Blog Archives

A Gift from a Six-Year-Old Girl

12/29/2014

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.

13 Comments

Tamales for Christmas

12/22/2014

5 Comments

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.

5 Comments

Adventures with the Cowboy

12/15/2014

6 Comments

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.

6 Comments

A Strong Dose of the Hard Stuff

12/8/2014

5 Comments

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.

5 Comments

Saying Good-Bye to Markus

12/7/2014

11 Comments

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.

11 Comments

A Gift from a Six-Year-Old Girl

Tamales for Christmas

Adventures with the Cowboy

A Strong Dose of the Hard Stuff

Saying Good-Bye to Markus

Archives

Links

Categories