The village part II

Papaya tree in gramps backyard. Grown with "illegal" water- according to the village honchos, rationed water should not be used for watering plants. My grandfather, you see, is something of a rebel, always has been, always will be. He unionized fellow workers in the limestone factory before he knew what a union was, he "saved" my "captive" grandmother from her own family with a machete in one hand and my grandma over his shoulder (remind me sometime to tell you this story), after using up his bracero status he purchased a new name and went right back to work. Behold, the fruits of his labor.




The house were my mother was raised. It now belongs to my cousin Martin and the front room has been converted into a convenience store. There have been sightings lately of a young girl dressed up in a old school hacienda outfit. The day this picture was taken, the story was relayed to my grandfather. He said it was my grandmother watching over the house. He said the description fits the same image of her when they were kids. He said he as a 5 years old when he first saw my grandmother Marcelina. That day, he told us, she entered him through the eyes and settled in his heart. That image of her stayed with him until they were married in adulthood.



My grandfather, Apolonio, holding court. He may have been retelling the story of when President Truman called the Mexican president and requested "arms" for the cause of WWII. The Mexican president sent the fabled Fighting Squadron 201. President Truman said he needed more than that, his crops were going to be lost. My gramps answered the call, along with thousands of other Mexican peasants. After saving America's agricultural ass, they were thrown out without even a pat on the back.


My cousin Cruz' other boy exercising the horses. They have been receiving some training to perform in Charro events, but mostly they get rented out to those in need of work animals.



Passing the evening on the front stoop. It's good manners to say "good evening" to everyone who comes by, whether you know them or not. At this time the evening sun is burning up the back part of the house while the front part of the house cooled by the breeze racing dust clouds up and down the street.

Goats!

My cousin Cruz' kid bringing home the goats. Everyday after school, Juan goes up the hill to meet his father who is taking care of the goats. Cruz is disabled, having broken his femur in a farming accident and is limited in the kind of work he can do, so he raises goats, horses, and a donkey and sells and/or rents the animals out. Juan is about 8 years old and loves bringing home the animals. After this chore was finished on this day, he found a shady spot outside of his house and settled down to read a book of prayers.

The Village

My grandfather, Apolonio Robledo, says that when he was a kid there were only 13 houses in the village of Taretan, which everyone calls Tareta. No one knows when the village was founded or where the name comes from. Tareta was born of the hills and river that surround it, just came to life one day.

My grandfather was born on April 10, 1920. That makes him 88 years old. His mind is sharp and his arms are strong. A few years ago he suffered a fall from a ladder and landed on his knees. Any other man of his age would have been put in a wheel chair for life, my grandfather simply walks slower. He takes a cane along with him when he travels to town (Irapuato), but he tells me it's more for show, and he winks at me as he makes a chopping motion.

Tareta has plotted his death, put a curse on him, attempted to steal his lands, and broken his heart. My grandfather, however, is made of tougher stuff and he refuses to give up on this village, he knows it can be a better place

Here are a few shot's of life in the village.


This is Tareta. Most of the village is hidden as it drops down and away. Past the village are foreign owned businesses ( los americanos!!) that refuse to hire the local men and women citing a lack of preparedness. The underground water supply though seems to be good enough to take.


This is the home my grandfather currenlty lives in. Little by little he adds to it, an extra room here, a shower there, etc. It has three showers and two bathrooms, but no water! The nicer brick and tile work was completed by a "maestro", but the rest of the work is my grandfather's. This is the second or third house he has built in the village. He was the first to have a working toilet and shower by the way.


Here is one of the altars in my grandfather's house. No altar is complete without the image of the Virgen, the Pope, or JFK. If you have all three it's a hat trick.


Here's Gloria doing the dishes old school. She is washing up in something called a "pila". It's an old fashioned wash basin that is made of cement and can be mounted anywhere. Since we were living out of water barrels, it was easier to do the dishes and other "water work" outside. The pila faces the backyard which is filled with fruit trees and a chicken with seven chicks, and in the distance you can see wheat fields and the mountains.


