I finally retired in October 2014. Kristi had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate, neighborhood cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.
We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.
Kristi’sMine
Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.
I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.
I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.
When she was only 3 years old, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.
I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.
Adrian was an old friend. I knew him from high school. A Swedish boy with white blonde hair and, gleaming, even whiter teeth. When he smiled he lit up a room. He was more than handsome.
Adrian came from a large family. I believe there were 5 boys and one sister. Each of them with the same hair and teeth and confident and charismatic demeanor.
After high school I was searching for life’s meaning. Not finding what I was looking for in LSD and other psychedelics, one day Adrian knocked on our door.
His had been a similar path but according to him he had found “the way”. He had a Bible under his arm and was ready to show us “where the light was”. He was determined to drag us to church.
After a few determined visits, we acquiesced and followed him to Maranatha Church, where Reverend Wendall Wallace preached and held sway.
In red cords, a red and blue flowered shirt and barefoot, I sat in a pew near the back. Richard Probosco played the piano and the choir sang and rocked back and forth clapping in synchopated rhythm in their black robes.
Wallace was on fire as he preached to a congregation of black and white and the young and the old. The auditorium was packed.
I didn’t really hear his words but I was moved deep inside somewhere, without comprehension. This wasn’t the 1st time I was moved by music and rhythm and I had smoked some weed before leaving home, which increased the warmth and sensuality of the atmosphere.
I was moved but also apprehensive because I knew where this was going. I was in no way naive. And then it came: the invitation to come up front and give one’s life to Jesus. The music and the singing were pleading and Wallace’s voice was trying to draw us in. ” Is there anyone here”, he said, who will come down and give their life to Jesus? Jesus loves you”, he said again and again, with pregnant pauses, while he waited for responses.
A few people responded and began to walk down the aisle towards the altar. “Okay. Why not?”, I thought. “Let’s go.” I walked down the aisle and knelt at the altar and said, ” Jesus, if you are who you say you are then show it to me”.
At that moment I felt that I was flying through the air, through the clouds, at a high rate of speed. I don’t know what that was but it was very real. I stayed there kneeling for I don’t know how long but I eventually stood up and Wallace took my hand and lifted it in the air while he praised God and shouted Hallelujah.
Something really had changed. From that moment I started looking into The Bible like I had looked into Eastern religions previously. Adrian had located a huge house in northeast Portland that had stained glass and beveled glass windows that reflected rainbows on the floors and the walls. He convinced the church to support this house where “hippies” who were being converted to Christianity could live while they were in the process of changing their lives.
I lived there at the House of Rainbows for a time. Food was provided, the utilities and rent were paid and a ride to church was provided every Sunday and Wednesday nights.
Adrian, from that time onwards until his death was a street evangelist. He spent all of his time on the street bringing people out of drug addiction and alcoholism and violence to give their hearts to Jesus. But he not only preached the gospel but but he provided food and housing and clothing.
In spite of Adrian’s well meaning efforts towards me, I was always a skeptic and never a true believer in spite of my experience at the altar at Maranatha church. I tried for years but it just never rang true to me. I haven’t had anything to do with any church since the early 70’s. But I can’t deny the good that Adrian did for many, many people, perhaps hundreds of people.
I haven’t seen Adrian since around 1972-74, but he frequently comes to mind. Many were convinced that Adrian and I would hook up but we didn’t ever have that kind of relationship. The women at Maranatha made me a patchwork quilt of embroidered squares and one of the patches had a picture of Adrian and I as a married couple. In spite of the fact that Jack and I married, we had that quilt on our bed for many years until it was destroyed in a house fire.
Adrian was the witness who signed our marriage license and reverend Wendell Wallace married us out in the forest on a beautiful sunny August day.
Adrian and Wendall Wallace signing the certificate of marriageReverend Wendall Wallace. Blessings
I called Jack yesterday and told him that Adrian had passed on. He was only 74, our age, but apparently had been ill and died of an injury. We commiserated and were sad at his passing. Though we are not believers we are certainly appreciative of all the good that Adrian did in his life. Who can fault a man who has spent his life helping so many get off drugs and alcohol and has shown them a way to live that is not harmful to themselves or others.
