hold my calls.

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The Boy in Room Nine

4/28/2015

17 Comments

The first time I saw him was in Paso Lajitas, Mexico.

We spent the night, my boyfriend and I, in a house I knew was his, but he never mentioned that his parents lived there, too. We arrived at three AM when the place was dark and still. I assumed we were alone.

The next day a woman was sweeping the kitchen, and a man was raking the yard. I hadn’t really taken this in when a chubby child burst through the screen door, letting it bang shut behind him. I thought he was a neighbor boy, but he hadn’t bothered to knock.

The wrinkled woman wielded her broom with frightening intensity. She hadn’t combed her hair yet, and her Spanish was impossible to understand, and she was talking to me. I had managed, “Buenos días”, but barely spoke more than that, and she rolled off a long string of questions or directives—or something.

I tried to leave, but when I started walking towards the Rio Grande, she began to squawk and flail her arms. She was concerned I was leaving without an adiós or a cup of café. I finally got it that I was to have coffee in her house, at her table. I went back obediently, sat down, and pondered these odd people who had turned up in my boyfriend’s home.

Halfway through the first cup, which tasted like the river but worse, my boyfriend staggered out of the bedroom, blushed deeply, and sat across from me. We mumbled “Buenos Días” to each other, and then the woman descended on him with a steaming cup of river-y brew and a million run-on words.

He held his hangover-tortured head in his hands. All I understood of the entire conversation was when he said, “Por favor, Mama, silencio.”

He had called her Mamá.

His mother had essentially caught us in the act.

And there was this boy gawking from the kitchen. For whatever reason, he found me riveting. I found him somewhat repulsive in his grimy shirt and oversized belly. Since he was staring, I smiled, but he only stared, his mouth open slightly. I had no patience for children. I didn’t dislike them; I simply didn’t bother with them.

On top of everything else, the child had no table manners. He ate like a pig, and the old woman encouraged him, as if he needed her help.

When we left, the woman smiled and had many words for me. They seemed kind, but I was lost and said almost nothing. The grubby boy snickered. I glowered at him and hoped I’d never run into him again.

Eventually my boyfriend and I were properly married in Texas. The nameless boy was at our wedding, grabbing food off tables laden with it and discussing me with his equally filthy little friends. They dashed around the guests, giggled, made faces and farting noises.

I finally asked my new husband, “Who is that boy?”

He motioned to the reprobate, who didn’t hesitate to come forward.

“This is your nephew, Manuel.” Then he explained to the boy that I was his Tía Beth.

The boy named Manuel held out a grungy hand, and I had no choice but to take it. I was now related to the little insect. He grinned.

* * *

Twenty-seven years later I’m sitting in room nine of the intensive care unit in Odessa Medical Center Hospital, looking at Manuel, a man I love so much I think my heart will burst. He’s had a stroke at the young age of thirty-seven. Machines breathe for him, feed him, medicate, and hydrate him. A machine carries waste from his body to a bag. Another massages his feet so he won’t have blood clots in his legs.

“Wake up, Manuel. You have to wake up.” My words remind me of his school days when he was sometimes reluctant to rise and shine.

“You must wake up. You have to.”

Nobody could wake him, but I was arrogant enough to think he would come out of a coma for me. After all, I had loved him since he was ten, taught him to bathe and dress in clean clothes every morning. I even taught him to use a flush toilet.

It started with, “Will you enroll my nephew in Terlingua School?”

I did it for my new husband whom I adored. I married one man but got two. It took less than five weeks to fall in love with Manuel. Why hadn’t I noticed how cute he was, how happy and easy to get along with? And what a big heart he had?

Now that heart is enlarged, strained; his blood pressure rages and his brain is badly damaged. Then the doctors drop by to say there’s a 97% chance he’ll never wake up.

This cannot be happening, not to Manuel.

* * *

I began to take him places because he’d never been anywhere. In Alpine, there was a five-and-dime that had a section devoted to toys, so I took him and said I’d buy him one thing, his choice. He perused aisle after aisle, eyes wide with wonder. After lengthy deliberation, he chose a helmeted man on a motorcycle. As far as I know, he still has it. He seldom played with it and kept it on a shelf. Many more toys would follow, but that one was special, to both of us.

For lunch that day he had his first American cheeseburger and French fries. While eating, he shyly asked if I was a gringa.

I admitted I was.

