I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.
My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.
There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.
My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.
He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.
He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.
He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.
But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.
Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.
And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.
Dad wore large metal cleats on his expensive brown leather Florsheim brogues. These shoes were weekly tended to until they were softly polished to a warm, soft sheen. Even without the cleats, they were heavy. I can still remember the smell of shoe polish and the soft cloth and brushes in Dad’s kit.
Wingtip leather dress shoes
Every day, after he was done with work, we could hear him coming home from the bus stop around the block before we could see him. The large cresent shaped cleats on the heels of his shoes rang out on the concrete sidewalk. We ran to meet him as he rounded the corner of our street.
Cleats
It was a comforting sound that we waited for, even though Mom warned that he would soon arrive and we were to put our toys away and clean up our projects and to clear the walkway of bicycles, scooters, pogo sticks and such.
Mom was usually cooking dinner at this time of day, so she had food ready for him, knowing that he would be tired and worn after a long day. Us kids were to make way for him, so it was a peaceful and relaxing place for him to unwind.
As soon as he removed his shoes, he would put his shoe trees inside to stretch and maintain the elegant shape of these expertly designed and sewn shoes. The cleats were not only music to our ears, they were practical.
Shoe tree
The cleats prevented the heels from being worn down. When the cleats themselves wore down, the edges were thin and sharp as knife blades. New ones were applied by the neighborhood shoe repairman.
Shoes in those days that had worn out heels and soles were not disposed of but were repaired. My great Uncle Curt had a shoe repair shop where every morning he opened the door knowing that customers would be coming to drop off or pick up shoes. That was when shoes weren’t disposable.
Uncle Curt’s shop smelled of tanned leather and shoe polish. Behind the counter stood a huge black sewing machine and a workbench with neatly arranged hammers and cutters and other tools of his trade and bins of nails and threads and cords of all types and cleats, of course.
The shelves lining the walls were filled with every type of shoe from heavy work boots and workshoes to dainty women’s high heels. He also repaired purses, belts, suspenders, and anything needing his handiwork. There were also a couple of chairs for customers to wait if they just needed a quick fix, like having to replace worn-out cleats.
Dad took care of what was important to him. I remember the smells of banana from the oil when he cleaned his guns and how his tackle box smelled when he cleaned, rearranged and prepared the hooks, the flies, the bobbers, the sinkers and spools of fishing line… and little jars of florescent fish eggs.
When Dad brought out his shoes, guns, tackle boxes, and other stuff to clean and care for, it wasn’t in the basement, not in the garage and not even in the kitchen. It was in the living room where he was in the middle of his family, in the midst of the most important things in his life… in his heart, where he tinkered.
We loved to watch him and ask him this and that while he taught us the value of our belongings and the importance of what we had. But mostly, he taught us to love family. And we do.
I wish I could hear him coming down the street today. He left us way too young. He was only 52 years old when he passed away. But he left an indelible mark on us all. I insisted on wearing taps/cleats on my shoes, too, just like Dad. I wanted to be just like Dad… I hope I am.
She asked me if I was wearing silver or gold. My answer was silver. Her response was, “then go”.
Her accent was foreign to me. She was probably nearing 70 years old. She wore a form fitting swim suit and lay on a lush towel on the white sand. She was beautiful. Her hair was full and dark and streaked with sun bleached strands. I laid not far from her on a cheap hotel towel.
A tall and lanky young man in a tight red speedo, that left not much to the imagination, stood towering over me. He was dark brown and muscular. His life on the beach made him appear darker than the skin peeking out from under his suit.
I had met several of what I called “the boys on the beach”. Because I am naturally curious and an ethnographer, I had spoken with many of them and had even befriended a couple.
They made their livelihood by providing services to the tourists on the beach. Some worked giving rides on jet skis and inflatable bananas. Some drove boats for para-gliding. Most of those that I met had started quite young… 13 – 14 years old even.
If they were lucky they would meet women who would then take them out to dinners, buy them clothes and would even give them money.
I had watched these scenarios on the beaches in Mexico many times. One might see older women out in the clubs at night dancing, escorted by these young men. Some might even call them gigalos. Everyone benefited.
So, here was Gilberto, offering to take me out on his paddle board, out to the La Isla de Roqueta. He had cold beer in the compatment on his board, he added, hoping to convince me. I was reluctant. Even though he was a cousin to one of the men I had gotten to know, I didn’t know him except by sight.
He was trying convincingly to encourage me to go with him to where only the locals would know. He knew of a cove with white sand, he said, where there was every color of irridescent fish and beautiful coral and unusual rock formations. But I have no money, I said, hoping to discourage him.
I was equivocating even though I knew him slightly and I was used to seeing him everyday on the beach taking others out into the bay to the Isla. Tired of our discussion, it was then that the woman lying near me stepped in with her question, “Are you wearing silver or gold”?
I told her that I was wearing only silver. She then, with an air of authority said, “Then go”. I felt like my mother had just told me that I could go ahead and go on a date with that boy on the motorcycle.