Good bye, Adrian. You’ve had a good life. We loved you. Many have loved you.
I can’t remember where I was, what city, but I was in Mexico, that I know. Maybe San Miguel de Allende or Guanajuato.
Sunset Art Print San Miguel de Allende
Traveling with college kids put me where I might not have otherwise been. But my decisions were my own. Nobody forced me to do anything. This is just one of many adventures that changed my life forever.
I was having unusual fun inspite of my normally sedate mother/wife self. Alot had changed, me included. A weight of some sort had fallen away. I was ready to take risks.
Not that I hadn’t been happy. I had been very happy but I was very comfortable with this new me. The minute I stepped off the plane in Mexico for a semester at the Universidad de Querětaro, I wasn’t afraid to die.
As we sped through the streets of Mexico City, I felt that if I died, I’d die happy.
Most taxis looked like they had met with many mishaps. The streets were filled with pot holes of every size. There were metal poles sticking out of the pavement with no apparent purpose except as obstacles. There were hundreds of taxis going at breakneck speed and it seemed that no one paid any attention to traffic lights or signs. Whoo, hoo!
I didn’t die but it was not through any good sense that I survived. This is just one of my mis-adventures. I will be painfully honest, so bear with me, if you will. There will be more stories recounted as I dare to share them. Please note and keep in mind, that I have no regrets.
There is a stereotype, widely held in Mexico, that women and mainly American women are there to go wild. As we know, stereotypes often bear some semblance to truth though are more likely to be erroneous or at least an exaggeration. Since I was in Mexico to attend the university, my intentions were far from going wild.
I had never traveled outside of the US. I was a new student, even back home, with one semester of Spanish under my belt. I was a wife of 27 years and I had two grown children. That made me, let’s see, 46 years old. A student of this age was nearly unheard of in Mexican universities. I was the same age as the mother of my host family.
To say the least, I felt very strange and uncomfortable at school and at home, but I was too excited to be daunted by emotions. I was there for the total experience. On arrival, I was not at all prepared for what that meant, but I was soon to find out.
Lupe, the mother and wife of the household, cooked for me and even did my laundry, while I attended the same university as her children. If that wasn’t strange enough, I left every weekend to either meet with the other American students for drinks and music and exploring town, or I hopped a bus to other cities and often to the beach. Not one of the other students were out of their 20s. So, 20 somethings do what they do and so as not to be left alone to wander about, I did what they did… went to dance clubs.
I won’t say I didn’t like it most of the time. I love to dance and no one questioned my age. I started my Mexican adventure nearly 40 lbs overweight. I walked miles to and from the university four times a day. Even universities take siestas and there’s no food on campus. I’d either walk back home or into the center of town to eat. Before long, I had lost all of my extra weight and had a substantial tan and had gained a good deal of muscle and endurance. Those 20 somethings had nothing on me. It helped that I was going to the beach, swimming and walking everywhere.
Back to the dance clubs. Most of the time those nights were uneventful. We’d go, we’d dance our asses off, then I’d go home to sleep, but twice I thought I might die. You’d think after the first time, I would have stayed home, sat with Lupe in her kitchen watching telenovelas (soap operas) while she made me “Bimbo” bread sandwiches with thin sliced ham, tomatoes and pickled jalapeno or sweet pastries and “Nescafe”. But no.
I wasn’t in Mexico to learn how a middle-aged housewife lived, though I really liked her. She treated me like a special guest. We might have become good friends if I wasn’t so determined to see and do everything presented to me, apparently, no matter how dangerous.
Don’t misunderstand me, though. I didn’t go looking for trouble. Perhaps I was naive. I met my husband to be when I was just 16. I married him at 21 and had babies at 23 and 25. From that time forward, I was a housewife and mother. Other than moving, there was little excitement in my life, and as I mentioned before, I had never traveled, we didn’t go dancing, or any of the things I was doing in Mexico.
I was not clueless, however. In the short time I had studied Spanish, I had become sufficiently fluent. Though our classes were described, in the study abroad brochure, as being taught in English, we were thrown into the deep end on site. All classes were taught in Spanish, as were assignments and tests in Spanish.
