juanzqui

Crystal City, Texas | November 28, 2015

A STRONG COLD front blew in from the northwest last night, pushing away the suffocatingly humid warm air that had settled over the region for days, and I woke up this chilly rainy morning to news that the home of Antonio Rivera, a retired medical doctor, and his wife, Gloria, a retired college administrator, had burned down in the pre-dawn hours. It is – or was – just south of town, on their small farm.

Apparently a faulty heater started the fire and it spread so quickly that they didn’t even have time to retrieve their cars’ keys, ensuring that the vehicles met the same fate as their house.

There are no radio or TV stations with news operations here, but the news got around quickly. My sister first heard the news very early, when her son, a deputy sheriff, called to tell her about it. Soon after that the phone rang repeatedly with calls from others who had heard the news and claimed to have new details. A cousin whose son is a volunteer firefighter, a friend who used to be related by marriage to the doctor, and others.

As is the case in most small communities, when you talk about things happening to people, you’re not talking about strangers; you’re talking about friends or relatives. In this case, Tony and Gloria are not relatives (although one of his nephews was married to one my nieces for a while, and they had two beautiful children together), but even though we haven’t seen each other in some time, you could say that we are friends, for it’s impossible to grow up in a small down and not be friends with people with whom you grew up.

Tony’s older brother, Tomás, was my junior high softball coach and my junior college French teacher. The Rivera family lived a block away from us. Our address was 513 West Edwards, theirs was 513 West Val Verde so when we stood at our kitchen sink and looked south through the kitchen window, we could see the Riveras’ front door. That house still stands; ours was torn down in 1965 by Urban Renewal.

Gloria Amaya grew up on the other side of town so I didn’t know her that well. But I got to know her better in the summer of 1963 when our family ended up in a migrant camp near Endeavor, Wisconsin, where the Amaya family and several other Crystal City families were also working and living.

Six days a week, all of us, some 40 or 50 men, women and children, worked side by side, bent over or on our knees, crawling across vast verdant mint fields, pulling up weeds, tossing them into bushel baskets and emptying those baskets onto wagons to be carted off.

It was tedious work but it wasn’t backbreaking. Compared to other work, this was relatively easy. We were on the soft, spongy loam of dry ancient lakebeds. The work was not hurried at all and the slow pace encouraged conversations and jokes, so every day out on the fields was like a fiesta; the camaraderie was stimulating, addictive.

Gloria was the oldest in the Amaya family. Next to her was Joe. Although Joe and I were in the same class, we were never friends until we got to know each other at the Kempley Farms migrant camp near Endeavor. He and another boy, Gustavo Jiménez, who was a year behind us in school, and I became good friends and we continued that friendship when we came back to Texas to begin the school year.

Eventually the old gang drifted apart. I went off to college and Joe and Blanca, his wife, moved to Michigan. Tavo stayed here and became a successful businessman, but he died a number of years ago. Joe is also now retired and comes down to Crystal City during the winter to get away from the Michigan cold.

SO THERE IS a connection there. And that’s the thing about life in a small town: there always is a connection. That is why even though the Riveras, as retired successful professionals, are probably not hurting financially, the community is already coming together to rally behind them. A gofundme page has been set up and, in fewer than 24 hours, it has already raised close to $1,000.

That fund will grow, for no doubt everyone in this community is thinking, “That could have been me – that could have been my home.”

Losing a home – and everything in it – to a fire right after Thanksgiving just as winter makes its late arrival has got to be difficult for any family, no matter how strong or financially secure.

Everyone here understands this, and so the community comes together to help its own.

In the days ahead, the phone calls and coffee shop conversations about the Rivera fire will continue. So will the speculation and theories about the cause of the fire and what the family will do. And the community will continue to rally behind the Riveras.

That’s what happens in a small town. That’s what people do.

14 November 15

This  morning I was doing a search for my favorite Paris photos to share on Facebook and came across this letter I wrote some 11 years ago to my friend Rogelio Cannady, who was then on Texas’ death row and has since been killed by the state. He loved reading of my travel adventures and so I made it a practice to describe the things I saw and did while on the road. 

01 September 04

HERE I AM, in the great city of Paris. It’s a bit after 5:30 p.m. and I am sitting at an outdoor restaurant, one of several thousand in this city, drinking a glass of red wine.

I also asked the waiter for a plate of various cheeses, but I guess he didn’t hear me, misunderstood me, or decided to ignore me. All three are possible, I’ve learned. All those French classes I took and I can’t even order a damn simple plate of cheese! That is how it has been all day: As soon as someone speaks to me in French, I get all nervous and I end up talking gibberish. When I ordered the wine, for instance, the waiter asked me if I wanted it “en verre,” which means by the glass, or if I wanted a carafe. The only thing I heard was sound, “ver,” which sounded very much like “vert,” the word for green (the French drop just about every consonant, unless it’s followed by an ‘e’. My first thought was, why is he asking me if I want green wine when I just asked for red wine? As happens almost every time, he saw my confused face and posed the question again, in English. By this time I was so rattled that I told him that yes, I wanted a glass, when the reality was that I wanted a carafe. Oh well, as they say here, c’est la vie. (At least I hope they do; they do in the movies!)