I gathered up my towel and climbed onto his long board. Gilberto stood on the front of the board with a paddle, looking not unlike a statue of Adonis. I relaxed as he handed me a beer from his cooler. This wasn’t the first time I had accepted an invitation to do something a little adventurous, to some maybe, dangerous
He was practiced and proficient as we glided past the submerged statue of Nuestra Señora de Los Mares or better known as La VirgenGuadelupe.
This statue is not very deeply submerged and is a popular tourist attraction, often visited by the glass bottomed boats that transport tourists and locals alike, between the beaches and the island. She’s located in the Bay of Acapulco off the coast of La Isla Roqueta. Though beloved, it seemed really creepy to me.
Nuestra Señorade Los Maresorthe Virgen de Guadelupe
By the time we were out into the bay and gliding and rocking along, I was so glad that I overcame my trepidation and went along. I was so glad that the lady lying beside me on the beach had encouraged me to go. Then, as now, I’m glad I did not miss this experience.
As we drew near the dock where the boats landed and let people off to visit the restaurant on the island, we took a turn to the right and circled the island staying near the shore. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool and the water splashing over the board was refreshing.
It wasn’t long and Gilberto guided us into a small and hidden cove with a white Sandy beach. The smooth and glistening rocks at the water’s edge were every color and shone in the sun through the translucent blue, green water. Gilberto unloaded the cooler with the beer and a few snacks onto the beach.
Cove on the Isla Roqueta
For a short while I laid on the beach and drank another beer. Gilberto encouraged me to move into the water and I laid and floated on the gently sloping beach. As my eyes adjusted to looking under the water, I saw schools of beautiful small fish, iridescent in the sun and shining in every color. Gilberto moved in and lay beside me. I lost track of time.
For a minute I thought Gilberto would try to make a move. He did but as I moved a little away from him, he did not persist. I didn’t blame him for trying, as this is how he made his living. He was possibly hoping that I would be one of those women who would spend their vacation taking him out to dinners buying him clothes and spending money on him.
We talked softly, drank more beer and rocked in the water until the sun sank into the horizon. It was time for us to reluctanty return to la playa Caleta. The air was still warm as stars began to appear in the sky. This had been a magical day.
I jumped off the board just short of shore and walked through the gentle waves onto the warm sand. I laid my towel out and sat down, exhausted from the day in the sun and sea. Gilberto sat next to me. I asked him what I owed him. He wouldn’t take my money. No matter how much I insisted he refused to take even one peso.
I wanted to at least pay for the beer. I wanted at least to pay him for his time. I knew that if he hadn’t spent the day with me, he would have made money doing what he does best, which is to entertain the tourists.
Instead, Gilberto and I had become friends. Maybe this was worth more than silver and gold to him. I know it was to me.
By now Baby Fox was not so much a baby but she still had so much to learn.
Baby Fox was still all alone and had not found a family. She had become quite adept at hunting for her meals but many times she found herself hungry and shivering from the cold.
Deep winter had set into the mountain. It had snowed mightily leaving deep drifts in all of the valleys and crevices and small niches. She hadn’t found out that in order to prepare for winter she had to find and prepare a den. You see foxes don’t hibernate but they need a warm place to sleep during the day and to hide their prey.
Baby Fox had now a keen sense of sight in the darkest nights. She had slits in her pupils like a cat and like other canines, she could hear the slightest rustling of wings and scuffling under the dense bushes of others just like her, looking for their own nightly meals. But hunting and catching her prey was never easy.
Before the ground froze and snow covered the trees, Baby Fox had learned to eat small birds and small animals that scampered through the forest, but now that the cold had set in in ernest, she slept curled in a tight ball at the root of a tree, and woke at night to find food.
She began her life in a struggle to survive and never had been nourished by her mother’s milk. She was still tiny, though she was a fully developed adolescent fox but hadn’t even learned the skills her mommy would have taught her. As the sun rose over the mountains, her eyes would begin to close even if her tummy was empty. The cold, wet dirt under a bare root became her only bed.
Fortunately, she was as keen of sight and hearing and could smell as well as any animal in the forest even without the benefit of growing up in a fox family. While hunting one night, she ventured farther afield than her usual territory. She came upon a hole she hadn’t seen before. It was hidden under a large stone. Ferns and moss were peeking out from under the snow, which had been protected by an overhanging cliff. She cautiously felt the warmth coming from within and heard soft purring sounds.
As she approached the entrance, whatever was in this den smelled of something awful but strangely attractive. But morning would soon be coming and she knew she couldn’t resist slumber. Maybe, she thought, it could be like when she first found her family as a baby kit. Maybe there were some sisters or brothers to snuggle with. She cautiously approached the entrance, perhaps with too much curiosity but with an instinctual need to sleep and for warmth and comfort.
She put one paw inside, then another. She put her nose to the ground and then lifted it in the air. Though the smell was strong like that of a skunk, which she had foolishly come too close to before, she sensed that it was something different. She was quiet. She began to breathe so as not to make a sound. Whatever was in this deep, black den was sound asleep. Casting all care to the wind, she slumped to the floor, wrapped her fluffy tail around herself, closed her eyes and went helplessly, fast asleep.
