Elizabeth A. Garcia
  • Home
    • Earlier Author News
  • Books
    • I Cant Hear You
    • And Justice for Some
    • Raw Deal
    • The Trail of a Rattler
    • The Reluctant Cowboy
    • Hard Falls
    • Border Ghosts
    • Darker Than Black
    • The Beautiful Bones
    • One Bloody Shirt at a Time
  • Bio
  • Blog
  • Fan Page
  • Mystery Weekends

"Did You Bring Anything from Mexico?"

5/30/2014

0 Comments

 
At the Border Patrol checkpoint between Terlingua and Alpine I have often been asked, “Did you bring anything from Mexico?”

“No” is my answer, but the question surprises me. Why do they assume I went there? Terlingua, while close to Mexico, is still not Mexico.

The last time I was asked that question I thought: I’m lying. I have so much from Mexico no one would believe it. But my Mexican treasures are in my heart and soul, not in my truck.

I have memories that begin early in 1981, when I first looked across the Rio Grande from Big Bend National Park and into a foreign land that looked the same as the place I was standing. While it seemed the same, I knew it wasn’t, and I felt the lure of the differentness of it. I longed to go there. What I couldn’t have known then was that my life was about to become so intricately woven into Mexico that it would be as much a part of me as the USA.

In an earlier column I wrote about my first trip to Ojinaga. It was not great because of the person I was with, yet it was still wonderful. I enjoyed the multitude of bright colors, the foreign look of the architecture, the cobblestone streets around the plaza, and the tiny stores and restaurants that are infinitely more fascinating than our superstores.

On that trip I saw the inside of a males-only bar—not pleasant but also riveting in the way that forbidden things are. The sight of drinking, gossiping, singing, card-playing men cutting up and cutting loose and then yanking their heads up in surprise when I came through the door is forever burned into my memory.

The aromas coming from the restaurants and outside food vendors are enough to make you fall in love with the country even if nothing else appealed. In addition to the sizzle and pop on the hot grills, there are chilies stuffed with cheese, tortillas that melt in your mouth, and sticky-sweet, hot sopapillas or pan dulce. Fresh, ripe fruit in season is offered for sale: peaches, pineapple, mango, or watermelon cut up and served in cups or impaled on a stick. Don’t get me started on the big, fat, mouthwatering Mexican avocados.

Music spills out of cantinas or is performed on the street by mariachis in charro outfits or by solo musicians wearing blue jeans. Either way, who can resist it? Whether it’s a heartfelt ballad that makes you want to cry or fall in love… or if it’s a melody that makes you want to dance, sing out loud, or laugh with joy to be alive, music is one of the country’s best assets.

More than anything, I felt drawn to the smiling, friendly people who are everywhere. They gather on the sidewalks or in the plaza, exchanging news and gossip and hugs. They meet to play checkers, sing, share a cerveza, dance, or watch people. I was captivated by the “unfamiliar-ness” and the “same-as-me-ness” of them. They are beautiful, generous, open-hearted people. So I guess it was inevitable that I would fall in love with one of them.

I was warned. “He grew up differently than you.” “You went to college; he never finished grade school.” “You don’t speak the same language.” “The newness will wear off.” All of those well-meaning people were right and they were dead wrong. None of that matters when you’re in love. Who needs to talk when our deepest expressions of love have nothing to do with language? And who can’t make themselves understood to someone who is trying, with everything in them, to understand?

It’s true that I went to college and he had to quit school after fifth grade or starve. But he taught himself more by living than I ever learned by studying. He’d never heard of Shakespeare, but he could hand-dig a well, shoe a horse, make killer food, ride and rope, walk all the way to Odessa from the Rio Grande, build a sturdy wall with nothing but stones and a strong back, work hard all day and dance all night. That is only the beginning of a mile-long list.

I’ve run out of column space and never even got to mention Mexican folklore or the beaches, jungle, and mountains, or the ranches, train and bus trips, or Cuidad Chihuahua, Guadalajara, Tlaquepacque, or Mazatlán. But there’s always next week.

Did I bring anything from Mexico? No; nothing that would interest Border Patrol. And yes. Every single thing it had to offer.


0 Comments

A Rocky Adventure

5/22/2014

0 Comments

 
Back in 1981, my girlfriend Kay and I were camping in Big Bend National Park. We decided to rent a raft and float through Hot Springs Canyon at Rio Grande Village. We had never rafted, but we were assured it would be easy, the river was gentle through there, and “anyone can do it.” How hard could it be?

We lolled along, letting our fingers drag in the muddy water. The warm sun and cool breeze of a March morning were perfect accompaniments. Birds chirped and chattered and raised a ruckus in the green growth along the bank. They darted out to dip at the stars sparkling on the surface of the Rio or hopped along the shore picking at this and that.

Kay and I talked about the joy of living, even temporarily, in a place where nature ruled with such magnificence. There’s no bad view in Big Bend National Park. No matter where we camped, when we came out of the tent in the morning, we were stunned by some newly revealed cliff or peak or twisted rock formation. Or the sun would glint off something, making it shine or giving it a color it didn’t have before. It was so beautiful it made our eyes fill with tears and our hearts with wonder.