Here we are on our way to catch the bus into town. That's my grandfather with his cane/weapon, Herculana, his wife, and some thug that snuck in when no one was looking. Herculana is not my grandmother. She married my grandfather sometime after my grandmother, Marcelina, died after complications during childbirth. My mother was only 3 when Marcelina died, but she has regular visits with her via dreams.


More village pix soon.

Mexico Lindo y Querido!

The gloworm and I just got back from spending a whole week in Mexico. We were visiting my grandfather in Tareta. Tareta is a tiny village just north of Irapuato, Guanajuato. Guanajuato is a state just north of Mexico City. We spent the first four days day tripping to other cities. I'll post something every other day or so from our travels in the state of Guanajuato.

Here are a few pictures to get us going. As you'll notice, there was a ton of natural light. It was sunny, without a cloud in the sky, in the mid 90's. My bald head was sunburned the first day there. Heat was dry and it hadn't rained in weeks, or while we were there. There was a fine layer of dust on everything, however Mexico's beautiful colors were able to shine through.

A street in Guanajuato (the city).



A passageway through a museum in Irapuato.


Flowers in an alley in San Miguel de Allende.


A door pic for Talia!

We're off to see the Wizard...

...see ya in a week!

Hello, do we have any poets out there tonight?

So, I need your help. Well, my nephew Estevan needs your help. He has an assignment due in a couple of weeks involving poetry. He needs to find one poem for each of the themes below. I'm not saying give us the poem, but if you can point him in the right direction,maybe a title, a poet, etc. I would forever be in your debt.

Thanks!


> Here are the Themes for the poetry project
>
> -Season of birth
> -poem about a boy or girl
> -family/parent/siblings
> -house pets
> -friends/friendships
> -school days
> -activities/pastimes(sports/hobbies)
> -Dreams/goals
> -recollections/memories
> -likes/dislikes
> -death
> -humor
> -values
> -chiledhood
> -changes/passages

Hello, it's me.

I've been sick and busy lately so I haven't been posting. I've been doing some reading, currently I'm enjoying "The Somnambulist". It kind of reminds me of the Moonstone and a Borges story, with a little X-files thrown in there for the heck of it. Glo and I will be going to Guanajuato in April for a week, I'm definitely looking forward to that. I probably won't start my MLS until fall. That's it for now.

Later.

Hey, Guess What?

Gloria got the grant, she's going to India! I won't say too much here, because I'm sure she'll keep everyone posted over on her blog. But I'm very excited for her, proud of her and a little jealous of her. Way to go, Gloria!

A Love poem

I love the way my windshield wipers blur the windshield
I love the way the vet bill came in under the estimate
I love the way my house is freezing in some corners
I love the way I was almost T-boned in traffic today
I love the way Britney Spears invaded this poem
I love the way pizza and beer gimme heartburn
I love the way kids can be jerks and not care
I love the way things can't be as easy as pie
I love the way dumb people just don't know
I love the way it all comes down to money
yeah

Gung Hay Fat Choy!!

Happy Year of the RAT!

Updates

Updated the blog roll on the right hand side there. If you see your link and you don't want it there, tell me and I I'll drop it.


Gloria decided to join Bloglandia, go there and give her a nice welcome.

Ella is getting surgery tomorrow, hope she makes a quick recovery.

If you know someone who needs a part time job, I'm looking for someone to perform circulation/clerical duties for the READMOBILE. Taking apps until the 18th.

Junot Diaz "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao"- great book, probably my favorite of 2007. Diaz's first book "Drown" was a great collection of short stories. 11 years later you get more of the same, but the writing is that good, do yourself a favor and read it.

What's up with the potholes all around town? Has anyone been down Western Ave, it's a nightmare.

Still thinking about the waste of time that was "Cloverfield."

Still debating displaying the Jamie Lynn Spears bio on the bus.

Mostly just stressed out and getting really, really, really fat.

Pooch update

Brought the dogs home early on Sunday because bloodwork came back in the normal range. We still have to keep an eye on them and keep up with the their meds (yes, we are absolutely sure they can't get to these, they're kept in a safe place) and Ella still needs to get the ACL surgery. We're getting it done on Friday, we met with the surgeon this morning. It all sounds pretty routine.