The day broke and snow fell heavily on the earth. There was no sunlight that could penetrate the storm. The wind howled and even the wild things that searched for food during the day, were hunkered down. Their backs were hunched as they turned their backs to the wind and closed their eyes.
It wasn’t until late in the day that the storm subsided. Animals began to stir and shake the snow from their backs. Birds, that had not migrated, began to peck where they could, to find seeds and bugs and other life to eat. Other animals tried to paw through the deep snow for any thing they might find. They gnawed on bark and branches. It was a fight to stay alive in the forest on the mountain.
As night began to fall, Baby Fox began to stir. She immediately sensed danger. It dawned on her that she was not the only one in the den. She feared to move a muscle and yet instinctually she knew she had to leave the den to once again hunt for food.
She heard a low growling and a slow movement deep inside. She heard the noise and felt that the creature was ever so slowly creeping closer. She had to flee but as she rose to escape, she bumped up against something blocking the entrance. While she slept, the storm had blown snow firmly and solidly against the opening to the den, trapping both animals inside.
They both needed to get outside. The hair on her back rose and her tail extended and her claws, that were safely hidden, were exposed. She would fight, she thought, if she had to. The other animal suddenly charged. Her hair had grown thick as the temperatures lowered on the mountain. This, and her claws were all the protection that she had. The other animal came at her with a vengeance and they began to tumble in a fight for their lives. They growled and clawed and bit each other. The fight was so violent they broke through the snow that was pressed up against the opening of the den. They both tumbled out onto the fresh snow that was lit by a full moon.
Baby Fox lay as still as if dead. The snow around her turned red but looked black in the moonlight. She knew that the other animal had fled. It was almost twice her size and stronger. She hadn’t really got a good look at it. She felt as though she couldn’t move yet, though she already felt hungry and thirsty. The cold snow felt good on her battered body. It also helped to stop the blood flow.
After some time she began to stir, not because she felt better but out of necessity. She licked her wounds for a bit and made it up on her legs with great difficulty. She couldn’t go far from the den and so she sniffed around for something she might find to eat that wasn’t too much trouble. Something had not survived the snowstorm and was lying beneath a tree not too far away. She was able to tear at the still warm carcass with her tiny but razor sharp teeth, through the hair and break through the skin and she ate as much as she could.
She knew she needed to get to shelter or she would be someone else’s dinner. She knew she was unable to fight or flee. She tore off a chunk of meat and headed back to the den from which she had fled with the meat in her mouth. Once there, she marked the hole with urine both outside and inside, and then she collapsed towards the back of the den in the deepest dark corner. She only hoped that her assailant would not return.
She knew not how long she slept. It could have been that she slept through a night or two before her stomach began to growl and cry out for food. She was also in great pain. When she woke, she ate a little of the meat that she had drug into the den. She then went to work cleaning her wounds. She had small deep gashes on both of her front legs. She had a deep gash on one of her hind quarters. Her body was covered in deep bites. Her jaw was aching and blood dripped from a wound on her skull and one ear, as well.
Baby Fox had survived but it would be some time before she was healed. Fortunately, there was enough food for a couple of days and nights, but she needed water. She pulled herself over to the opening of the den and licked at the snow. Nothing had smelled her blood and so nothing had bothered her yet and her assailant had not returned. She was hurting but getting better every day. She had apparently found a home for the winter and knew where there was food and how to hunt if other animals had eaten the dead carcass that was lying by the tree.
Baby Fox had faced the challenge of a lifetime. What other adventures Baby Fox will have to face is yet to be told. We’ll have to wait for Chapter 3 of The Adventures of Baby Fox.
When I was a kid, we were living in Eugene in Fox Hollow on Spencer’s Butte. We lived nextdoor to the Rice family. Dad and Mom became friends with Ray and Myrna Rice and we kids got close to Cathy, Charlie, Cheryl, Janet and I don’t remember the names of the other kids, but I think there were about 4 or 5 of them.
The oldest kid was a boy and he didn’t care much for us. I remember that I had a great straw hat that I treasured and a solid crush on the boy. One time he put that straw hat over a pile of dog poop and stepped on it. That was the end of my straw hat, though I tried to clean it with a strong stream of water from the hose. Mom made me throw it away. And that was the end of the crush I had on him.
Even though we were only going to be in Eugene for a couple of years while my dad tried to find job satisfaction at Acme Fast Freight, he never got happy and so I remember tensions were high. But we were tight and held together.
Mom went straight to work at Sacred Heart Hospital. Being a nurse who trained at the University of Minnesota, she could get a job in a minute and deep at heart she was a nurse. She loved her job no matter where she lived.
We only stayed in Fox Hollow for the 1st part of those 2 years but boy they were fun times. For one, it was rural and we had moved from St. Johns, which was a small community in the larger city of Portland. We had the run of the place. Just up the road was a roller rink where we went as often as was allowed.
Steve often would put Kristi on his handlebars and they would go up to the road above our house and ride down the mountain as fast as he could peddle. As far as I was concerned they were dare devils and I dare not attempt a ride down the mountain… especially not with Steve. He was ridiculously fearless.
