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Margarita, Margarita

7/31/2014

My daughter turns thirty today, July 31, and she’s having a bit of a meltdown. I find this humorous because one day she’ll realize how young she still was when she thought thirty was old, but I understand her angst. Many adults go through this at various ages. Our society dictates a bunch of “shoulds.” I wish I could get her to give them up. If I’ve learned anything in the much longer time I’ve been here (much longer as compared to her) it’s that nobody can tell you what is right for you. Nobody.

For the first thirty years of my life, I chased the American Dream (the things you should want). I was the most driven young woman you’d ever want to know. But you might not have wanted to know me. I was “successful” and miserable. I realized that having a new car, a gorgeous house with a swimming pool, nice clothes, the latest in everything, was not the way to happiness or even close. I appalled almost everyone who knew me by selling everything and going west. I’ve told that story before so I won’t tell it here.

My decision to drop out of the fast lane was exactly the right decision for me. I don’t advocate it for everyone or try to force it on anyone. My point is that I listened to my heart and followed it. I would hope everyone reading this would do the same, but especially my daughter, Margarita.

Today we were texting and, since I’m her mother, I was bugging her. I wanted to know why she was reluctant to go all-out in celebration of her 30th birthday. The answer was that she feels she “hasn’t done anything.” Really, Margarita? Please allow me to remind you.

Before you turned thirty you did many amazing things: you survived a horrendous school situation; you were instrumental in helping me open a club for the youth of Terlingua and you devoted countless hours of your time to working with kids who needed you; you opened a successful store on a shoestring budget and with nothing but faith in yourself and your partner; you taught yourself graphic design and created t-shirts and four book covers for your mother’s novels. How many moms can brag about that? You bought a house. You changed your mind about living in Terlingua so you sold it and bought a truck and travel trailer and took off to live a dream. Hello?

In spite of what you think, you’re young. You’re living with the love of your life. How many people can say that? You’re living a life you chose. Not everyone can say that, either. You decided to travel the U.S. to see its beauty and to have adventures, meet new people, and see what else is “out there.” You live on a gigantic lake in pristine woods in California. When you get tired of there, you can go anywhere. Let your heart and your imagination rule. Stop comparing yourself to others!

You are a woman of substance, of conscience, of heart. You’re smart and talented. Don’t make me come over there!

When you were eight or nine years old, you were popping in and out of my bedroom, where I was listening to various self-improvement tapes. You left for a while but came back and asked, “What is this about?”

I replied that I was trying to be a better person, a more competent boss, a better mom, a better everything.

I wish I could take you back all those years and show you your face. You were exasperated. “Mom!” you cried with your hands outstretched, palms up. “How in the world can you be any better than you are?”

It’s funny the things we learn from our children. No, I did not stop trying to better myself, but I gave myself credit for being an amazing woman you adored. I decided to love myself and accept that there would always be room for improvement. And there always is. That day was a turning point in my life, brought to me by an innocent child with an unconditional love for her mom.

Thank you, Margarita and Happy Birthday! Now I’m turning your words on you. How in the world can you be any more successful than you are?

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Going Cold Turkey

7/28/2014

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Going Cold Turkey

Recently I have been full of “blah,” even when it comes to writing. It’s hard to believe I’m tired of putting my thoughts into words, but maybe I need a break from it. I say this, and yet I’ve just planned a retreat in South Brewster County to do nothing but write for five days. The place I’m going doesn’t receive cell service and my friend has no Internet. I’ll be disengaged from outside stimuli and the things that suck up my time. I’m a social media addict who also enjoys texting and yapping on the phone, so this is the equivalent of going cold turkey. Maybe I’m just panicking because of that.

I’m the only person who says I have to write. Nobody else knows what I’m doing. I’ll be staying with a friend; she doesn’t care if I’m writing or not—except that she pushes to read the next novel. But she won’t try to beat it out of me.

Maybe I’ll just stare at the mountains, talk with her, and play with her animals. We’ll have an adventure—or at least fun—because we always do. Even when I’m not physically writing, I’m always writing in my head. More important is to refill the place out of which words come.

I’m packed and ready to go, but I need a column! It’s not as though I can write it when I get to Terlingua Ranch and send it to Alpine by carrier pigeon. So, this morning I made a “Walk for Inspiration” or more like a “Walk of Desperation” around my neighborhood.

