Elizabeth A. Garcia
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Special People Call for Special Measures

4/29/2016

14 Comments

 
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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.



14 Comments

On the Trail

4/27/2016

4 Comments

 
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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.                             

 

4 Comments

What I Wish I'd Said

4/19/2016

8 Comments

 
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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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