He was in high school, maybe freshman and sophomore years and Kristi was probably in 5th or 6th grade… eleven years old maybe. She was nothing but fun and carelessness. Her hair would fly and her big blue eyes looked wild. She was as fearless as Steven.
Steve was ingenious and loved to invent something out of nothing. He built a “go cart” out of scrap wood and some wagon tires. We didn’t need a motor since the house was at the bottom of a steep descent down from the road. That was our raceway.
We’d push the heavy cart up the driveway, turn it around, hop on and go. I don’t remember much of a steering mechanism. I remember ropes or something attached to what you might call something to steer with, it was more like, lean to the left, lean to the right and hope that once you zoomed through the carport, you wouldn’t crash into the roof supports and you’d try to miss the clothes line pole centered between the support beams. Most of the time we made it.
The house was a long way from the road, so we picked up alot of speed. And brakes? There were none. By the time we came by the house, barely passing through the carport safely, we’d be sailing at top speed. We’d, pass the house, continuing on across the property until we crossed a dirt road and smashed and crashed into a fence on the other side. The fence stopped the go cart so suddenly, your whole body jerked and shuddered to a halt nearly giving us whiplash.
A huge oak tree, perfect for climbing, awaited certain unlucky kids who were not as adept as we were at missing it. But there was something more sinister than the oak tree standing there. The fence was covered in poison ivy.
I remember Steve covered in the poison ivy rash, all red and scabby, with an uncontrollable itch and whitish pink from calamine lotion. Out of us three kids, Steve was the only one who got the dreaded infection. But that vine covered fence didn’t stop us from continuing to ride our go cart down the hill and into the fence.
The old oak tree was my safe haven. I called it the girl’s tree and boys were not allowed to climb it. If they tried to I’d scream at the top of my lungs and kick at them until they left me alone.
During this time, Steve had a beloved bb gun. One afternoon, he reluctantly acquiesced to teach me to shoot it. He held it up, barrel pointing to the sky. He growled at me to not pull the trigger until he said to, threatening me with sudden death if I made a wrong move. I promised I wouldn’t. He dropped some bbs down the barrel and lowered it horizontally with his thumb over the end so they wouldn’t roll out.
For some reason at that moment, without warning, I pulled the trigger embedding the first bb into his thumb. He pulled the gun out of my hand and started yelling and pushed me. I started yelling too, screaming, “Please don’t tell Mom. Please don’t tell Dad.” He never did because they probably would have taken the gun away from him if they knew he was letting me shoot it. That was not the first or the last time that we kept secrets from Mom and Dad.
Well, back to the Rice family. They liked to go camping and fishing as much as we did. What I remember most is that Myrna would make these big fat melt-in -your-mouth cinnamon rolls to take along. Though I loved the swimming and the fishing, the campfires and roasting marshmallows and sleeping in a canvas tent, in canvas and flannel sleeping bags, the cinnamon rolls are what I remember most about camping with the Rice’s.
One summer evening I was over at the Rice’s house. To get there, there was a path between our houses. We went back-and-forth enough that we could walk that path or run that path or cartwheel on that path blindfolded. It was about the distance of two city blocks. It was partially dirt and grass. When it rained the dirt parts had big puddles and mud but in the summer there were just dips and high spots making it all the more fun to ride our bicycles over. There was a boulder near the end closest to our house. The large stone was the size of a hassock for a comfy living room armchair.
When I got to their house, it was almost sunset. They were making homemade taffy. Myrna cooked the taffy and when it was cool enough, the kids pulled and pulled it until it was shiny and smooth. We couldn’t resist eating it at the same time. Once Myrna said we had pulled enough, we cut it with scissors into bite size pieces and wrapped it in wax paper squares and twisted the ends to keep it from sticking together and to keep it fresh.
I was having a wonderful time laughing and talking and getting all sticky. I was popping bits of taffy into my mouth, the candy sticking to my teeth. Suddenly, I realized that a tooth, one of my molars, got stuck in taffy and pulled it right out of my gums and I had swallowed it. Immediately, I began to cry.
I ran from the house into the darkened yard. I should have been able to transverse that path with ease, but no. As I ran my eyes were filled with tears and I was afraid something terrible would happen to me since I had swallowed my tooth.
I was running wildly and at top speed. On any other night, I would have reached home in a minute or two. But when I got to the boulder, my toe hit it and my momentum launched my body over the boulder and into the grass headlong, adding insult to injury.
I was dazed. I was worried. Mom was still too far away. Eventually, I was able to get up and make my way to the house with bloodied knees and bloodied hands. And on top of that I had swallowed a tooth. I couldn’t imagine what would happen now. Would I die?
My mom, who first of all is a nurse and second of all is a stoic and third of all is a loving and caring mother, took me to the bathroom where the cleansing and disinfecting took place. No tiny stone or bits of sand or mud was left in my poor knees and hands and they were soon disinfected with mecurichrome and bandaged. No tears or crying for mercy stopped her from making sure that these injuries would heal properly.
It took a bit for her to understand that I was trying to say that not only did I have bodily injuries but I had swallowed my tooth along with a piece of taffy. I’m sure now that mom hid her smile at how distraught I was. She knew that that tooth would be quickly excreted along with everything else I had eaten.