He gave this the same long deliberation he had given his choice of toys. I thought I knew what he was thinking. He had heard negative things about gringos, and maybe something had been said about me in particular. I hadn’t exactly made an impressive debut with his family.

His big brown eyes held mine a long time, and then he asked, “Are you sure?”

I laughed and said I was. Why did it matter? He shrugged, avoiding the question.

We were leaving the restaurant when he looked up at me, his eyes shining with emotion. “I like you anyway,” he assured me.

I told him I liked him, too, and as he took my hand, I realized the little insect had effortlessly infested my heart.

* * *

Now we imagine that he still hears us, so we talk to him. The doctors say he can’t hear. It’s not his ears—they work fine. The brain he needs to process the sound does not. So we touch him until they instruct us not to. They don’t want him over-stimulated. His blood pressure still rages out of control. We can’t talk to him or touch him so we watch him, willing him to open his eyes.

I wordlessly beg him to wake up, but somehow I know he won’t. I sit with him, talking to him in my head. Thank you for sharing your wonderful self with me, Manuel. The world will be different without you in it.

I want to gather him onto my lap and kiss him, tickle him, make him laugh, make it all better.

It will be so hard to let you go.

The ventilator makes a steady, rhythmic sound. My daughter, his sister Margarita, stands next to me with tears rolling down her face.

* * *

From the day I brought her home from the hospital he referred to her as his sister. She never knew differently until elementary school. Anyway, in our family, relationships are cloudy, and others are confused by who’s who. I refer to Manuel as my son and he calls me Mom. I was his aunt for only weeks. I became his mother without realizing it. There was no special day to commemorate.

Manuel was a gift I accepted without question, which was strange for a woman immune to children. I can’t explain it except to say it was a chubby, dirty boy who changed me.

One day we were lying on my bed, counting Margarita’s fingers and toes for the thousandth time and marveling at the perfection of her tiny self.

Manuel looked over at me. “Right that I have your blood, too?” He needed to belong, those eyes said, and he wanted to belong to me.

“No, Manuel, you don’t,” I said, “but you have something more important than my blood.”

His eyes were huge. “What’s that?”

“You have my heart.”

* * *

Day eight of the hospitalization: His team of doctors wants to meet with the family. Five of us are chosen to listen to their dire prognosis. These guys give new meaning to “grim.” They have to replace the breathing tube which is now causing damage to his throat. They can do this with a tracheotomy and at the same time install a feeding tube in his stomach.

They believe, according to the latest brain scan, that Manuel is in a vegetative state. His chance of waking is 1%. And if he awakens, he’ll likely not know anyone or even himself. I thought that was terrible news but then they dropped the bomb: We can keep him alive for years, but at what cost to him? Once we install the breathing mechanism in his throat, if God wants to take him, he won’t be able to go. Later, when the family realizes the kind of life they’ve chosen for him, the only way to let him go would be to remove his feeding tube and medications. In other words, you’d have to choose to kill him.

I can’t grasp the horror of that.

* * *

Before Manuel spoke much English, I tutored him on what to say if we were stopped by Border Patrol (his one great terror): “What is your citizenship?” “American.” “Where were you born?” “Odessa, Texas.”

We did get stopped, by a female Border Patrol agent. Manuel’s eyes were huge. She leaned towards the window and asked my citizenship.

“I’m an American citizen,” I said, loudly and clearly, so he would remember what we had practiced.

She then asked Margarita’s citizenship. “She’s an American citizen,” I said again, loudly, so Manuel would take the hint.

But when she asked him, he froze.

She repeated the question differently, “Of what country are you a citizen?”

Manuel said proudly, “Odessa, Texas!”

She and I laughed and she let us go on.

A few years later, Manuel introduced me to George Strait and wherever we drove we listened to him at high volume. When I tried to sing along, he would make the sound of a police siren. Irritating, but so comical I had to laugh.

He could also do the best impromptu rap I’ve ever seen. Manuel was always entertaining us.

* * *

So. Boiled down, our choices are to remove the breathing tube, unplug the various machinery doing various jobs, and let him go quietly, or to relegate this man we love to years of a vegetative partial-existence. My God, what kind of choice is that?

A young man of fifteen, much like his father, steps up. “My Dad wouldn’t want that,” he says, so sure we all hear it. Anthony will carry on his dad’s legacy: big heart, kindness to all, and endless good humor.