One time in the post office, I asked a clerk if he spoke English and he responded in Spanish with, “Why would I?” It was sink or swim when a grocery cashier tried to charge me $20 for a can opener. I would have been robbed blind if I didn’t understand that a $5 taxi ride shouldn’t cost $20. Immersion is, no doubt, the best way to learn a language, and as I learned, it can save your life.
Back to the dance clubs. This particular night, a group of my fellow students and I had traveled to, I believe it was, San Miguel… I don’t remember exactly where we were. This fact added to the danger I was in on this particular night. At the time, of course, I knew where I was but no one else did except my friends. No one knew where we had traveled for the weekend, either. We were dangerously footloose and fancy free. No one ever knew where I was except when I was either in the classroom or at Lupe’s.
We had explored the city all day, we had eaten and now that it was nearing midnight, everyone wanted beer (more beer), music and dancing. Who was I to go back to the hotel and go to sleep? So I went along. I ignored alot of things, like everyone was at least 20 years younger than me. And I accepted other things like, I was at least 20 years older than everyone. I felt great and I was doing things that I hadn’t imagined when I signed up to be a foreign exchange student.
The club was pulsating with flashing colored lights and loud music that you could feel in your whole body and it was quite dark. It had been at least 25 years since I’d been out dancing. We were dancing all together when a young Mexican man began to dance with me. He was a very good dancer and it was almost entirely no contact except for some exceptional twirls. This was not the first or last time I danced with some great dancers. No foul. No harm. As the night went on, he stuck pretty close to me. The music was so loud, there was no conversation. My friends and others were dancing right beside me.
In the wee hours, my friends decided to head out and find some food and more beers. I decided that I needed to go back to the hotel and collapse. I didn’t mind going alone since the hotel was close. I walked out of the club and there behind me was the boy I had been dancing with.
I can’t recall his name since it’s been so many years now, but he introduced himself and introduced another young man who he said was his brother. They then invited me to their house, their parents house, to have some food and to meet their parents.
Now before you start jumping up and down and screaming at me about how stupid I was, let me tell you that I met many people, went to their houses and even spent nights in the homes of very kind and hospitable strangers. I would not have known how people live, eat, work and play if I had not taken the risks that I knowingly and willingly took. They were not all good experiences but few led to danger.
So, needless to say, as tired as I was, I accepted their invitation. We walked along narrow cobblestone streets, up hills, into a residential neighborhood, talking and getting to know a little about each other. They were very curious to know what I was doing there. I was certainly an oddity. They were promising some amazing home-cooked food and said their parents were probably still awake.
We arrived at a large colonial style house overlooking the city. There were few lights on. We entered through gigantic carved double doors and into a cavernous and dimly lit living room. The “brother” disappeared down a hallway. I needed to use the bathroom, let’s call him Felix, took me down the same hallway to a fully tiled bathroom that was resplendent with gold framed art and gold furnishings. When I came out, Felix was standing in the doorway of a small sitting room.
He invited me in and said to remove my shoes because of the carpets. I sat on a large divan and slipped my shoes off. Felix said he was going to see his mother about food and he’d return shortly. Of course, I was fascinated with everything. They were obviously quite wealthy and lived luxuriously. Up to this point, mostly I had met villagers in remote places. This was an entirely new experience.
As Felix walked out of the room, he turned off the lights and as he quickly shut the door, I heard the lock latch. I was completely in the dark. There were no windows and there were no cell phones for me to call for help. I stumbled around reaching for the door and trying to feel for a light switch. I couldn’t feel or see a thing. I tried to find my shoes, but they were gone. I didn’t want to get too far from the divan because I didn’t want to lose my bearings and I didn’t want to hurt myself. I waited. I told myself that he didn’t mean to leave me in the dark in a locked room without my shoes. I wasn’t going to panic… yet.
The door opened quickly and closed before I could speak. I was pushed backwards onto my back. I felt long, thin hands on my bare legs, gently moving upwards. I yelled no and wiggled away.
He only persisted for a few moments and was not in the least violent. He spoke quietly and tried to persuade me to give in. I told him, in Spanish, that nothing was going to happen. He left the room. I could hear whistling in the distance… like signals.