I stopped to admire the persistent collection of wildflowers growing along a fence line by an empty field. I glanced up and a deer was bounding towards me—just one lone young doe. Dogs went crazy barking but they were fenced and I was relieved to see that nothing was chasing her.

She stopped at the edge of the vacant property and we regarded each other. I don’t know which of us was more startled. I hadn’t expected to see a deer and from her reaction, I don’t think my presence made her day. She skidded to a halt and her nose worked the cool morning air. I hoped I didn’t smell like a predator but more like a lover of wildlife, mountains, and desert air, whatever that aroma would be.

Our visitor never made direct eye contact with me but she was wary and watching. I didn’t move and after a while, she passed me on her way to wherever she was headed before I alarmed her.

I made a rash statement in an earlier column and I want to take it back. I accused my neighborhood of being dull. That’s not true, but I was panicked by having no idea what to write. I was blaming my neighborhood. Not fair.

There’s a swing set in a tiny playground at the apartments where I live. Sitting on a swing alone was a little blond-headed girl. We greeted each other and I asked her where the other kids were. She answered with a shrug.

I was going to move on, but she asked what I was doing. I told her I was walking for exercise and ideas.

“Ideas about what?”

“I need to write a column for the newspaper.”

“You write that paper?”

“No, only tiny piece of it.”

Her little face scrunched up in thought. She sighed with the effort. Then she looked up at me. “You could sit here and swing for a while.”

Leave it to a five-year-old.

I don’t need to worry about columns or where the next novel is coming from or how to finish the five I have in various stages of completion. I only need to swing for a while. That is why I’m heading south to the mountains that speak to my soul and the quiet that fills it. I’m going to go swing for a while.

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"Your Cat is Bewitched"

7/17/2014

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“I want to talk to you about a cat,” my friend said. We were on the phone, she in Terlingua, me in Alpine. “She’s a sweet little thing, but because she’s small, a couple of my other cats are picking on her. I think Marble would be the perfect kitty for you.”

I should have stopped her right there.

Some of you reading this will know that I lost “the perfect kitty” for me a year and a half ago. I wrote a column about him entitled, “A Tribute to Bubs.” He was a gigantic cat with a sweet disposition. When he spoke, it was with a teeny voice—laughable since it came from such a large guy.

When my friend suggested another kitty, I balked. What if Bubs comes home? I still want him to.

I live alone and spend a lot of time writing, so having another creature here was a pleasure. Bubs was great company. He was a muse in his gentle way, and he reminded me every day how to live in the moment. It was reckless, I know, but I decided to give Marble a chance. According to my friend, she needed a safe home and I needed her.

I don’t see how something that started out with such good intentions could go so wrong. I renamed Marble “Emmylou,” after the singer, Emmylou Harris. I’ve been a fan of hers for years and her name came to mind. I claimed it was because Marble “sang” so much, but I was being kind. She screeches. Where Bubs was huge and quiet, Emmylou is half his size with a Godzilla voice.

She gives an ongoing play-by-play on everything and nothing measures up. When I go into the kitchen, and I mean every time I go in, she races to get there first. She yells at the top of her lungs. I have no idea what she wants. She has food and water. I’ve offered her bits of human food but she turns up her nose and continues to bawl. Her irritating voice constantly berates me. I’ve haven’t done anything but show kindness to her. She seldom shuts up. She makes it difficult to write or talk on the phone or even to think of my name.

I haven’t been in the bathroom alone for weeks, even in the middle of the night. She can be sound asleep when I get up, but she follows within seconds. I hear the thunk as she drops from the bed to the floor. I feel persecuted. Emmylou is a stalker. She gripes at high volume and rubs herself against my legs so fiercely it’s both heartwarming and aggravating. I remind her that if she’s trying to say she adores me, words of love are spoken in a soft voice, not bellowed. She’s deaf to my advice and I soon will be.

By the way, I misnamed my cat. I’m sure her namesake doesn’t awaken her loved ones in the middle of the night to screech Even Cowgirls Get the Blues into their sleep-deprived faces.