Here’s something funny: A few minutes ago, as I was standing at a street corner, looking at my map, trying to figure out exactly where I was, a young lady approached me and, in French, asked for directions to a nearby square, and I was able to tell her, also in French. She then turned around and told her companions, “Dice que está …”

”Ay,” I couldn’t resist telling her, “me ubieras dicho que hablas español!” We all got a good laugh out of it.

Oh wow! The waiter did understand me! He just walked up with my plate of cheese, and some bread. Oh man, this tastes great. Just what I needed. I love the bread in this country. How I wish you could be here to enjoy this with me.

I had already decided to return to the hotel, to rest a while. And go to the bathroom! But, because I was exhausted from all the walking I’ve done today, I decided to stop a while. I think that with this bit of food I won’t need to have supper; my stomach will be satisfied for the day.

I spent quite a bit of time this afternoon in what must be the old garment district in the old Jewish part of town, Le Marais. I wasn’t looking for any clothes, but I saw some real neat ties that I really liked, and when I inquired about their cost, I found out they only cost about $20 or $30, which is nothing compared to the ties in other stores.  I ended up buying four of them. Then I saw this beautiful leather jacket and I just had to look at it. Again, I was shocked by the price – $170. A coat like that in Washington would cost at least $300. I didn’t buy it, though. Because I saw another one I liked better, at about the same price. This one is wool, not leather. Now I have to figure out how to carry it home. I only brought a small suitcase with me, plus my backpack. If I keep buying things, I’m going to have to buy another bag, as I did the last time I came to Europe.

The weather has been spectacular. In the mid- to high-70s during the day, and in the 60s or 50s in the evening and early morning. Perfect walking weather, which is what I have been doing since I got here, except for the train/subway I took in from the airport because I didn’t want to pay for a taxi. The Metro system is vast and very easy to use. You can get just about anywhere on it. But, the way I see it, the more I ride the train, the less I see of this city – and the less time I have to stuff myself!

Last night I ate at a restaurant in the Latin Quarter, not far from my hotel, on a small street that was wall-to-wall outdoor restaurants. I sat outside and enjoyed watching the people walk by, and listened to a saxophone player who stood nearby and wailed away, with a number of jazz/blues pieces. Poor guy, when he finished playing, he came to where the patrons were eating to ask if we wanted to give him some money. I would have given him some, except that I thought he was asking if we wanted him to play some more tunes. By the time I realized what he wanted, it was too late; he was gone. The food (beef, with green beans and French fries) wasn’t that good. The meat was a bit tough and the potatoes lacked taste. Only the beans were good. And the bread, of course. Oh well. While I was waiting for my food, I noticed a sign on the wall that said Ernest Hemmingway had lived in the building for five years. The menu also had another literary claim. It seems that some French poet, whose name I had never heard of, lived there also. He ended up killing himself, apparently because he fell in love with another poet (also a male) and that was a no-no. At least that’s what I think I read.

Thursday, September 2

I AM IN LINE, waiting to climb to the dome of the Pantheon, which was originally a cathedral but is now a temple to French heroes. It’s a massive structure, although much simpler than the elaborately decorated cathedrals of Italy. It dominates the neighborhood in or near the Latin Quarter, not too far from the Luxembourg Gardens, one of several large formal gardens that provide a great place to rest and enjoy nature. Victor Hugo and other famous Frenchies are buried here. While waiting, I drew a quick sketch of part of one of the numerous statues. A bit simple, but I like it. I will try to make a copy of it and send it to you.

This morning I again started out somewhat late, for me. Normally, I am up and about by 6:30, but I guess my body has just been really tired, from all the walking, and even though I wake up early (7 or 7:30), I just lie there and before I know it, it’s already 8 or 8:30. No big deal, though: I am determined that this will be a relaxing trip, and if sleeping late helps me accomplish that, so much the better.

My hotel is a small tourist hotel. I wouldn’t call it quaint, or cozy, but it is comfortable and my 2^nd-floor room is of a decent size. Certainly a lot larger than the one I got in Florence, which was so small that if I left any of my stuff on the floor, I could not walk to the bathroom. It’s air-conditioned, so I don’t have to listen to the traffic outside, although traffic noise is not that bad. For 10 Euros, I can get a decent breakfast downstairs, and for 5 Euros, I can log on to the Internet for half an hour. It would be more than enough to check the news and write a few emails if it weren’t for the damn French keyboard, which has certain letters – the y, the z and the m, for instance, in different locations altogether. The other guests are mainly Brits, and a few Americans and what appear to be Spaniards or South Americans.