Soon, another person came in and the scenario was repeated. Finally, a third person came in. I could tell this was Felix. He was apologizing and telling me that he had misunderstood and thought that I wanted to have fun, all the while touching and carressing my arms and legs and trying to kiss me. Finally, I screamed, what I thought was, “get a life!” I think what I said was, “are you alive?”
Suddenly, he stood up and moved away. He turned on the lights and brought me my shoes. Strangely, he wanted to walk me to my hotel because it was so late and wanted me to be safe.
He did just that. We walked slowly through the dark streets in the early morning hours talking about his life and dreams and mine, too. He dropped me at the entrance to the hotel. We embraced and we wished one another luck and fortune in our respective lives.
I know what you’re thinking… but don’t say it. This was not the only risk I took while in Mexico. I willingly stepped up to the edge many more times. Remember what I said? If I die, at least I’ll die happy.
I didn’t know it when I signed up to study in Mexico that I would encounter so much adventure, but I’m glad I did.
Two things occurred to me tonight that made me wonder just how underdeveloped my frontal lobe was as a teenager, or whether I was in possession of one at all.
Memory #1
When I was a teenager, maybe 14, my very smart but reckless brother, Steve, and I were supposed to be at a teen church group meeting. It’s the only reason that Dad would let Steve take the car.
Instead, because of the rebels that we were, we decided to go for a joyride. So, we took off over the St. Johns bridge that crossed the Willamette river. I think Steve had the bright idea to go to visit his girlfriend, Kathy, who hadn’t shown up for the group meeting, either.
St. Johns Bridge
At the South end of the bridge, one must make a sharp right turn or a sharp left turn or opt to run headlong into the rock mountain at the end of the bridge.
As we approached the intersection, Steve asked casually, “which direction should I go, left or right?” I didn’t answer quick enough so Steve stupidly ran head long into the mountain, totaling Dad’s car. (This was just the first of many car accidents Steve would have.)
Steve at least had the sense to throw himself across the seat but it didn’t hinder me from sliding down onto the floor. It did stop me, however, from crashing through the windshield or cracking my face on the dashboard. I’m sure that we were speeding since Steve had a tendency to speed and a predilection for danger.
He broke the rear view mirror with his body but he saved me from certain death or at least serious injury. We came to a sudden halt with a loud crash.
Steve hadn’t even applied the brakes. He pulled himself into a seated position and I pushed myself up off the floor. I noticed first of all that my pantyhose were destroyed. My reaction was not concern for our well being or for the car or for whether Dad would kill both of us or not, instead I exclaimed, “O, my God, my nylons”.
We’re alive to tell the story, which means that when the police brought us home, Dad slumped down in the doorway and cried… instead of killing us.
Memory #2
As many of you know who follow my blog, I contracted polio when I was 5 years old. Fortunately, I was only permanently affected when the deltoid in my right shoulder atrophied. As time went on, complications arose because of this and I had to have surgery to fuse the humerus (the upper arm bone) to the scapula (shoulder blade). This was long before joint replacements, so my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Marxer, attached the two bones with what can only be described as a big deck bolt.
By this time I was in high school and was a growing young girl. After the surgery, I was in a cast that covered my torso, my arm, my shoulder and held my right arm out in front of me and a little to the side at a right angle. Needless to say, it weighed a ton, at least it felt like it. It rested on my right hip and to this day I have an indentation where it rested. And worst of all, the cast covered my right breast but not my left breast.
This is a pretty good likeness to the cast that I had except the arm on mine was held out at a right angle from my body and reached down to my hip bone where its weight was completely supported by my hip.
Since I was developing, my biggest concern was whether my left breast would grow larger than my right breast with my right breast being stunted under pounds of cast plaster.
Since my physician put a large bolt in the joint to hold my arm in place and since there wasn’t a deltoid to hold it in, I was in extreme pain as it healed and as the bone grew over the bolt.
Eventually the cast came off. But it wasn’t long before the the new, delicate bone broke and I had to go in for a second surgery. This required another cast. As those who have had bone surgery can attest, bone surgery is extremely painful. But what was my main worry? Why yes. It was, once again, whether my right breast would be able to grow as freely as the left one.