My cat loves to lecture my ex-husband, which is humorous. He sits down and she begins. It’s as though she’s channeling the angry father of a teenage girl. The other day he said, with a dead-serious expression, “Esta embrujada tu gata.” (Your cat is bewitched.) That would explain some things.

When I was preparing to go to Austin for a few days, I planned to take Emmylou back to my friend so she wouldn’t be left alone. On the morning we were leaving for Terlingua, an animal control officer came to my door asking if I had seen an injured cat. Neighbors reported hearing one. Are you kidding me? I open the windows at night to let in the fresh breezes, and it was my wailing cat they heard! As if to prove it, Emmylou let loose a loud rendition of a bluesy number. The officer laughed, but it wasn’t funny—not when you live with it. I insisted he meet my mouthy cat so he would know she wasn’t injured or being tortured by a sick freak. If anyone is being tortured in my house, it’s me.

The place is quiet without my furry little crooner. I write and can sleep through the night. The neighbors look at me funny, so they probably think I killed her, but I haven’t, not yet.

Emmylou is returning soon for her second show. Is it awful to hope your friend’s truck breaks down? If it doesn’t, I’ve prepared a Want-Ad. Needed: kindhearted deaf person to care for a serenading cat.

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Gringo!

7/10/2014

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When selling river trips, it was common to be asked about our neighbors, The Mexicans. Typical questions: “What about the Mexicans?” “Will we see Mexicans?” “Are they dangerous?” “Are there bandidos?” “I’m bringing my family; is it safe?” It was laughable since people were calling from cities far more dangerous than anywhere in the Big Bend area. They pictured it as wild and lawless, but to those of us living there, it was heaven. And it was home.

We gave free geography lessons in addition to prices and trip itineraries. Many callers didn’t understand that if you’re on a river that serves as a border between two countries, the “other” country will be adjacent to said river. Hello, people? Get out your maps! I grew up on the east coast, but even as a little kid I knew the Rio Grande separated “us” and “them.” It would take living by the river to understand the ways in it which it draws us together much more than it separates us. But I digress.

During the early days of owning Big Bend River Tours, my husband was busy running Restaurante Garcia in Paso Lajitas, Mexico. Except for driving an occasional shuttle, he didn’t have much to do with BBRT. In spite of this, he knew all the guides and they knew him. This was because his restaurant served authentic Chihuahuan Mexican food, prepared when you ordered, and served hot and mouth-watering.

One morning a group came to sign in for their half-day river adventure. In those days of higher water, the trip went from Grassy Banks to Lajitas. We stopped along the way to serve a snack and did it right. It always surprised and delighted people. I think they expected us to hand out packets of peanuts or cheese crackers. Instead, we set up a camp table with a tablecloth and served various cheeses, fruit, crackers, cookies, chips, and dips. Customers loved it.

This group was more concerned about seeing Mexicans than most. It frustrated these visitors that we had no control of our neighbors or the wildlife and couldn’t promise they would see either. Nor could we swear how either would act if we did see them.

“We normally see ducks and birds—” I began.

“What about Mexicans?”

I headed into my spiel about one side of the Rio being the U.S. and the other side being Mexico. It was possible to see a Mexican, I explained.

“What do they do if they see us?”

“They usually wave.”

“Do you ever have trouble?”

How do you explain to a man from Houston or Louisiana or any other faraway place that these “foreigners” are peaceable country folks? They’re our friends and neighbors. Sometimes we marry them.

Eventually the group got onto the river. I’ve forgotten which guides went, but there were two or three. When the trip returned, the customers were ecstatic. They’d had a blast. They met a Mexican man! And he had a horse! The kids got to sit in the saddle! The entire party was ridin’ high.

After the customers left, the guides told me quite a story. They had the snack set up on the Mexican side, after much cajoling and assuring the timid bunch that they stopped there all time and never saw anyone. Their customers had just served their plates when they heard hoof beats. In the distance, a man on a horse was galloping towards them calling, “Hah, Gringo! Aye, Gringo!”

The customers panicked. Women and children peeked out from behind the men. The guides explained that they tried to stay cool and keep everyone calm, but this stranger kept on coming and calling out “Gringo!” He wore a cowboy-style Mexican sombrero and looked one hundred percent mexicano, no mistaking it. The horrifying thing was that a bandana was tied over his mouth and nose, bandido style.