As his body dies, I hold Manuel’s big hand and worry that he never knew the extent of my love or how much I appreciated his sense of humor and the kind things he did for me. In every way that matters, he was my son. The depth of my grief surprises me, but I don’t know why since he still has my heart.

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Breaking the Rules

3/17/2015

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One sparkling day in 1983, The Cowboy invited me to come to his home in Paso Lajitas. I met him at the crossing point on the Rio Grande at the specified time and was surprised to see he’d brought his truck to meet me. His preferred method of travel was his horse, “Gringo.”

We ate lunch, which probably made my throat burn and my nose run, but I bet I had seconds. After eating, the group sat around the table talking in an animated way about various things. I was lost within the first few minutes, but I smiled and pretended to be there.

My mind wandered all over. It has always ignored a command to “stay.” From the open doorway, I watched the dirt road and the sunlight pouring onto it. A clattering old truck passed, raising a cloud of dust that hung suspended and made everything hazy. Laughing boys rode by on a donkey.

Cowboy turned to me and said, “¡Vámonos!” I knew that meant we were leaving, but that’s as far as it went. He could have been returning me to the crossing, taking me to San Carlos, or flying me to the moon. I would’ve gone anywhere with him, so why make a fuss?

We were going horseback riding, or one of us was. We only saddled one horse. Maybe there was another horse waiting somewhere. Or perhaps he was going to ride and I was going to watch him—do what?

We headed towards the river on foot with Cowboy leading Gringo. It was hilarious listening to him encourage the horse to keep moving. “Andale, Gringo.” “¿Que paso, Gringo?” “¡Muévete, Gringo!” It sounded like he was putting a “gringo” through his paces.

At the bank of the Rio Grande, Cowboy jumped up into the saddle with the speed and agility of a cricket. He held out his hand to me. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t yet mastered mounting the normal way and now this? Gringo looked ten feet tall from where I stood. Who signed me up for cowboy stuff anyway? I managed to mount, thanks to the help of a strong hand, but there was nothing graceful about it.

I asked where we were going because it was clear no information would be volunteered. He pointed skyward to the Mesa de Anguila. I had been up there hiking and I knew it was Big Bend National Park land. Back in those days, horseback riding was allowed in the park, but only on specific trails.

I blurted, “That’s Big Bend National Park.”

He nodded and clucked at Gringo and into the water we went.

“No caballos,” I added in case he didn’t know that rule.

“Si,” he said. “No caballos.”

I asked why we were going into the park. We had the entire Mexican side of the river to explore. Why flaunt our great big beautiful caballo in Park Service faces?

“Estoy buscando una vaca.” He was looking for a cow. Ohmygod. Was I really going to enter the national park with an undocumented immigrant while riding on forbidden livestock in order to look for another type of forbidden livestock?

Once we arrived on the American side of the river, we got off the horse and had a huddle about our mission. Cowboy explained that if park service people found the cow before he did, he would never see it again. His eyes told the gravity of the story more effectively than his words.

In answer to the above question: yes. I did not hear me backing out. I was a good girl gone bad. And it didn’t even take a long time…

We remounted the horse. On the upside, I was getting better at that. We headed up and when I say up, I’m talking about straight up. It was terrifying. Rocks were flying into the air and the horse was slipping and sliding. All the cowboy had to say about it was to “hang on,” as if that helped.

He said, “Ay, Gringo” and other encouraging words to his caballo, but his girlfriend was slipping off the horse’s rear. Remember that I was in back of the saddle AND I was not a horsewoman in the first place AND I wasn’t supposed to be there anyhow. I wondered if my sisters would even be surprised if I died falling off a steep mountainside above the Rio Grande while accompanying a handsome cowboy on an outlaw mission. No. They wouldn’t be. They would miss me, but surprised? No.

The top of the mesa is another world. There aren’t supposed to be any cattle in it. Absolutely not. Or horses. As I glanced around for park personnel, Cowboy explained that animals don’t understand that one side of the Rio is Mexico and one side is another country where they are not welcome. Well, duh.

To shorten the story, Cowboy found the renegade. He had left me lolling on a rock to admire the river while he ventured farther onto the land where neither he nor his animals were supposed to be. He came back towing a cow with a rope tied around one horn. I was horrified to see that a bull was following them. Okay, let me rephrase that. A black, bus-sized creature followed a few hundred paces behind. He snorted occasionally in case anyone mistook him for a puppy.