I had to put aside my embarrassment and gather all my courage to ask my doctor if my worries had any validity. To my chagrin, he didn’t have an answer for me. Most likely he didn’t have many teenage girl patients who had one breast in a cast and one breast out.
Like with my worries about my nylons being ruined in the car wreck, there I was having serious bone surgery and I was more concerned with my boobs than the health of my shoulder.
As it turns out, my concern was not baseless. Indeed my left breast is larger than my right. I will never know if it is because my right pectoral muscles were not as strenuously exercised as my left or if my conjecture was accurate… the damned cast inhibited equal opprtunity for growth.
My recorders, an alto and a soprano. Constant companions for 50 years.
I finally have to let the next thing go. I reluctantly give up my recorders as I wonder what will be next. This is the last of my music making. I know without doubt that this is not the final loss.
My life was not governed by my right arm until the last decade. In fact, I never thought of it. It’s just been my right arm. I’ve made do. And no one noticed it.
As a young girl, there were games. There was volley ball, softball and soccer. Bicycle riding, scooters, pogo sticks. Swimming all summer at Pier Park. Mom enrolled me in tap dancing at two. And ballet classes thereafter until high school was over. I played the clarinet and bass clarinet in the band and the orchestra. Then there was spinning and weaving, and teaching aerobics. Riding mountain bikes and camping and hiking in the wilderness. Caring first for babies and then active children. There was laundry and cooking, cleaning, gardening…
Then what happened? When did the losses start happening? When did I notice it? What went first? I don’t remember it was so gradual.
I remember thinking in my 20s what it would be like to raise both hands over my head, but there was nothing lost. It was just a thought.
I wanted to be twirled around by my boyfriend while dancing, most of which is by the right arm. But I couldn’t, so he accommodated without me asking or explaining. We danced at home, at clubs and at house parties. But there was nothing lost.
At aerobic classes, I had to explain to my students to do with both arms, what I was doing with only one. But nothing was lost.
Kristi helped me fasten the back garters on my nylons every school day. But there was nothing lost.
I fell a lot on my bicycle when the handlebars jerked out of my hand and I couldn’t catch myself, so I was bruised and I’d bleed and now I have scars to prove it. But nothing was lost.
Sure, I dreamed of being a dancer or a musician but there was so much more that I wanted to be and do that I never bemoaned my fate. Nothing was lost.
Then what happened? When did it start? I really don’t remember. When did I realize that I was losing? What was the first thing I lost?
I think I first noticed that my arm was no longer serving me at full capacity, when as an archivist, I was struggling to place or retrieve 50 lbs. boxes overhead in storage. As this became more troublesome, I was dropping boxes, while standing on a ladder, pulling them with my left hand onto my chest. I would balance them there while descending the ladder and walking in a back bend to the nearest table where I carefully slid it to safety.
However, I knew that this just wouldn’t do. Fortunately, there was never a disaster. There easily could have been. I could have been injured and I could have destroyed or damaged materials. The collection was comprised of priceless museum artifacts, photographs that included dueguerrotypes, glass lantern slides, and every other type of photographic variants, priceless diaries, 150 years of research documents, books, etc. I’d been caring for these precious items for nearly 16 years, creating the first organized archive at my institution. My pride was hurt. I’d never had to accomodate for my arm before.
Again, fortunately, I had volunteers, students and an archival assistant to pull materials for researchers, to shift boxes, to help retrieve collections from departments, schools and individuals. My assistants began to do all of the heavy work that had always been my job. Yes, of course, I had writing to do, research, acquisitions, teaching and training, creating exhibits, committee work and all of the administration duties, management of the archives and workers, but the heavy lifting was over.
My wonderful left arm had been doing double duty all of my life. But now, my shoulder was failing to do everything I had always expected of it. My thumb, my dear poor thumb, had been pulling files, picking up large and small books and everything else throughout my life. Eventually, arthritis has developed in all but my ring finger, while my right hand is as soft and unused and unharmed as a babies.
This degradation was so gradual that I failed to see its progression for years… or did I ignore it, not wanting to admit that my right arm was responsible for the unwanted changes occurring in my life.