But Mom being Mom, she held me tightly in her arms and comforted me and explained that I had nothing to worry about. I knew that the best place for me to be was in my mother’s arms. Once she assured me that this was not a life-or-death situation, I calmed quickly. This was just one of the many times that my mom picked me up, cleaned me up and took care of whatever injuries I suffered be they injuries to the heart or injuries to the body. She knew just what to say and just what to do.
“Get a black rooster”, he said. “Keep it 30 days, then after, bring it to me”, he said, his eyes squinted behind thick cigar smoke.
He is big and white with close cropped grey hair that stands on end in a military style crew cut. He has an imposing bearing and a deep voice. His glasses are modern and wire rimmed. His fingers gleam with rings with diamonds and other precious stones and his wrists with bracelets and an expensive watch. Around his neck are strings of beads in black and red and others in pure white. I couldn’t guess his age… maybe 40s or maybe 70s. He exudes a casual sexual energy, a pervading sensuality. He laughs often and with ease, but some how he is serious, serious as a heart attack. When he speaks, you are compelled to listen.
Charles owns Botanica Manuel. In the front window of the storefront, in a seedy part of town, he stocks herbs and incense, oils, statuary of the orishas, and malas of many colors. A life size statue of a black Latino peasant, stands with its feet among paraphernalia. This is Manuel, beside him is a statue of Manuel’s wife. This is Charles’ “dog”, his personal spirit guide, guardian and servant. But in the back, behind a curtain is a different scene, a different world. His shop is small and crowded, though from what I gathered, is not the source of his relative wealth.
Charles is a Santero, a priest in Santeria and a practitioner and priest of Palo. He is not to be messed with. It’s something you just know, you can feel it. There is danger lurking and yet a profound love.
I know as I follow my mentor, Don Cosentino, through a black curtain into a tiny room, that I need to keep my mouth shut. There are chairs in a circle. The space is dark. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust in the darkness. There are others sitting closely together. There’s an air of anticipation.
Today, as I write this post, my memory fails to recall everything in this room. It is cramped with many accoutrement but there is a vision that no amount of time can erase. Next to me appears to be a fire pit. There are railroad spikes, dirt, ashes, bones, a nganga filled with sticks and other things I can’t make out. There’s a chicken’s head that from the bloody neck, appears to have been freshly killed, and a goat’s skull. I see ornately beaded walking sticks and against another wall, drums bedecked with bells and woven shoulder straps.
A nganga is an iron receptacle or a cauldron used for ritual and is used as a source of power. It can contain many things such as sticks, feathers, railroad spikes, graveyard dirt, ashes of humans and animals and animal skulls and they have been known to contain even a more power source, a human skull. It is within this cauldron that the spirit of the dead resides, or as it is known as, the dog. This spirit does the bidding of its owner and assists in divination according to the pact made between them. Manuel is Charles’ “dog” to do his bidding.
About the time it started to feel very close, Charles walks in. He is dressed all in white. He appears to have a crippled foot on which he can barely put any weight. He wears a pained expression. Charles is now inhabited by Manuel, a former slave in his life on earth, who was injured in work and by abuse. He sits and greets us with familiarity and affection but with a certain authority. He is handed a cigar at least 8″ long and 2″ in diameter. An assistant offers a light. He pulls on it until smoke billows into the air, hindering our sight. He appears blind and yet seems to see every detail of each person in the room. We are in the presence of the living dead.
Manuel, once he is settled, begins to call out each person in the room. He tells them about their lives, he chastises them for their faults, he encourages them to do better, at some, he shows disdain and anger. I become worried as he hasn’t called me out yet. He has not made eye contact with me. Perhaps, he has nothing to say to me… but then he turns to me, without any type of expression on his face, and I know he’s looking at me, though his eyes seem blind.
I don’t remember what he said. I didn’t… couldn’t record him. I was paralyzed. I heard the words but couldn’t “hear” them. Even now, when I let myself go, I can remember the gentleness in which my heart was revealed. It was no use to try to obscure secrets buried just under the surface. He called them out… one by one. I remember the rumble, the powerful sounds coming from his throat, his mouth, that caused me to tremble and the tears that came unbidden. Then, his voice became clear like an instructors, “get a black rooster and after 30 days, bring it to me.”
What happened after that, I don’t know, but all I could think was, “where do I get a black rooster”. I knew without a doubt that I was going to do what he asked. I stepped out of the back room behind the curtain, into the sunlit shop. It felt like I had left one world and entered another. I felt slightly disoriented. Charles came behind and others in the shop gathered around him. He was not limping. Amidst the chatter, I made my way to the counter and asked the man standing there where I could find a live black rooster, as if I was asking a clerk at the drug store where to find the dandruff shampoo. Without hesitation, like he got this question all the time, he wrote down an address. I took it.
The bright LA sun was still shining. “I might as well go pick up this chicken while I’m out here”, I thought. Like that wasn’t weird enough, I did it. I found the address in a part of LA I’d never been before. There were blocks of warehouses and delivery trucks. I pulled over in front of a building and parked. Like I knew what I was doing, I entered a large dim and dust filled warehouse. There were cages of poultry of every kind. A man approached me and asked in Spanish, ¿”que quiere”? Luckily, I speak Spanish. Timidly, I asked for a black rooster.