Thanks to everyone who kept the dogs in their thoughts. I'm sure all of the positive energy sent their way really helped.

This week has gone to the dogs

Gloria and I have two dogs, Ella and Marley.

On Wednesday, Ella tore her ACL and was in much pain. Thankfully, Gloria had a snow day and was able to get Ella to the vet. We learned how much it was going to cost to "fix" Ella, but we just grinned and beared it and we were happy to be in a position to help her.

Today, I came home early and found Ella's EMPTY bottle of pain medication. Immediately I figured the culprit to be Marley. Marley can open anything with a lid- the butter container, tupperware, mixed nut containers, etc. Hell, he can even delicately unwrap individual pieces of candy. I found the empty bottle of meds near Marley's spot so I assumed he had eaten all of it. I rushed him to the vet and they got to work on him right away. I was told his care and treatment would be expen$ive. Okay, well we cancel the May trip to Texas. Fine, let's get him taken care of.

I get home and Gloria tells me that Ella is acting funny. Drowsy, weird breathing, "different". Now we start thinking that maybe Ella ate the pills. The thing about Ella and Marley is that Marley is the thief, but Ella is the bully. And even though she's been limping around here, she still runs the show. So it's very possible that after Marley opened the container, Ella took the pills from him. So now we rush her to the vet.

Since there is no test or obvious symptoms, both dogs must now be treated. The vet tells us that by the time a dog shows a symptom, it is too late. So even though both dogs seemed normal, except for Ella who was acting a little different, if we would have kept them at home we wouldn't have really noticed anything until they keeled over and died.

So now they're at the emergency vet, and if they live through Sunday, they will have made it through the toughest part and we can bring them home. But we weren't promised anything. It's possible that one or both are so toxic that even with all of the treatments they're receiving, they can still die.

After all is said and done, all of this will cost (including Ella's ACL sugery) us about 7 months worth of mortgage payments.

Anyone looking for roommates?

I love our dogs and my joking about how much this is going to cost us may sound cruel, but the reality of the financial cost of this is nearly overwhelming; this is going to put a huge dent in the ol checkbook.

However, Gloria and I love our dogs too much to not give them a fighting chance. Some people out there won't understand going into debt for a pet, that's fine, you don't have to, it's more important to me to know that I've tried to keep my humanity in tact.

I hope to have good news on Sunday.

Let your hair down

This song makes me wish I was a girl with long hair and records.

Oh man, I didn't know I could read

I'm so interesting.

Pandora

I'm totally diggin' Pandora right now. It's a great free music listening site. After a free and ad free sign up, you start identifying artists that you like. Pandora then plays songs by that artist and similar artists. You're allowed to rate the songs as they come on, the more you rate the more you tailor the music. Also, adding more than one artist allows you to create "stations" that play a mix of music you like. Very cool and very free. How is this different than other internet radio you ask? Well, you certainly have more control over what you listen to and there are no commercials ever, unless you count staring at the website, but all you have to do is create another tab in your browser and let Pandora play in the background.

Enjoy!

Yeah

I was at a workshop today with librarians from all over northern Indiana. We'd come together to view the best children's books of the year and to pick a "winner" from out of all of them. I got up to stretch my legs and take a break and so I walked out into the hallway. I said to hello to one of my fellow librarians who was out in the hallway and it took her by surprise. She had a flight or fight response moment and did a nervous laugh. I said something like needing a break from all of the books and she said "yeah and probably from all those women too. Now you know what it feels like to be a minority." I looked at her for a moment and then said "I've had that feeling my whole life, trust me I know what it feels like." It took her a moment to realize what I meant and she avoided me the rest of the day.

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I saw a great show on dogs on PBS the other night. It was about the origin of man's best friend and it made me think about all of those fundamentalists who want to teach Intelligent Design in school. Scientist know that dogs and wolves are pretty much the same animal, they can breed and create viable offspring. However, it is the dogs ability to co-exist with man that sets it apart. How did we dogs from wolves?