The cowboy came to the edge of their lunch camp. He yanked off the bandana, shook out the dust, and jammed it into the pocket of his jeans. He jumped off the horse with a “Ya, Gringo!” and strode towards them with spurs jangling. A woman screamed and people began scrambling into the rafts. The cowboy held out his hands in frustration, asking the guides in Spanish why they didn’t recognize him. It was my husband.

They had a relieved laugh and he accepted a cold drink and was introduced to everybody. He charmed them in his quiet way and with his big brown eyes and totally broken English.

“Why did you keep yelling “gringo?” someone asked. “It scared us.”

“Oh, Gringo—he my horse.”

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My Cowboy

7/3/2014

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On Saturday my ex-husband came to Alpine to buy carpet and other things for his house in Terlingua. It blows my mind that he has such an interest in getting his home “just right,” but I refrain from being snarky. Why he took no interest during our marriage I have no idea, and there is no point in asking. He’s changed since then and so have I. I don’t want to be bitter; I’d rather be happy.

It should be no surprise by now that I accepted his invitation to go to lunch. On the ride he spoke in an animated way about his plans for his house. He wants it to have in—surprise—a cowboy theme.

I looked over at him. “My cowboy,” I said with much more affection than is prudent for an ex-wife. Tears came to my eyes and I had to mentally push them back. For all the years I’ve known him, some of the things I most admired were his cowboy skills: riding, roping, lassoing; all of that is second nature. His mother told me he learned to ride a horse before he could walk and I never doubted it. When he rides, horse and cowboy are one.

At lunch he asked, “Are you still lying about me in the paper?”

“I sometimes write about you, but it’s never lies. I might as well tell you now that my next novel is dedicated to you.”

He looked horrified. “Why? What have you done? What did you say?”

For the first time, I felt sorry for him in terms of my writing. It must be scary to have an opinionated ex-wife who writes. The waitress scurried over during this exchange; I think she sensed that all was not well. That was true, but there was nothing she could bring to make it better.

“I didn’t say the novel was about you,” I clarified. “I said I dedicated it to you. There’s a difference.” I went on in an attempt to explain.

A month ago, I’d told him my new publisher wanted to have the entire Deputy Ricos series translated into Spanish. At the time he was happy for me, but it hadn’t hit him what that meant. He gets it now.

“You know,” he said, “when it comes out in Spanish, I’ll know the truth.”

“You know the truth now. I’d never write bad things about you.”

“Except for saying I’m a liar.”

“Well….”

“Why did you dedicate a whole book to me?”

“I tell some of your stories about being an undocumented immigrant.”

He looked horrified. “People don’t want to hear those old stories.”

“I disagree. They do want to hear them and they need to hear them. I want to tell them because they put a human face on a Mexican immigrant.”

“This is a bad time in this country. Immigrants are as welcome as two-headed demons. It reminds me of the old days when we were not even as valuable as cattle.”

“That is the story I felt compelled to tell.”

He grimaced. “I don’t think people will like that book.”

“I hope you’re wrong, but even if you’re correct, I had to write it. And I think people will read it and enjoy it. It’s about a lot of things, not just immigration. That’s only part of the story.”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s your decision.”

“When you read it you’ll understand. My Deputy Ricos novels are about more than just one thing at a time.” Except in the case of bloody shirts.

Years ago, when I heard the first of the experiences my new husband ventured to tell, I was horrified. He was a man I adored and respected. He was, and still is, the hardest-working man I know. At the time I wondered what is wrong with people that we can’t see the humanness in each other. Why can’t we look past skin colors, countries of birth, and the other superficial things that separate us from each other? Why do we erect barriers to love that do us so much damage? I still wonder these things. I still have the same questions. As a society, we appear to be going backwards instead of forwards.

“I have to write about the things that are important to me,” I said. “It’s the only way I can do it.”

He nodded in understanding, but he had a valid question. “What if people stop reading what you write?”

“That won’t stop me from writing.”

The look in his eyes was soft in spite of his next words. “You are the hardest-headed woman I ever knew.”

I can argue with a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.

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Margarita, Margarita

Going Cold Turkey

"Your Cat is Bewitched"

Gringo!

My Cowboy

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