Without hesitation, and within a couple of minutes, the man handed me a cardboard box with a young black rooster in it. I paid a small price and took the box out to my car and set it in my back seat like I did this everyday.
At the time, I was a graduate student at UCLA in the fields of folklore and mythology and my focus was Cuban spirituality. I would be writing about my experiences for my thesis. But this was not my 1st rodeo. I had lived with a Santero. I won’t go into my life with him now since I have written about it in other blog posts but suffice it to say, this was not new to me. Animal sacrifice was a natural part of this religion and I knew what I was in for. I knew the destiny of this black rooster.
I was living in Santa Monica, just blocks from the ocean, in a small garage conversion. I took the box out of my back seat and took it in to my small apartment setting the box down in my kitchen. The rooster was quiet and calm. It didn’t make a sound and it didn’t make a sound for the entire month that it lived in my kitchen. Perhaps, he knew his destiny, as well. Perhaps, he felt honored to be a part of this sacrifice.
Over the next 30 or so days, I fed the rooster and I talked to him and cared for him in every way. I was growing attached and began to feel bad for how his life would end. He would look up at me out of the bottom of the box with one eye and his head cocked as if to say, “don’t worry. I know what’s going on”.
After 30 days, I once again put the box with the black rooster in the back seat of my car and headed for Charlie’s botanica.
I don’t know if Charlie had written down on a calendar or in his ritual book that in 30 days I would be coming back but he didn’t seem at all surprised when I walked in the door. Maybe this was a regular occurrence and he knew exactly what was coming in the door. One of the people behind the counter took my box from me and headed through the curtain to the back room. The rooster remained silent.
Just as before, people had gathered in the botanica and had slowly drifted into the back room to sit in a circle to wait for Charlie to arrive as Manuel. Just as before, Charlie arrived. He addressed each and everyone in the circle, just as before. I grew impatient. I looked around for the box but didn’t see it.
Finally, in what seemed like hours, Manuel departed and Charlie sat there in front of us. Slowly, much slower than what I wanted, everyone moved in to the botanica to chat, perhaps to buy things that Charlie had suggested for ritual. Charlie motioned for me to stay seated and he left to say goodbye to the others.
A short middle aged man came to me and motioned for me to follow him through some curtains into a larger room behind the room where we gathered. I don’t remember a lot about this room except that it was more brightly lit and had the air of a kitchen with a sink with running water and tiled floors and I don’t remember what else because, of course, I was getting nervous. I felt cold. I felt a chill run down my spine as I stood there.Where was my rooster?
Charlie came in but didn’t look at me. He was prepared and he was going to do what he was prepared to do. This is what I remember… that I stripped to my underwear. Charlie approached me holding a large knife and my black rooster by its feet. My rooster didn’t make a peep. It hung there as though dead but its eyes were darting about. I was getting colder and began to shake.
Charlie held the rooster by its feet while he rubbed the live rooster all over my body from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. He was speaking but I didn’t understand what he said. He wasn’t speaking in English nor was he speaking in Spanish. When he was done with me, swiftly, with one slash, Charlie cut off the rooster’s head. The rooster bled into a cauldron where its head had landed, still with no objection.
It was clean and swift. The other man said that I could put my clothes back on and Charlie walked out of the room after he placed the rooster back in my box in a bag. I had previously received instruction that after the ritual I would take the rooster’s body to a graveyard and leave it there. I had looked up the address I was given and was prepared to leave the sacrifice among the dead.
After this, I didn’t see Charlie again until my next visit to the botanica. I had heard from other Santeros that after these kind of rituals there is a kind of exhaustion that takes place and I suppose that Charlie had gone to rest.
I guess there’s a certain kind of familiarity among law enforcement and cemetery personnel, because it was explained to me that finding dead roosters or other kinds of accoutrement in graveyards was not so strangely rare. But I was warned to be discreet. There were certain graveyards that were more tolerant.
I arrived at the graveyard sitting on a hill. It was late afternoon and the sun was bright but low in the sky. I walked among the gravestones and thought about what I had just experienced. I wanted this time to be personal and to be meaningful. As I mentioned before, I had experienced many things living among the Cubans but this was the first time I had been the center of this ritual.
I left the rooster next to a gravestone that was the oldest that I could find. I thanked him for what he had sacrificed for me. I walked slowly back to my car enjoying the sunshine and the heat. My body still felt cold. I drove through LA towards the beach and my home away from home.
Though I remember a great deal about this, still much of it is from my memory. Since I didn’t write down the details after they happened, all I have is my memory.
Though this story may seem strange and gruesome to you, my readers, to me these are, yes strange and extraordinary but they make up the person that I am today and I am grateful for that.
I realize that this story of mine leaves a lot that is not explained, But there’s more writing to be done and there are previous blog posts that go into some detail about living with a Santero and among the many Cubans that I met in the late 1990s.
This post is not intended to be instructional or specifically educational but it is true. Truer than true.