There was a segment on Russian foxes being raised for all of you fur coat lovers out there. The farmers wanted a kinder gentler fox (who was willing to unzip himself from his coat and hand it over I guess) so they got a geneticist to breed for this behavior. He picked the foxes that showed the most tolerance towards humans and bred them. He did this repeatedly over several generations and as the foxes became friendlier they started changing physically. Their fur began to change color and their ears started to fold down. Soon these foxes were even responding to names.

This experiment reinforces the idea that it was the more tolerant wolves that became dogs, possibly within one human lifespan (that's pretty fast), and why dogs can still breed with wolves, but get along with humans. I know this isn't definite proof of Evolution, but come on you doubters, something is happening here.

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I was walking through Farmer's Market the other day with Gloria and my brother, his wife, and their baby. I was disappointed that the meat guys weren't there. I don't know their names but I'm not talking about the Italian deli folks or the poultry people. I'm talking about the butchers who have that corner display. Anyway, I was upset because they didn't have the headcheese out. Headcheese is one of those old school things that once it disappears, we've lost a connection to the past. If you haven't had headcheese, you should go out this weekend and buy some. It makes a great sandwich.

And speaking of the Farmer's Market, Gloria and I hit that giant one out there in Elkhart and we were not impressed. Where were all of the farmers? It was like an Amish Walmart or something. There were tons of crafts and hokey health remedies, there was a food court (Buffalo burgers), and stands that sold "stuff". Maybe a couple of produce stands and a couple of butchers, everything else was cholesterol for your life. I know what you're thinking, the South Bend Farmer's Market has a bunch of stuff sellers too, but come on, you have a beautiful new facility and you're going to fill it with flea market/festival crap? We didn't see the greatness that others see. Sorry.

Did I scare you?

K, Gloria thinks I may have scared some a ya good folks with that last post. I think Tay is weird, but that's ok. I totally dig what he represents, not his "talent", but that anyone can broadcast themselves across the netverse. This guy has been seen by millions of people, got a Dr. Pepper deal, has been interviewed on t.v., all because he is BRAVE enough to share his unique talent with the world.

Don't hate. It isn't healthy.

I'm thinking of starting a new blog (instead of screwing around with my Youtube account) where I post all of the videos I find quirky, fun, brave, etc. There are alot of folks out there with unique talent that aren't picked up by the mainstream media. I'd like to do my small part and expand their borders beyond Youtube. I don't know when I'll do this, but it should happen within the month.

God given right!

I love Youtube. I love it. People like this guy get to do their thing, and if they're lucky, find a bit of fame.

To paraphrase Shelby from "Hustle & Flow": Every man has got the God damned right contribute a verse.

Michael, Row the Boat Ashore

DDL has been posting pix of churches on his blog after he started thinking of them as vessels; ships that transport the soul to some other place. In an earlier post on my own blog I mentioned that I might have a response. I thought I was close to one, but I'm still not satisfied with it. I guess I was looking to the vessel idea to help me somehow shape my own memories into something worthy of being read. But the more I try to write about my childhood church experience, the more I find myself being distracted by some other memory; some other story to tell.

I don't have a reason not to write about my experience. I wasn't molested by a priest or beaten by nuns. I wasn't trapped under a statue of the Virgin Mary and scarred for life. My experience is nothing like that. I loved going to church every Sunday and being surrounded by smiling faces. The atmosphere was so clean and calm. Sure, there were many Sundays that I was bored out of my gourd listening to the priest give his homily in broken Spanish. I didn't understand what he was saying most of the time, figuratively and literally. But I had so many good times.

I loved the Sundays when babies where baptized because after the baby was presented to the parish, we all got to clap. Most of the time we had to be quiet in church, but on this occasion, we got to make noise. And for a kid like me, making noise was great. I also loved the Sundays when my mom, who was a Guadalupana (some magical order of superwomen, kind of like the Superfriends I think) was in charge of serving coffee and pan dulce in the church basement for one reason or another. That usually meant I'd be in the basement before mass ended, and as we walked down the side aisle, I'd grin at the kids who had to stay in church longer than me. I also got first pick of the sweet bread.