Cowboy gave an innocent shrug. “El toro no es mio.” Maybe the bull wasn’t his, but it was in love with his cow.

I indicated El Toro and asked, “Is he coming with us?”

“Who is going to stop him?”

That settled that.

Then, because the cowboy can’t help himself, he asked with a straight face, “You riding with me or would you prefer to take the bull?”

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2015 First Place Winner!

2/3/2015

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2015 First Place Winner for the second time in a row.

Today it's official! The Texas Association of Authors has announced that "Border Ghosts" won first place in the Police/Crime Fiction division. I jumped the gun and announced it on my Facebook author page a few days early. That's a long story that doesn't bear repeating here (or anywhere!) I won, so I'm entitled to a little bit of early yada, yada, yada, right?

I'm thrilled. I'm proud. I'm grateful. I've laughed and cried and happy-danced about it. I'm also a nervous wreck that I'll never do it again. That's one heck of a lot of emotion and random thoughts banging around in the head of a woman who is trying to write. I already have so many things going on in my head I wonder when it will explode. Or maybe it has.

I'm working on the next Deputy Ricos tale and planning the next and so on. It's not enough to win an award. I have to keep writing. And OMG, the pressure to make it measure up.

It all began so innocently. Well, it wasn't 100% innocence. I wanted a woman to die and I killed her. End of story, right? Wrong. I opened a dam.

Sometimes when I sit staring at my uncooperative laptop (it won't write unless I'm typing on it) I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. What have I started?

Here I am, showing off Border Ghosts at Front Street Books.

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A New Year, Crazy-Writer Style

1/23/2015

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Last year was difficult in many ways, but writing-wise it was amazing. I got a tiny taste of what it would be like to be famous…very tiny, mind you, but it scared me to death. My overriding thought: I don’t have what it takes for this.

“Don’t you think you’d better figure it out?” snapped Deputy Ricos from inside my head. “You can’t just walk away!”

I told her to hide and watch me. She didn’t like it, but what was she going to do about it, write herself? That was what I half-expected. Anyway, I ignored her. What did I care?

Then I got a call from Front Street Books for more books. When I delivered them, someone asked, “When is your next Ricos novel coming out?” Ricos novel? La, la, la, I can’t hear you.

Whether I was ready or not, 2015 slid in. Even from a state of denial, I could feel the sizzling excitement and potential of a brand new year. What was I going to do if I didn’t write? Lie around?

After a couple of days of pathetic procrastination (Netflix, Pinterest, whining to friends), I rethought the whole writing thing. Forget fame and fortune (neither of which I have), the truth is I’m driven to write by a force I don’t understand. Deputy Ricos was correct that I needed to figure some things out, but the first thing for me, always, is to write.

Once I shoved away my doubts and fears and gave myself over to it, my muse came. I don’t even know what that is exactly, but when it comes I feel as though I’ve been zapped; I’m wired. I was held captive for two weeks and voila! My novel is finished. It needs polishing and tweaking, but the most painful part is behind me.

If you didn’t miss me while I was gone, that’s okay. I didn’t miss me either until I “came home.” This sounds crazy, and I know it is, but when I say I was “gone,” I’m not kidding. I was living the wrong life, at the wrong age, doing things I can’t do; everything was wrong, but oh, what fun! I returned to my “real” life a little disappointed that I had to return at all…not to mention I felt lost. Huh? What’s going on? Where is everybody? Today I went grocery shopping (don’t ask me what I ate for two weeks because I have no idea) and Alpine is still here.

No matter what else you can say about me, I’ve proven that I can start something and finish it. Now, if I could just apply that to housekeeping and staying organized. ¡Ojalá!

Typical of “the way things go” I’ve returned, but The Daily Planet is leaving. It’s going on “retirement mode” so Mike and Cindy can travel and have time to do whatever they choose. More power (and all good wishes) to them!

Without doubt, I will continue to be my opinionated, outspoken self on my blog (www.elizabethagarciaauthor.com) but I’m not promising to post weekly. The only thing I can promise is to write.

Adiós, friends and Happy Trails! Thank you for the time you spent with me.

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A Gift from a Six-Year-Old Girl

12/29/2014

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Christmas has come and gone. Whatever holiday you celebrated, I hope it was wonderful. In reflecting on the many presents I received, an important one from long ago came to mind. It was a gift that had nothing to do with any holiday, but it embodies the spirit of this time of year: love.

