World Beginnings

    The Golden Years term, coined in the late 1950s…yes, I knew it had to be a marketing ploy, but I didn't realize it came from Del Webb and his planned, elite retirement community in Sun City, AZ. A place so hot you can fry eggs on the hood of your car in the summer and is flooded with snowbirds in the winter. Of course, he promises paradise in his "active" communities. Just look at this fit, healthy and smiling couple promising, "you too can live a perfect life here." Anti-aging hormones on speed. And then came the sitcom "The Golden Girls", who, while immaculately dressed and coiffed, must live together for survival. A small dose of reality. Yet, they laugh through life's crises, and no one is ever mad very long. I don't know any women who could live together without coming to blows, but this show created that fairy tale, and women still think this is a viable option.  The reality is far darker than the promised summer's gold. Like most...

  We showed up at the ruin of a house in   Chapala in June 2019, armed with cleaning supplies, mops, brooms, and buckets, called to help via a local Facebook group. Beyond the wall was filth and chaos defying description, and in the middle of this inferno was Jose, scooting around in the dirt, dragging his useless legs behind him. Clad in a shirt and in a diaper, clutching a corn tortilla. He was almost eight years old and grossly underweight. How he was even alive was a miracle, milagro. Locals had long been aware of Joe's plight and his tragic family circumstances. His great grandmother, Anita had taken him in after his mother was found in an unmarked grave, a victim of all too common drug wars, and his father, though unlisted on his birth certificate, was in prison on drug charges. At this point, Jose was very young but it soon became clear he could not walk so he joined the dogs and cats on the ground eating what he could find or was tossed his way. No one worked in the fa...

Every year they migrate from parts unknown to build their nests and raise their young. Unfortunately, they had a nest under the eave of my house, right next to my covered walkway. Last year they hatched at least two sets of young. And while it was beautiful to watch the cycle of life, not only did I live in fear of a baby falling to the ground only to be pounced on by my dogs or the cat, they left unimaginable piles of poop.   This year I decided that the area would be off-limits for swallow housing and I knocked everything down and cleaned it up. Swallows are persistent to say the least. As badly as I felt for them and their need to make a home for their young, I spent two months washing off their vain attempts to create a base for their nest; every time, apologizing and telling them the area was designated “No Nesting”. Yesterday I noticed a flurry of swallow activity under the eave at the back of the house. Yes, there was a nest built and poop below. A swa...

The second week of the COVID quarantine meanders like a weed through our gardens. They are choking the breath. Here life is lived outside, yet this insidious weed has chased the retirees from the Plaza and the Malecon. Young men no longer gather on steps drinking cold beer and wafting marijuana. Every morning I enjoyed my coffee watching the hustling and bustling on the street below me as parents walked young children to school and women did their daily shopping. Now the street is eerily empty. Schools are vacant and businesses shuttered. Occasionally a woman will go the tienda next door and come back with a quart of milk or orange juice. This morning as I drank coffee and planned my day, laughter erupted at the house next door. Uproarious, deep belly laughter from the men and high pitched shrieks from women and children. The sound died down and then bellowed out again. Suddenly I was back with my Aunt Janis, Uncle Forrest, Aunt Annie Mae and Uncle Jim telling stories that bro...