I still want to ride bikes, weave and spin, carry in firewood, rake the autumn leaves, carry in groceries two bags at a time, wrap both arms around someone and play my recorders. But I have to acquiesce. If I don’t accept the incapacity of my right arm, I will only do further damage to my left arm and without it, I won’t be able to make my bed, brush my teeth, or do any other kind of self care including eating. Without my precious left arm, I would not have had the adventurous life I have lived. I accept now that there is loss. There has been loss, I just didn’t see it.
I give great credit to my parents who never said, “No, you can’t do that”. I played right along side the neighbor kids. Mom, numerous times had to put my right arm back in the socket, until a bone fusion permanently held it in place. She carried me to the doctor with a broken arm. They bought me a softball mit, a tricycle and a later a bicycle. They sent me off to the pool on my bike to swim all day. I climbed trees and raced up and down sand dunes and mountain trails. When I was in a full torso and arm cast after surgery, they agreed to let me ride on the back of a motorcycle with my boyfriend to go to the races. Because of them, I never told myself that I couldn’t do something. Because of them, my life now is full of joy, contentment and unbelievable memories.
Sure, I couldn’t be a dancer or a musician, but I could dance and play music. And I could and did thousands of other things. So, though I have lost and am losing my ability to do lots of things, I can still do lots of other things.
You might say that I was lucky since there are people who have suffered greater loss than me. I’m painfully aware of that and I know just how lucky I have been. But this is my story. This is my life and I have lived every moment of it. I now take better care of my left arm and I hope it will serve me as faithfully as it always has until the end of my days. However, it deserves a rest, and I’m fine with that.
Postscript: Once while walking down the avenue in Santa Monica, a stranger came up to me and while looking into my eyes said that my right arm would lead me to the light.
A little bit of knowledge can be dangerous… as this story proves out.
I don’t know where to begin because I don’t think that I’ve told you enough about my past with Santeria, Palo and Vodou, but this memory came to mind this afternoon and I wanted to write it down. Perhaps, I’ll even publish it without giving you the proper context. To help a little you could go into some of my blog posts that are tagged with Santeria, Palo and Ramiro and the like… yet it might not help at all. But let’s get right into it, anyway.
Without going into any great detail, suffice it to say that I had been living with a Santero (a practitioner/priest of Santeria. My break with him was tragic. After being with him for several years, to better understand him and the culture of Cuba and its people, I studied Cuban spirituality and simultaneously, Haitian spirituality which, of course, both derive from African roots.
In my studies, I came across primary resources written by priests. Primary resources, of course, are documentation that record first hand experiences. These books or pamphlets or diaries recorded the rituals of their religion. I had watched many rituals performed in the years spent with the Cubans. I always felt though that I was standing at the door with the door just barely cracked open and me, I was peeking inside of a room not truly being able to enter, to participate or to even understand what I was seeing.
This new found knowledge, accompanied by my first hand experiences with Santeros and practitioners of Palo and Vodou, proved to be dangerous weapons in my hands.
After my break with Ramiro, I was left with many accoutrements, but this is another story. My heart had been broken and I had seen too many things. I wanted to relieve my broken heartedness and I also wanted to affect others with what I knew. I didn’t really want to hurt anyone, that was not my intention. But these two things alone are a dangerous combination. I wasn’t looking for revenge but this is how it was perceived.
Pepe was a friend of Ramiro’s and appeared on the scene to “soothe my pain”. I didn’t want a boyfriend, I wanted Ramiro back but I wasn’t getting him back, so Pepe became a friend. But this was not how Pepe saw it.
Pepe would not go away. He tattooed my name on his arm. He led his friends to believe we were lovers. That, we never were. My mistake was to allow him to continue to be my friend even when I realized that he was unreasonable.
My reasoning was that Pepe was nice enough. Pepe cared for me. He was willing to tolerate that I was still in love with Ramiro and that I didn’t love him. In a selfish way, Pepe was my connection to the Cuban community and vicariously to Ramiro. In some odd way this helped to ease the pain, to have somebody familiar around.