Remember that I told you that Dhillon suddenly stopped calling altogether, I mean really sudden? It’s just not like him because never has a month gone by since 2002 that I haven’t heard from him.
That’s 20 years, over 20 years. Mostly, even if I wouldn’t pick up the phone, he tried to call me every week. If he was anything, he was persistent.
Anyway, last night I dreamt that I went to my grandmother’s house and Dhillon’s whole family was there. What I didn’t know was that we were all gathered there for Dhillon to tell me that he had a baby with a woman named Lois. I asked him if he had gotten her pregnant while we were still together and he said yes. I sensed that there was someone in the bedroom and felt it was Lois and maybe his baby.
He had aways raised my suspicion. I had no reason ever to trust him. And here was the proof. My thought was that he had cheated on me and so sadly and somewhat distraught, I tried to leave. But before I could leave, everyone, but his Indian ex-wife, hugged me and had tears in their eyes which, never would have happened. Not one person in his family ever liked me in the least, not as his girlfriend and not even as his friend nor even as a person who helped him as a secretary.
I dated Dhillon for 8 years and still, he did not ever say to them what I was to him. Dhillon tried to talk to me but I turned and walked away and closed the door behind me as he was moving towards me. I had no reason to want to talk to him.
Strangely, Tony, an old friend, was sitting in a chair by the dining room table against the wall. It appeared that she was a friend of the family. She did not get up. I looked at her and asked if she knew about all this and she nodded her head. I told her she was no longer my friend and I didn’t want to ever hear from her again. That did not seem to phase her.
I then drove to a small apartment downtown where more of Dhillon’s family (maybe cousins) were living. They were in the tiny kitchen and the stove was pulled out from the wall at an odd angle stretching the gas line. It worried me. They told me it was because their dad had told them it had to be that way even though I was trying to shove it back into place. So, I pulled it back out to where they had it initially.
I asked them about Dhillon and they weren’t really interested in talking to me about him. There was another close friend of mine with dark hair, I can’t remember exactly who it was, standing in the kitchen. I asked her if she knew about Dhillon having had a baby with this woman named Lois, and she said yes. I also told her that I never wanted to speak to her again and that she was not my friend. Just like Tony, it didn’t phase her that I was hurt and wanted to never see her again. She also seemed to be very close to Dhillon’s family.
I went down onto the street and some children, who were also Dhillon’s family, were standing across the street waiting for Dhillon. I looked to see that he was walking up the street towards us. I could see him at least two blocks away coming from the direction of his first restaurant. I wanted to see him and yet I didn’t want to see him. When he got close, I turned to walk away and he wanted to walk with me and talk to me but I rejected him, telling him to go away.
I awoke remembering the tiniest, what seemed to be, insignificant details.
I thought the answer to why he had disappeared from my life, so suddenly and curiously, could be in this dream. I had conjectured that he couldn’t contact me because of family but I couldn’t know for sure. Since I rarely remember a dream, I believe the answer is somewhere in there, perhaps only in the symbols.
The shadows in the jungle were deeply green and impenetrable to those without eyes to see. The soft breeze was cool, yet the air was also warm and cloying. Her light, filmy garments clung to her wet skin. She felt… she felt like she was warmly alive, sensual, moved.
She had come to the pools of Naemahn. How she had come, she didn’t know. Why was she here? Who had brought her? What was she to do? And yet, not knowing was not unsettling as she stood at the edge of the water. These were subtle and slow moving streams connecting miles of waterways.
The water was covered completely with green algae, large pads of lily with erect stems supported graceful and large, creamy pink blossoms. Through the soft light, blossoms of ruby, violet and golden flowers could be seen peeking out along small paths into the interior catching what light penetrated the shadows.
Large birds with soft grey feathers and long beaks stood on spindly legs that pierced the water. Brightly colored parrots flew randomly and silently through the dense canopy above the water. Other creatures moved through the underbrush, soundlessly on soft padded feet, eyes glowing as they lowered their heads to drink from the pools. All the sounds were muffled and murmured almost imperceptibly to those without ears to hear.
A luxurious flat bottomed barge painted with many colors pulled up in front of her. It was draped in silk fabrics that waved softly as they caught the breeze and completely obscured what was inside. A stunning woman dressed in purple and lavender, embroidered in golden thread, appeared on the deck and invited her to board. Without hesitation she stepped aboard, noticing only at that moment that other rafts similar to this one were seemingly languishing but slowly floating through the waterway.
The woman held open the curtains and a fragrant interior slowly came to light as her eyes adjusted to the candle light. Smoke from incense filled the room. The heady scents of frangipani, myrrh, frankincense, bergamot, rose, clove, cedar, patchouli and more seemed to sedate her. The interior was filled with a pallet and cushions that were covered in the most lush fabrics in saturated jewel tones. The many shades of greens, blues, reds and yellows dazzled the eyes. Every sense was heightened.
The woman motioned for her to sit among the many cushions. She did not resist. She saw no reason to. The barge rocked slowly as it moved away from the shore. The woman, whose name was Ipreet, began to loosen her clothes and slipped them from her shoulders. She sat next to her and gently laid her back on the cushions. The pleasure she felt from the movement of the boat, the many fragrances, the soft light, and Ipreet’s hands, caused her to move gently like a cat.