In the column, “Adventures with the Cowboy,” I told you about the first full day in I spent in Mexico with a native. I failed to mention an important part of that story. When I came out of the bathroom at the cowboy’s brother’s home, a small girl was waiting for me in the hall. She had gleaming black pigtails to her waist and was off the charts on the cuteness scale.

“This is Azucena,” the cowboy said. He obviously adored her.

She smiled up at me and quietly gave her preferred name, “Susy.”

“Susy,” I repeated and told her my name, but she took my hand and called me “Tia.” I wasn’t married to her uncle but how would I explain that in my limited Spanish? I let it be because she didn’t seem to care. Susy accepted me for the clueless gringa I was. She pulled me through her house, showing me the things that were important to her: toys, books, and her little brother. She patiently told me the names of things in Spanish and I repeated the words. I explained what they were in English and she did the repeating. We laughed and had fun and didn’t care if we were butchering each other’s language. Being only six, Susy didn’t understand everything going on, either. Maybe she thought I was a little girl, too.

As we were leaving, Susy asked the cowboy if she could come with us. If he’d been the type of man who could’ve said no to his adorable niece, I would never have married him. When he told her to “get in the truck,” she looked up at me and grinned as if we were partners in a conspiracy. Her dark eyes were shining. She repeated what he’d said as if I didn’t understand him but would understand the words if she said them. Who wouldn’t fall for such a precious child?

Susy seemed to understand me no matter what came out of my mouth. We didn’t need language so much. That afternoon, she made the many painful introductions to strangers seem easier. My Spanish was so bad that people would often look at the cowboy and ask, “What did she say?”

I wanted to yell, “What is wrong with you? I was speaking Spanish!” but the amazing thing was that Cowboy usually understood. Maybe it was in the same way parents understand their newly-talking baby when no one else can. It comes with familiarity mixed with a lot of trying hard.

Susy sat close to me when we rode around or stood close when we were standing. She was my tiny six-year-old champion. She made me feel loved and accepted, so I wasn’t really a stranger anymore. I couldn’t speak the language of her country, but I understood hers. Susy spoke love and I got it loud and clear. I stopped being so nervous about not understanding words. Everybody everywhere responds to love.

Here we are in the last week of 2014 and by the time you read this, there won’t even be an entire week of it left. I usually feel panicky at this time; I start to beat up on myself for not accomplishing all my goals or for my “fails” and perceived “fails.” I refuse to do that this year. Instead, I’m going to work on being more like six-year-old Susy—full of love and not afraid to take it out and spread it around.

I wish you the best in 2015. I hope there are many “Susys” to take your hand when you need it, but if you don’t have a Susy, try to be one.

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Tamales for Christmas

12/22/2014

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It was a month before Christmas, 1983. I was sitting in a hole-in-the-wall café in Ojinaga, Mexico with my husband of five months. We’d been to a dance in Lajitas, so it must have been two or three in the morning. The place was clean and the food was mouth-watering, but it was not like a restaurant in the U.S. Not like any restaurants I’d been in, anyway. It was humble, with seating for twelve if you pushed it. Nothing matched as far as the décor went, but the most striking thing was that instead of an all-out “Christmas is coming” theme, there was one straggly bundle of tinsel hanging in the window. Other than that, it was business as usual.

“I hope you don’t make a big fuss about Christmas,” my cowboy said, as if he’d been reading my mind.

As usual, I didn’t know where this was going, so my comment was, “I love Christmas.” I was enthusiastic because I did love it and still do.

“Okay; but do you make it a big deal?”

“Well, yes!”

He said, “I hate it.”

I tried not to panic. This was just one more way in which we were as different as the high country of the Chisos Mountains and the floor of the Chihuahuan Desert. Together those two make an astounding national park; better together than they would be separately. I had high hopes for us.

“Christmas makes me think of all the poor kids who get nothing,” my husband continued. “How can anybody believe in Santa Claus? And what a cruel thing it is to tell children about an imaginary old man who brings gifts.”

This handsome hombre was totally ruining my buzz. Then he said, “We’re not going to tell that lie to our children.”

“Now wait,” I said. “Our children will not be poor. Why can’t we have fun with them? I’ll show you how much fun Christmas can be.”

“I have never been given a new toy.” He spoke as though he hadn’t heard a thing I said. “Not once in my life.”

By this point I was biting back tears. “What did you get at Christmas?”

“Tamales,” he said, “If we were lucky enough.”