This is how the problem started and I am the only one to blame. Pepe was insistent and I suppose you could say that I allowed it, I left the door open, I was too tolerant. But as he became demanding, I became frustrated at first and then afraid. I didn’t believe he would hurt me but he had become frustrated, too. There was an element of him being out of control. Here again, I won’t go into unnecessary detail about his fits of frustration. He was refusing to just be my friend. Though I would lose my connection to him, to the Cubans and to Ramiro, it was time for him to go.
I wanted him to know that I was serious. I wanted him to know that I could make him go away. I knew in no uncertain terms that it had to be final and permanent. I thought that my most powerful ability was to use his own beliefs against him.
I knew too much and yet I knew too little. I never should have done this but I did. This wasn’t the first time, nor was it the last that I used what I had learned, that I used ways that I had no business using.
Whether you believe this or not is neither here nor there to me. I don’t care. But this is what witnesses have reported. These are the consequences of my actions. I followed the directions to the letter. There are times that I regret what I did, but they had the results I was looking for. I never heard from Pepe again.
I wrote Pepe a letter simply asking him to leave me alone. I sprinked into the envelope, powders and ashes of certain and specific animal bones, crushed plants, rocks and metals procribed in the books of priests. I carefully copied, by hand, certain ancient symbols drawn in the books. I sealed the envelope and drew certain other symbols that crossed over the seal, so that when opened, the symbols would be torn in two.
Pepe recieved the letter. According to witnesses, when he tore open the seal, a cloud of dust rose into the air covering his face and flew into his eyes. He was blinded momentarily and had trouble breathing. The dust caused sores on his face and neck that lasted for weeks.
Pepe was out of my life for good. I haven’t heard from him or about him for years. I hope he’s OK.
As a child, I easily believed that the Santas, whose laps we sat upon, were real.
I didn’t question how such a big guy could fit down our chimney or fly in a sled pulled by reindeer and land on our roof or deliver presents to all the children of the world in one night.
I was a believer.
But then there came a time when I understood that a big Santa couldn’t fit down our chimney. But, I was undaunted when I learned through book learning that Santa was an elf.
Now, it all makes sense. Santa is an elf and an elf is small and magical and unlimited in its powers. Of course, he has a tiny sled and tiny reindeer and he can land on our roof and with no problem, come down our chimney. And elves are not constrained by the limitations of space and time, so children everywhere can wake up to presents under the tree.
You can’t imagine the relief I felt when I had this realization. When there is such evidence that Santa is an elf, there’s no reason to require faith or belief.
And this is why I find such joy in the season. 🤗🌲🎁
My mom loved getting and giving cards for all occasions. At Christmas time, she had a list a mile long because she had a very large family and many friends. When a card would come in from someone not on the list, they would be added.
My cards this year.
Mom would set up an aluminum TV tray (remember those?) in front of her living room chair. Beside her was a tall stack of cards with envelopes and her list with names and addresses. From right after Thanksgiving until her list was complete, this is where we would find her, when she was not at work, or cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, shopping and wrapping presents.
For Christmas, as the mail came in, she’d cover the fireplace mantel with cards, then when there was no more room, she’d tape them on the door jams in the living room. Every year, when the holiday season was over, she would gather the cards and stash them away in a box along with her list.
Mom and me in 1966. See the Christmas cards?
When Mom passed away, it was hard to throw away her memories that were her only treasures. She didn’t leave us money or property but she left us something more precious, her unconditional love for everyone. Cards and photos and letters were overwhelming as evidence.
I’ve never sent cards at Christmas. Kristi (my sister) had taken over this tradition from Mom. But this very special year, my cousins (on mom’s side) and I decided to send cards to each other. We needed to say, “I love you” in a very tangible way. Some of us are very alone or suffering in other ways. There are well over 40 of us. In such a large family, one never knows what heartbreak might be.
I can’t tell you how much this has meant to me. I could feel Mom stirring in my heart and see her in my mind’s eye, sitting in her chair, head down, handwriting her cards as I wrote my cards, addressed the envelopes and stuffed them into the mailbox.
And now, I rush to get the mail everyday to see who has sent me a card. I think it’s my turn to keep the tradition, Mom.
This has been heartwarming in a cold and dark night. Our world has been turned upside down and this small gesture of sending and recieving cards has brought much needed joy and comfort. Thank you, cousins.
eyeamdust 