Ipreet began to massage her slowly and softly with oil of which she could not identify. Its fragrance and softness was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Slowly Ipreet had removed her clothes entirely and was massaging her breasts, her thighs, her stomach, arms and feet and reaching to touch her most delicate parts causing her to reach the heights of ecstasy without letting her reach the peak where every feeling would be released.
After sometime, she felt someone board the raft and enter the room. It was a man. He was dressed in a pure white robe, a white turban and he was barefoot. He had a white beard and deep brown eyes that were almost black and there was a golden light emanating from them. Her legs were open and he sat at her feet.
Ipreet brought him a brass plate with a fragrant smoke climbing sensually to the ceiling. She was feeling an intense desire for this man, though she did not know him. She wanted him to touch her… to continue what Ipreet had started. Where he sat, she could see that he had a large penis. She moved sensually as to arouse him but he remained flacid. She wanted him to enter her. She wanted to have what she knew would be the most remarkable fireworks of her life but he sat there and only smiled at her showing perfectly white teeth and full lips.
Ipreet slowly covered her body as she lay there. She remained uncovered from the waist down. She made no effort to cover her private parts. She wanted the man to make love to her, but he brought the plate between her legs and blew the warm smoke into her. As he did this, she exploded into a million stars of every color. He stayed there, it seemed to her, for seconds, minutes or hours, she didn’t know.
She fell into a deep and mystical sleep filled with beautiful and strange dreams. When she awoke, she was at the waters edge, rocking gently. She was alone. Ipreet and the stranger were gone. The dim interior of the barge was still lit with candles and the incense still burned. She moved to get up and she was aware that she was once again clothed. Her skin felt soft and the fragrance lingered on her skin and in her hair, evidence that she had not been dreaming.
She stepped off the boat onto the jungle floor and moved into the shadows. It was as if no time had passed. She needed no guide. She seemed to know her way out. She felt more alive and fulfilled than she had ever felt before.
She would not soon forget what had happened to her this day… or was it night?
We lived on Montgomery St., just below Vista Avenue, before Hwy 26 went in. The construction destroyed miles of large beautiful houses built at the turn of the century.
Beautiful large homes, in the West Hills, like this one, were bulldozed to make way for highways.
Portland exemplfies the song “Yellow Taxi” written by Joni Mitchell, which goes, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot… Portland was being raped and thousands of long time residents displaced. No one who was making a killing cared.
Our yellow house was built with four apartments. The front was built at street level on a steep hill leading towards downtown to the East, and to the North, the land was even steeper giving each apartment spectacular views of the city.
I couldn’t find an historic photo of the area but this is the type of house sacrificed for development
Each apartment took up an entire floor. The ceilings were at least 10 feet in height with windows almost to the ceilings. There were at least three bedrooms, a large living room, a kitchen and with just one bathroom. The back door opened out from the kitchen onto a balcony with stairs that led to the ground below.
This is not the house but reminiscent of the types of houses in the area.
This was in the late 60’s. Pure LSD was easily had and weed was $10 a “lid”. Our rent, if I remember right, was under $100/month. We didn’t need much money to live, so we bought pounds of marijuana, divided it into plastic sandwich bags and we put them in a large container just inside the front door. Whoever wanted to buy pot from us could leave their money and grab however much they wanted. The honor system at work.
Marijuana, LSD, psilocybin, peyote and the like, were all illegal. But at the time, we were more concerned that the house would be raided by FBI agents looking for draft dodgers and those who were AWOL. It had happened and it was scarey but if they’re looking for people, they had no jurisdiction to bust us for drugs.
Our life on Montgomery street was mostly peaceful. It was a good time for exploring both internally and the world around us. We were protesting the right of the US and other countries to invade others to procure resources. We were protesting a culture dictated by corporate greed and materialism. We wanted a simpler and more peaceful world.
Unfortunately, our idealism could not, and has not, changed the white and wealthy. We were using psychedelics, meditation and exploration into philosophies both western and eastern, to found a new path to a kinder and gentler world. But what I know now, is what history teaches us: the few wealthy are lords in the earth and the rest of us… well, we work for them and try to keep our heads above water. No one benefits from war but the wealthy and the young are sacrificed to that purpose.
Those were days that I would return to. Those were days when we thought that on that LSD trip, the answer had been given to us but language failed us. The answer slipped away as we “came down”. One definition of reality that I can recall so clearly came out as I sat looking out over the city as “loud tomato raisin”. I’m still looking for the translation. Perhaps one day I’ll be enlightened enough to translate. ðŸ¤
Those were days of infinite sexual energy, which I didn’t experience again until my 40s and 50s. Hormone saturated freedoms. Dancing in the moonlight. Light shows. Live music and open mic poetry readings. Unbridled idealism anchored and tempered by existential nightmares that things always stay the same.
David Byrne sang, “Burning Down the House… same as it ever was, same as it ever was…” and it appears that we are burning down the house. We can see the ashes. But now it’s not just the big beautiful houses that were once our abodes but it’s the planet where we live.
eyeamdust 