What I loved most of all about going to Mass on Sunday was going to my Grandfather's house afterward. Most folks have family reunions on Holidays or summertime, for us it was every Sunday. We'd feast on peasant food: tortillas, frijoles, huevos, cafe and spend the rest of the day celebrating life. My grandfather would tell us stories both fantastic and heart-breaking. If it was a hot day, we'd all pile into a couple of vehicles and head to the beach. Sometimes we'd walk down to Pulaski park and pick blackberries and come back home with purple everything. Most Sundays, all the cousins played until dark, until we smelled like sweat and dirt, and our throat were sore from shouting.

About 6 years ago, a long time after cynicism had set in and religion (Religion is the opiate of the people! and all that) was nothing but a phase, I was told by mother that St. Stephen's was going to close. Not only was it going to close, but it was going to be knocked down. I gave a shrug; c'est la vie. Sometime after that, Gloria and I were driving through the west side of town and as we drove down Western Avenue I happened to glance over at the church and realized I could no longer spot the steeple from over the trees. I slowed down and drove towards the church and saw a wrecking ball. I had never seen one in real life and the scene took on a surreal feel. They were knocking down the church. Memories flooded my mind and I sat there dumb founded.

The church was cordoned off, workers in orange work vests and yellow hard hats swarming the site, the wrecking ball made slow, sweet arcs. Others had stopped to look also. Some took pictures and some took video and some took bricks. Kids who had never attended that church rode by on bicycles or played tag in the dust that filled their street. The first feeling I felt was anger. I wanted to jump out of my truck and run up the wrecking ball operator and pull him out of the cabin of that destructive machine. I wanted to take peoples cameras and smash them on the ground. I wanted all of those silly kids to see what was happening. My happy Sundays were being wiped out one swing at a time. A whole childhood spent creating memories wiped out in a couple of hours.

As the church fell, I was pushed over the line I'd drawn for myself. From being agnostic to nothing. No religion. Until that day I had secretly desired to return to the church after my long absence. I wanted my children to attend Sunday Mass like I did. I wanted my kids to be baptized there so I could fill that old church with clapping again; I wanted my kids to make their first communions there, for my boys to be altar boys like me, and for my girls to have their quinceneras in that place.

A crucial part of my identity was formed there. A lot of what is good in me comes from those Sundays. To be Mexican was to grow up Catholic. Now I wouldn't even have a place to show my kids were I came from. Now they would grow up that much more removed from their Mexican selves.

As you can tell from my writing I was becoming irrational. After I slowed myself down a bit I realized that what I was really reacting to was the fear of loss. I needed to take a long look deep inside and make peace with the fact that I would not get to relive those days. Everyday I got further away from those good times, everyday I was getting further and further away from the present. I needed to grieve the end of my childhood.

I wish I could tell you that this whole experience made me Catholic again. It hasn't even made me agnostic again. After much introspection I came to realize that my time spent in the church was about making others happy. Coming to church every Sunday put a smile on the priests face, making my first communion put a smile on my mother's face, becoming an altar boy put a smile on my grandfather's face. And all of those things put a smile on my face. For one day a week it was all smiles and life was good, the rest of the week I was reminded how poor we were. The rest of the week I was witness to my mother's suffering as she tried to make ends meet, I was reminded of what a loser my father was, hunger of all types was a constant. On Sunday...opiate of the people indeed.

I can tell you though that I believe. I believe in the power of faith. I believe in the power of belief. My mother's faith in God got us through those tough times that many others fall victim to. I am not a victim. I am a believer in the power that each of us holds.

So DDL, yeah, churches are vessels. They're filled with passengers hoping to arrive to some kind of paradise. These passengers believe in their captain, believe in his power to look towards the heavens and navigate them to their destination. These churches float on faith and fill their sails with optimism.

I bid them bon voyage with both feet planted firmly on terra firma. I hope they find what they are looking for.