* * *

Our first Christmas together was spent in San Carlos, Mexico, my new husband’s hometown. We stayed with his sister and her family, but we were in and out of so many houses I lost count. Many of the people we visited were relatives, but I seldom caught the connection in the introduction. I was included in everything, no matter how lost and foreign I must have seemed to them. I was becoming adept at smiling and pretending to know what was going on.

I had lobbied the cowboy until he accepted the fact that I was going to take little gifts for our nieces and nephews. My Christmas spirit was not to be deterred, but I did tone it down a notch.

I gave my sister-in-law a few decorations for her table and windows. It was not much because I didn’t want my husband to be uncomfortable. When he saw his sister’s face light up, he smiled at me. I believe she still has those things 31 years later.

Every time I have ever been in Mexico I learned something of value. That year I learned that Christmas does indeed come “without ribbons. It comes without tags. It comes without packages, boxes, or bags.” (Thank you to Dr. Seuss). Of course I knew that already, but I came to understand it on a more gut level. I took it to heart.

That Christmas was the first time I heard the familiar tune of “Silent Night” with different words, beautiful words. All I understood was: “Noche de paz, noche de amor,” which means “night of peace, night of love.” I believe those two things are what we need more than anything, every night and every day of the year. I believed it then and haven’t changed my mind about it in 31 years.

Strangers hugged and welcomed me everywhere I went. I was offered empanadas and bizcochos until I thought I’d explode. At night we bundled up and watched the stars and breathed in the clean, cold air. We shared tamales with our family because we were “lucky enough” to have them. We laughed and had fun. Children ran around, joyous to be alive no matter any other thing.

This Christmas, I wish you everything your heart desires. I hope you are full of joy and if you are, please spread it around. We live in a world desperate for love, peace, and joy. I hope you are “lucky enough” to share tamales with people you love.

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Adventures with the Cowboy

12/15/2014

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It was almost noon on Saturday when someone pounded on my door and rang the bell at the same time. I smiled because I knew who my impatient visitor would be. I opened the door to a grinning cowboy. He was so dressed up my mouth opened in surprise and I blurted, “Oh my god!”

He laughed and stepped inside. Everything he wore was new including the most beautiful hat I’ve ever seen. He looked gorgeous while I stood looking homeless in ancient lounge pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt I should’ve thrown away years ago. I’d been writing and wasn’t even sure who I was when the pounding started.

He always asks, “Were you sleeping?” which always causes me to laugh. He pretends to believe I do nothing now that I’m retired. Of course the stacks of books with my name on them prove otherwise, but the cowboy loves to tease me. He’s been doing it for 31 years. Why stop at this late date?

“Let’s go see what the Chinese people are serving,” said the man who never considered eating at any place that didn’t serve Mexican food. Say what you will, I did broaden the guy’s horizons.

“Couldn’t you have called to say you were coming?” I asked in one of those pointless things people say. It goes against the cowboy grain to let me know what’s going on.

“Aw, you know how I am.”

I know all right. One time he said, “Let’s go see our river guides in Colorado” and we left the next day. No stinking vacation plans for the Garcia Family. In fairness, we had a ball.

I had every indication early-on that life with this man would not be smooth and easy, but I went for it anyway.

It was 1983 and he invited me to go to a wedding in San Carlos, a tiny pueblo in Mexico that is 17 miles from the border at Lajitas. He explained we’d be there all day so I should wear comfortable clothes and pack whatever I would wear to the wedding. I asked what we were going to do and the most he would venture was, “See the pueblo. Will you come?”

You’d better believe it, Cowboy. I wouldn’t have missed it.

I could spend the rest of this column describing the scenery on the trip (you know how I am). Suffice it to say it was breathtaking the entire way and then you come down out of the mountains to a green oasis straight out of a painting.

We drove around the plaza first because, as I would come to understand, there is much to be gleaned from at least one trip around the plaza of any Mexican town, large or small.

Then we stopped at a small adobe house and Cowboy said, “Come on and meet my friends.”

A young couple lived there with a baby. The home had a dirt floor but was clean and neat, more than I could claim about my apartment. The people were friendly, but I was immediately lost when the conversation took off. I tried to look as though I was part of it, but I hoped nobody would give me a direct question.

Before I had a clue, Cowboy and his friend pulled away in the truck and left me with this friendly but foreign woman. I asked “Que pasó?” to which she responded, “Se fueron.” Yeah, I knew they left.