“Doesn’t it feel as though we’re the only humans to have ever been here?” Kay whispered with reverence as our raft entered the little canyon.

I agreed but my comments were hushed by the sudden shrill descending notes of a canyon wren. The sound was like nothing we’d ever heard. We didn’t know what it was but it was pure magic and not even surprising, given where we were.

To make a long story into a short column, I’ll just say that we were enamored of everything: the gentle downstream pull of a river that smelled like clean dirt, the bumpy-walled canyon, the peace, the blooming wildflowers along the shore, and the subtle lure of the foreign land drifting by next to us.

Suddenly we heard the loud sound of water pounding against stone. Never mind the assurances that it was easy and safe. Every scary whitewater tale I’d ever heard crowded into my brain. Then my relentless imagination kicked in and dragged me away with it.

“Rapids!” I screamed.

We panicked and paddled as hard as we could for the closest shore, which happened to be Mexico. We stood gasping and glad to be alive.

An old man crashed his way down an animal path and stood on the bank next to us. I spoke the only Spanish word I could remember under pressure, “Hola.”

He grinned and lifted his sombrero. “Buenos días.”

I returned the grin and felt stupid. I’d taken three years of Spanish in high school and one in college and “Hola” was all I had to offer?

There was laughter in his dark eyes, so he had evidently seen our mad dash to shore. That was embarrassing in any language.

In the manner of a true gentleman, he asked if we had a problem with the raft. What he said was, “You problem boat?” His English was not great, but it was better than my Spanish. I had a head full of his language, but it was as though I’d lost the password I needed to access that part of my brain.

Using a mix of English, mutilated Spanish, and mime, we explained that we’d heard cascading water ahead and were afraid to move forward.

He listened intently, nodding his head as we explained. Somehow he kept from laughing at us. “No is bad. You see.” He began walking and indicated that we should follow.

The “death-defying rapids” were a bend in the Rio where it widened and became shallower for a few yards. The rushing water tumbled over rocks and pebbles and caused the loud whooshing noise we’d translated into a dangerous waterfall. Well… I had translated it. My friend was innocent. I had failed to keep the reins on my imagination and it galloped away, turning a minor change in the river’s direction into a deadly obstacle.

Our Mexican friend wished us a good day and went on his way whistling. We walked back to our craft.

“That was stupid,” I admitted, “and embarrassing.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Kay said. “Maybe someday we’ll write about our adventures, real and imagined.”

Yes. Maybe someday we will.

0 Comments

People Watching

5/15/2014

0 Comments

 
In an earlier column I wrote about my habit of watching people in the grocery store. Not just watching but making up stuff, putting words in their mouths, giving them lives or pieces of lives they might not recognize as theirs. An establishment that sells food attracts all kinds of humans, making it the mother lode of character-mining. But there are other places as well.

A few days ago I was sitting in the parking lot of a local discount store waiting on a friend who was inside shopping. I was trying to make myself read a book but was more interested in things going on around me. I began making up stories about the shoppers coming and going based on their expressions and the way they carried themselves. I observed everything from bouncy to slow and painful, from whistling to frowning; some folks looked up as they walked and some looked down and some stared straight ahead as if in a trance.

An unhappy couple attempting to start their truck captured my attention. Oh, the cursing and blaming and disrespect. They were wrong for a story because one of them would’ve had to die. I’d been hoping for something romantic that would end in kissing or at least without a murder. It seemed like a bad day for happy in that parking lot.

That was until I noticed three adorable girls waiting at the end of a vehicle two cars over from mine. One wore tights, a tutu, and tap shoes. Guessing, I’d say she was ten. She was irresistible, this little dancer, and deserved an entire story to herself, but she wasn’t alone. Her younger sister stood by her side wearing black patent leather Mary Janes and a stylish dress. Little Sister constantly checked out her shiny shoes, turning them this way and that. I was reminded of a time, so long ago, when I had done the same thing with my new shoes.

The little girl with the new Mary Janes held the hand of a toddler while they waited. There was no whining or crying or complaining. Little Dancer twirled in place, Little Sister continued admiring her shoes, and the toddler laughed and babbled at passing birds and other things only toddlers understand. Each girl was in her own world, but they still seemed mindful that they were in a parking lot and were looking out for each other.

Less than a minute had passed when the mom came around the side of the vehicle hefting a baby carrier. She saw me watching and smiled. She must have realized I was admiring her girls. I was also thinking about how much care and energy it takes to be a good parent. And I was feeling nostalgic for my own little girl. In a flash those small children would be grown. I don’t believe young mothers realize that, but that’s probably because they’re too busy to think about it.

The sound of laughter drew my attention across the parking lot to a playground where fathers were swinging their youngsters. That’s something you don’t see every day—fathers minding their small children. The dads appeared to be having as much fun as the kids. I wondered if they were a two-dad family or if the men were brothers or brothers-in-law or neighbors or strangers. The possibilities are endless with or without my imagination.