I am now at a small park, Jardin the Teuleries, a huge park that connects the Arc de Triomphe with the Louvre, the large museum that houses the Mona Lisa and other masterpieces. I will visit neither. The arch because I was there the last time I was here, in 1988, and the museum, because I really do not like museums that much. Large ones, at least. And I have seen enough pictures of the Mona Lisa and the other masterpieces to know what they look like. I don’t think that when I die I will be ruing the fact that I never saw the Mona Lisa.

It is late afternoon and the weakening sun infuses the entire park with a nice, subdued hue. I am sitting on a metal green chair, one of many in this area of the park, surrounded by others, alone, in pairs or in groups, sitting and enjoying the sun amid the various pools and fountains.

The park resembles the Mall in Washington, but it is a lot more serene. It has a lot more trees, and it has these chairs, which is something you won’t find on the mall. It also has a lot of statues, mainly of mythological figures, but also some by some famous artists, such as Rodin and Maillol.

This is where I ate my lunch, cheese and bread and fruit that I snuck into my backpack at breakfast this morning. Delicious. I hadn’t eaten anything since this morning, when I bought something that looked like a Mexican empanada, and another pastry that looked like a campechana, at a patisserie, one of thousands of pastry shops all over the city that offer everything from pastries to sandwiches (yesterday, for lunch I bought a croq monsieur (I’m not too sure of the spelling), which is a hot ham and cheese sandwich; I was in heaven.)

I don’t know if I’ll eat anything this evening. I am not hungry, but maybe the walk back to the hotel will give me an appetite and if that happens, I’ll do another cheese-and-wine thing.

The Pantheon was very impressive, when we climbed to the deck that surrounds the dome. From there you can see the entire city, from the Eiffel Tower to Notre Dame and other famous sites. It’s a good place from which to see how different this city is from most American cities. There are skyscrapers, but they are away from the city’s center. I took lots of pictures, but the sun was very bright and there was a thick haze, so I am not sure how good they will be.

From the Pantheon I walked to the cathedral of St. Germain de Pres, one of the city’s most prominent Romanesque style churches, constructed in the 11^th century. The bell tower is the city’s oldest. The heart of Rene Descartes is buried here. Don’t ask why just he heart because I have no idea. Neither do I know where the rest of his body is.

From there I walked along a street lined with some very expensive stores. No $30 ties here! My destination was a small museum, the Musee Maillol, dedicated to the work of Aristide Maillol. His work consists primarily of large marble sculptures of female nudes, most of them based on a single model, Dina Vierny. There are also some of the sketches he did of his models. This is the kind of museum I like: small and intimate, and I can get in an out in a few minutes. And – perhaps more important — it has a great bathroom!

And that’s what I have done today. To get here from the museum, I had to cross the Seine, which is always a nice experience. I love watching the boats and barges float by. I’ve been sitting here for about an hour, and I could stay here another couple of hours. It is so comfortable. Since I have been sitting here, it has become cloudy and it appears as if it might rain. According to the paper, it’s not supposed to rain until tomorrow. If it does rain, I hope it’s over quick. I hate walking around in the rain.

THIS TIME TOMORROW I should be somewhere in West Texas, on my way to Lubbock, or some place near there, where I’ll spend the night before heading on to Santa Fe. I plan to visit friends there for a day or two before driving up to Boulder, where I’ll spend the next two and a half weeks.

The good news is that for that length I time I will escape Houston’s heat and humidity. (It’s not really that bad, really: I just emerged from a Starbucks into the afternoon sun and it felt damn good.) The not-so-good news is that while there I will be responsible for the wellbeing of three beings while their owner and master goes away to play all over Europe like a rich lady.

Two horses.

One donkey.

Before my friend Diane — the owner of the house where I’ll be staying and owner of the three animals — gets the wrong idea, let me assure you, and her, that I’m looking forward to being with los animales and that, while I have no experience in taking care of four-hoofed animals, I do not shrink from the responsibility.

It’s just that I am a little apprehensive about being responsible for the wellbeing of any other living, breathing animal – human or otherwise. I’ve taken care of dogs and I’ve taken care of cats and I’ve survived. In fact, enjoyed it. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t worried that something bad would happen to them during the time I was responsible for them.

I’ve spent most of the day cleaning up my place because it must be spotless when my nephew and his family arrive in a couple of weeks to take in a couple of Astros games. I’ve also typed out a two-page list on how to do things in my apartment and where the nearest grocery stores and pizza place are. Which blinds to close on which side of the apartment at what time of day to keep out the sun’s rays. Where they can find HBO and the Astros network and other channels on the TV.