We tried to converse, but that couldn’t go very far with me as one of the conversers. I complimented the preciousness of her child, always a winner with mothers. She began telling me about him. I smiled and tried to catch one word but it was useless.

It felt as though I’d been there for weeks when the men returned. Cowboy was all smiles. I wanted to rip him a new one but he hugged me so that seemed the wrong response.

Back in his truck, I said, “Necesito un baño.” I was trying to say I needed a bathroom but I had literally said, “I need a bath.”

He responded that we’d go to his brother’s house because, “es moderna.”

His brother’s wife was so kind to me it almost made me cry. She began to gather towels and shampoo, but I shook my head and pointed to the toilet. She understood immediately.

The remainder of the day was more and more of the same. I was either constantly misunderstood or I was the one misunderstanding. After a while I sort of relaxed into the crazy adventure of it.

We left the wedding dance around three in the morning. It wasn’t over but we were exhausted. Taking the winding, dusty road back in the pitch black of a moonless night was yet another adventure.

In the middle of nowhere we had a flat. The cowboy looked over at me and smiled. Not once had a man ever smiled at me over a flat tire. Instead of being angry and disagreeable, he was happy. He whistled as he got together the things he needed to change it!

Then he came to my window and said, “You have to get out.”

I did.

“Come over here.” He led me through the dark to a large boulder. “Sit.”

He slid in next to me, put his arm around me, and lifted my chin until I was looking up at the sky. There are no words in any language to describe the magnificence of what I saw. Neither of us said a word but we understood everything we needed to.

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A Strong Dose of the Hard Stuff

12/8/2014

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I don’t know if anyone missed me, but I’ve missed myself. I came home from the excitement, happiness, compliments, and hugfest of Artwalk to find that I could no longer write. I couldn’t even edit what I’d already written. It all seemed so awful. Ugh. I hated everything.

I was filled terror that I would never be able to write another thing. That brought on depression, and I spent a couple of days agonizing and repeating this mantra: It will be okay, Beth. It’s okay. This has happened before and it’s always okay.

“Yes, but WHEN will it be okay?” my inner critic whined. Whatever it is that you love to do, picture losing that and you’ll get the idea.

Next to the window in my bedroom is a ceniza I watch every day. It’s a tiny piece of the natural world, but some days it’s all I have to hang onto. So I was thinking that beyond the ceniza are trees. Beyond the trees are mountains. Beyond the mountains are more mountains. That alone is reason to hope.

I love the mountains around Alpine and also the Davis Mountains. West Texas mountains are my thing. They are all magical in different ways and for different reasons. Sometimes I drive around just to look at them and be inspired. I pull off the road to gawk. I climb them in my mind because I have done that before and those places are catalogued in my head. There are times I can’t recall what I did yesterday, but name a hike and I can give you little bitty details about it. In a way, I suppose, I’m kidding myself because every hike is different every time. Things change constantly and yet they remain steadfastly the same. But I digress.

As mountains go, if you want the Hard Stuff, you have to go south in Brewster County until you see the bare rock sticking up in the hazy distance. The southern mountains are more jagged and striking and not describable in any way that does them justice. I try again and again but I fall short.

What I decided I needed was a good strong dose of the Hard Stuff. I called my gracious friend who lives in the backcountry of Terlingua Ranch and invited myself for the Thanksgiving weekend. When I whined that I was unable to write and would probably never write again, she laughed. “You crazy old woman; come on.” She’s gotten used to me. I know she must get sick of me and my whiny rants but she loves me anyway. I’m thankful for friends like her.

I left Alpine on Thanksgiving Day. It was mid-afternoon, but the lighting was perfect. Only sunrise or sunset would’ve made the scenery more beautiful. It was one of those clear, sun-filled days when you think you could see into next week if you squinted hard enough.

As I flew past the Border Patrol checkpoint, I started trying to write a column in my head. But alas, I had really lost it, whatever “it” is.

A lot of people live in my head. They give their wildly varying opinions about things and chatter about this and that. Among them is a sane, soft-spoken, reasonable woman. She has been with me since as far back as I can remember, but I seldom shut up and listen to her. On that day she offered sound advice. “You don’t have to write about anything. Stop trying to force it. Just enjoy what you see before you and allow it to fill you up.” And just like that, my writer self was on the mend. There was nothing wrong with me that a dose of South County scenery wouldn’t cure and my sane woman had always known that.