Then the animated jabbering of three teenage girls drew me away from the playground and back to the parking lot. Their chattering stopped in mid-story, and one of them said, “Oh!”

They had seen what I failed to. An elderly man with a loaded shopping cart was struggling to get his things to his car. “Wait, wait!” they called as they ran up to him. “Let us help you.”

One took the cart and the other two took his arms to steady him. The young women continued chattering and it was difficult to tell if they were talking to the man or continuing their tales. It didn’t matter. They had stepped up when they were needed and made an old man’s day—and mine.

When my friend came out with her load of purchases, I said, “My faith in humanity has been restored.”

“Here?” She seemed amazed.

Yes, there. I never saw the romance I’d hoped for, and there was no kissing, but I did see love in action three times and that was enough.


0 Comments

Gratitude

5/8/2014

0 Comments

 
This morning I needed to write. I also needed to walk, and it seemed as though I couldn’t get it in gear to do either thing. I opened the windows and heard the birds, busy and joyous. My guilty conscience thought all their songs were about lazy female procrastinators.

When I went to bed last night, I was writing a scene that takes place at the picnic area in the mountainous pass between Alpine and Marfa. I can’t hike in the mountains, which I would dearly love to do, but I can look at them and climb them in my head. And for my own sanity, I need to write about them. So I drove to the place I wanted to describe.

It was early but the sun was bright and warm. There was a cool breeze that rippled through the trees and caused the wildflowers to bob their heads up and down as if saying an emphatic “yes!” to the glorious day. It didn’t even take ten seconds for their enthusiastic mood to rub off on me.

I’ve driven through that pass so many times I couldn’t say how many, but I’ve never stopped at the picnic area—or never stopped for long. I changed that today by spending most of the morning there taking notes and studying a landscape worth writing about, although I will never do it justice.

I love the severely eroded mountains that surround us. Imagine how many years they’ve been standing there and the things they’ve seen and the extremes of weather they’ve endured. They were there when Native Americans roamed the area and long before that. The exposed stone makes them appear rugged and, at the same time, somehow vulnerable.

All the mountains and hills in the Big Bend Country are unique. Some have boulder-littered sides; some have craggy outcroppings or wear jagged crowns; some are tall and some short; some have a lot of plant growth while others have little; some are ridges or bumpy humps more than what you would call mountains.

After I fulfilled my walking goal, I sat on a bench in the sun and spent a long time studying the scene in pieces instead of trying to take it in all at once. For some reason I thought that would help me describe it. Directly across the road was the “back” of Twin Peaks. The sun was high enough in the sky that I had to concentrate on the lower reaches because of the glare at the top. The places closer to the ground were in shadow, which made the colors muted and the landscape more sharply defined. There’s a deep canyon back there that begs exploration, not to mention every other inch of that location.

Like the rest of the mountains throughout this region, Twin Peaks is not what it seems from a distance. Our mountains hold surprises for those who venture close. They have secrets. Often, they’re not one formation at all, but are layers of them, along with canyons and mountains within mountains. Sometimes they hide springs, waterfalls, ruins, or rare plants and animals.

Twin Peaks’ backside slopes down to a ridge that is topped by a long, wall-like structure called a dike. Dikes are the result of magma being injected into the fractures of rocks. When the surrounding rock is eroded, dikes are exposed and often appear as dark walls of rock. They give our landscape its sharp, jagged, crumbling features. I’m a writer, not a geologist, so what this boils down to is that they make our scenery stunning and no two places are the same. Add to that the sun and shadows, and it’s also ever-changing.

Across the highway from Twin Peaks is a giant rock wall that sits on top and slightly in front of a different mountain. I stared at it a long time trying to determine if it’s a dike or something else. For my purposes, it doesn’t matter. I can make geologists, biologists, and even sheriffs roll their eyes. I get things wrong all the time, but I try hard to capture the essence of them.

While I was resting in the sun, feasting my eyes, writing in my head, and with my imagination running off in all directions, I thought about gratitude. How fortunate I am to be alive right now in this place. Every single morning when my eyes open, I think, “Thank you.” I get to live another day. And not just another day, but a day in Big Bend.

0 Comments

Pearl Tea

5/1/2014

0 Comments

 

0 Comments
    Elizabeth A. Garcia, author

    Archives

    April 2018
    December 2017
    November 2016
    August 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    June 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    July 2013

    Pin any image
    from this page.

    RSS Feed

    Click "RSS Feed" icon to subscribe to Garcia's Blog feed.
    #garciabooks
    use this hashtag to find  Elizabeth A. Garcia; also use it to post about her.

    Links

    Alpine Daily Planet

    Big Bend River Tours

    Familias de Terlingua

    Front Street Books

    Marfa Book Co.

    Terlingua Trading Company

    Visit Big Bend

    Categories

    All

    A prickly perch
Deputy Ricos' Mountain

Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth A. Garcia 
All Rights Reserved


ASF Sites of Coyota Consulting