I even drew a picture of my (very different and no-longer-in-production) coffee maker to make sure they operate it correctly.

In a while I will start packing because I want to get an early start tomorrow, as soon as I finish eating breakfast, drinking my coffee and reading my paper.

I’ve got my cameras and lenses and other photo equipment, my binoculars and bird guide books, all in one place, ready to be packed. I’ve got my sketchpads together and I just got back from the art supply store where I bought a bunch of neat pens. I doubt I’ll use them much, but a man must have pens.

I’ve cleaned out my fridge, eaten what I could and discarded the rest.

ONE OF THE joys of road trips for me is taking a road never before taken, and I’m going to do that this time. On the advice of my friend Laura, I’m going to get to New Mexico without driving much in interstate highways. I am driving west on I–10 but only to Sealy, where I’ll get in State Highway 36 to Abilene, I believe. From there I’ll take another state highway to Lubbock and another into Clovis.

From Sealy to Clovis will all be new territory for me. (Laura actually recommended I take 290 to Brenham and 36 from there, but I refuse to drive on 290 because it has been designated the Ronald Reagan Highway.) My New Mexico and Colorado routes (also non-interstates) will be familiar, but they are beautiful roads and I am eager to drive over them again.

I still haven’t decided my return route, but it will probably involve going driving through parts of western Oklahoma, an area of the country I’ve never seen.

SO, WHAT DO I plan to do while in Boulder? I don’t really know. I now this much: I won’t be riding the horses. Never ridden one in my life and I don’t intend to start now.

My friend lives outside of Boulder, in the mountains (or foothills – I haven’t figure it out yet), and the area has numerous state and national parks and forests, so I will probably do a little hiking. I will explore Boulder and drive into Denver to visit its museums and other attractions.

I’ll take pictures and maybe do some sketching. And I have friends nearby that I plan to visit. But I also hope to just take it easy, catch up on my reading (yes, I just started reading “Go Set A Watchman”) and maybe a bit of writing.
And, oh yes, take care of the horses. And the donkey.

THANKS TO EVERYONE who took the time to post a Willie Nelson song on my timeline yesterday. Thanks for humoring me and thanks for sharing your love for the talent of this great artist.
I spent much of yesterday watching and listening to those YouTube videos that you all posted. Most I’d heard before and have enjoyed immensely over the years, but there were a few that I had never heard – or heard of – before.
The rules of the game were simple: post a video of your favorite Willie song and at the end of the day, if any of your favorites matched my favorite Willie song, you would be designated the winner to receive a piece of original art from me. If there was more than one match, I would place the names in a hat and pick a winner.
However, in trying to decide which is my favorite, I hit a big stumbling block because I couldn’t choose from the top three, so I went with all three. And it turned out that three people posted one of my favorites, and rather than having to pick a winner, I’ve decided that all three will get some artwork.
Interestingly, although Willie has written many, many beautiful songs, my three favorite Willie songs are songs somebody else wrote. Here they are, my favorite Willie songs, not necessarily in this order:
Blue Eyes Crying in The Rain
Written by Frank Rose and first recorded by Roy Acuff, in 1945, “Blue Eyes” had been recorded by numerous artists, including Hank Williams, Ferlin Husky, Conway Tweety and Loretta Lynn, Slim Whitman before Willie included it in his concept album, “Red-Headed Stranger.” It was “Blue Eyes” that re-launched Willie’s career in 1975. Before this, his success had been primarily in writing songs for others. Others recorded this song since (including Elvis) but no one has had the success that Willie enjoyed.
He Was a Friend of Mine
Willie’s beautiful interpretation (used in the film, “Brokeback Mountain,”) is as soulful and haunting as the original — called “Shorty George” and recorded by an inmate named Smith Casey at the Clemens State Farm in Brazoria County, TX, in 1939 — and Bob Dylan’s version. An elegy to a dead friend (presumably a fellow inmate), it evokes sadness, longing and helplessness. The Byrds recorded a version of this after JFK’s assassination. For a more thorough exploration of this song and its many versions, go to Joop’s Musical Flowers.
Can I Sleep in Your Arms
This is also from his “Red-Headed Stranger” album. It was written by Hank Cochran for his then-wife, Jeannie Seely. Titled, “Can I Sleep in Your Arms Tonight, Mister,” it was released in 1973 and was her first major hit. The song shares a melody with the traditional cowboy song, “Red River Valley.” I’m not sure if Cochran adapted his version from another version, called, “May I Sleep in Your Barn Tonight, Mister.” Both versions are about abandonment and loneliness and the need for human contact. Seely’s version is simple and beautiful, and so is Willie’s, but his inclusion of soulful piano, guitar and harmonica solos give it a depth that really pulls at your heartstrings.