Far across the expanse of desert, I watched the play of light on the buttes and mountains and canyons of the badlands around Lajitas. I thought about the first time I saw the Big Bend Country. I arrived so full of the things that don’t matter and so empty of the things that do. I knew I was a mess, but I had no idea what to do about it. I needed something and my search had brought me to Big Bend National Park. My sane woman was excited on the long drive in. When she saw the Chisos Mountains, she knew I was onto something big.

At Panther Junction I tumbled out of the car, gazed up in wonder, and took a deep breath. Sane Woman said, “Stop beating up on yourself! Pay attention to what you see and feel. Let it fill your heart and soul as well as your eyes. You are going to be fine.”

She was right, you know. If only I would listen to her.

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Saying Good-Bye to Markus

12/7/2014

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I was falling asleep Saturday night, when I received a text that made me sit up and cry for a long, long time. Amber wrote, “Did you see that Markus died today in a car accident?”

Those words broke my heart in half and they made me so angry. “Why did it have to be Markus?” I railed uselessly. He was only fifteen years old and without doubt, one of the best kids I ever knew.

There was a period of five years, from June of 2003 until June of 2008 when I had the privilege to work with Terlingua’s kids. Oh, what a time we had. We started as “The Terlingua Youth Club” and earned the distinction of being “The Boys & Girls Club of Terlingua” after two years. Yes, we were affiliates of The Boys & Girls Clubs of America and proud of it.

Markus was one of the kids who made it magic. Every. Single. Day. He had a grin that was infectious and an innocence that was everything wonderful about children.

Of course Markus’s life was not perfect. Living in Terlingua is hard in some ways, and being a kid there has its advantages and drawbacks. Markus was the most resilient child you can imagine. No matter what happened in his life, he would pick himself up and continue on. He was a child who intended to live with his attention turned towards the good.

When other kids whined, “There’s nothing to do,” Markus would find something, often involving a ball. Like nearly all the other members of the club, he resisted doing homework, but homework came first, then snack time, then playing and programs. One firm directive of the Boys & Girls Clubs of America is to help and encourage students with homework. If they had no homework, they could read during that time. The message in this was threefold: Education is important to your future. Continued learning is vital. The club is here to help you.

Markus had a shy streak and a sideways grin that melted my heart. I always wanted to hug and kiss him because of his adorableness but he never stood still for much of that.

I saw Markus this past September in Midland when he and his mom and stepdad came to a book signing I did there. He was so tall and handsome and seemed older than his years. But of course, he was.

That same shy, sideways grin still greeted me. He gave me a hug, but it was fast. He was anxious to move on—typical Markus.

Back in the youth club days, we (the staff) used to wish we could take him home. But we wished that about nearly all the kids. Nothing I know of will worm into your heart and soul more quickly than a child.

I have a shining memory of Markus that I hold dear. Someone donated a set of a doll house, its furnishings, and a few little dolls to the club. It was an irresistibly shiny, let-your-imagination-run-wild sort of thing. One day when no girls were playing with it, Markus sat down with it. When we saw him, he was talking out loud the way kids do when their imaginations are running free.

When “caught,” he mumbled that he knew dollhouses were for just for girls. Au contraire, we insisted. Dollhouses are for playing make-believe and every kid loves that. He shrugged and ran off to do something else. A few weeks later, another little boy was caught playing with it, but he was busted by older boys with a bullying streak.

Markus stepped past those larger kids and said in a voice that meant business, “Anybody can play with the dollhouse. You don’t have to be a girl.”

That little six or seven-year-old spoke with the conviction of a grown man and totally diffused the situation. Everybody went off to play or eat or get in different trouble.

Amber shared this fond memory with me. At Christmas we always asked the kids what they wanted. We threw a party and gave them little gifts. Most of them wanted expensive things that didn’t fit in our budget, but one year Markus wanted a basketball. The club had many, but this one would be special. It would be his.

We gave him a basketball. He was so excited he could barely contain himself, yet he let all the other kids play with it first. He understood the concept of sharing and graciously shared his good fortune.

I believed you were destined for the greatest of things, Markus. But maybe you were only destined to be great as far as your time here allowed. So the rest of us are left behind to mourn your passing. The only way I can combat the sadness is with gratitude. I am so grateful to have known you.

Following the tradition of young Markus Irwin, I will pick myself up and continue to move forward in my life. May you rest in true peace, beautiful child.

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