Goodbye Jimmy - You are Part of Us All Now

    My first memory of a presidential election. Almost half a century ago. He versus Gerald Ford, the peanut versus the football. I liked the football more, but the peanut won in my kindergarten. And he won nationwide. He chose the vice president from Minnesota, Walter Mondale, who would go on to lose more for the Democrats. The powerful Reagan from the West was on the way. I did not know that as a half day attendee at my brick elementary school, built before the Great Depression.

    I learned of Jimmy in the 1970s. He was a one term president, which precipitated the 1980s. A time I would grow, as the nation did as well.

    His services are running in Atlanta as I write this. Panning to the soon to leave one-term Joe Biden and his wife. The politics of our nation go on in rather stable circles.

    Georgia elected their guy. A man of faith, and heart. He hit a hard time in our nation. And, he admitted to cheating in his heart. "Why not the best", an IU professor had me read. It was communications, or political science. I was a returned missionary. I had lived out some of my dream.

    Jimmy's dreams, as a democrat was to help the help the people, help the disadvantaged.

    He served in the Navy, was a high ranking cadet in his class. His words and life challenged a few of us.

    He was evangelical, had a southern accent. A pleasant wife and a cute little daughter. She had at least one son; his grandson spoke of his grandfather's life and museum.

    This is America. Peaceful transitions of power, it is okay to lose. Even if you win a second term, as many have, we still move on and let the power pass along.

    This has been Jimmy Carter, number 39.

    Caught in the times of the late 70s malaise, he was a product of the oil crunches and the Irani Revolution. Hostages and failed Chinooks, looking for the next big wind of hope. Ronald was waiting in the wings, making America great again before there was an ubiquitous Donald Trump. Politics was cleaning up from the Vietnam War and a paranoid Tricky Dick. Jimmy ended the 70s with a whimper, especially pulling us out of the Moscow Games as the Soviets marched through Afghanistan.

    There were reasons we did not like him. He set up the Great Communicator. A bookend, if you will. As was Ford.

    What else happened at his helm? Begin and Sadat shook hands, we negotiated treaties with missiles...

    I provoked a young man, named Joe Carter in the hallway by ourselves. Too flippant with his name. He shoved me, I demurred. I was only poking fun. Not funny to him. Got it. I was not born to be a rough and tumbler. I like to make some jokes time and again. Having fun, kidding. But for this Joe Carter, his mother, or his last name was no laughing matter. 

    Fine. Lessons learned.

    Like my freshman year at Indiana University, reading about James Carter at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. Why not the Best? Lessons trying to be learned.

    He lived a long, good life. He was a part of our national story, a good part, ever the peacemaker. The Soviets did not come to Los Angeles in 1984. Maybe they will in 2028, or 2032, or whenever they come next. The Russians are coming?

    Maybe the Ukraine War will simmer down by then. Dead of winter in Ukraine and Russia. They are not letting up.

    Maybe Israel and Palestine can have some peace by then. Maybe never. 

    President Carter tried really hard, but the Islamic extremists would not abide by their man Anwar who would settle with the Israelis. 

    Jimmy Carter, man of peace, of much success, of much heart.

    Man of faith. He admitted he committed adultery in his heart. Whoops.

    Quite a Christian, quite an example. Number 39.

    Brought us to where we are today, part of the ongoing cycle. 

    Thank you, Brother Jimmy.

    Oh, yeah! And the buffoon brother and Billy Beer!

    Country bumpkins.

    Ain't that America?

    Best wishes. God loves a good, wholesome American president.

    

Mexico: An Itinerant History Chapter 8 La Bufadora and Ensenada Primera Parte

Mexico: An Itinerant History Chapter 8 La Bufadora and Ensenada

    Thinking about what I wanted to write the last few days, and the last few years, since I started my book about Mexico, and me, I must say: Sometimes you need to go to a place two times before you write about it. I have mentioned these places in my book, "Mexico: An Itinerant History" before, but I have not fleshed it out. So maybe I do this twenty-two years later, after my second time there.

    We went to these two places as a family this past week, the week of Christmas. End of 2024. So maybe it has been 23 years since my last time there? I went with my wife, I know that. The question of our daughter came up. Was she with us? The more that I think of it, I do think this was the time that we has car troubles and the CBP Officer gave us a hard time about not having a photo ID of her. My wife thought to bring the vaccination record of her, which I believed was a worthwhile effort. The Vietnamese-American agent--hard to understand, due to his affected English pronunciations-- berated us for no photo of this small one, about 7 months old. "How do I know that is a baby? It could be a dog!" As he interviewed us from his booth, us waiting a considerable time to return to the United States. 

    I am sorry, sir? What was the question? I tried to clarify his harsh stochastic style from the start. I felt bad for Spanish speakers who would face his choppy and confusing English.

    Was this the trip? I think so. I will reminisce on the 2002 excursion later. But first, the more recent while fresher in my mind.

    Off the Boat and into the Van, 2024 

    There were twenty-two of my party that disembarked that day, two in wheelchairs and the rest of us walkers. The wheelchairs were mostly as a precaution and augmentation, the two newer octogenarians among us. Both had visited Mexico before. Perhaps this would be their last? My wife and I think that this was one of the last times to get together with them and so much family. I rarely get out to California so much, so this was a special time. I meant to go to a little more Mexico, myself, but more of that later.

    This was the morning of Thursday the 26th. We spent Christmas Day on the ship. 

    For me, this was the second time coming to Mexico by sea. The last time? 1983, in the Caribbean of Cozumel. A lifetime ago. Back when my buddy Patrick got seasick on the smaller connecting boat, similar to the one we took to Catalina a few days prior on this family trip down the coast on the opposite side of the continent. The opposite side of my life, perhaps.

    My wife and her sister decided to be less adventurous, more laid back, and took the two more bound passengers into town, while the other 18 of us piled into a rental bus and trekked the twenty or so mile La Bufadora, also known as the Blow Hole. I had gone there by car with my small family in 2002; it was time to revisit the scenic and nostalgic.

    My brother-in-law chose to pay 30 dollars per person so that we could have the transportation where we wanted to go. That meant the drive out to the coast, which took over 45 minutes with traffic. I spoke to my nephew Ben a bit. Ben knew quite a bit about Mexico; he had served his mission southeast Mexico City about four years ago, being ousted by COVID and ending up his last months serving in Utah, Spanish speaking. We conversed about things that he was familiar with in the country, both during our ride and before and after.

    He ended up living down there. He had his experiences eating and purchasing things from the local vendors and markets. Living with and living with the Mexicans of that part of Mexico City. Plus the Latinos living in Utah, who were mostly Mexican, too.

    So, 18 of us went on the bus chartered for the rest of the day. We talked and joked. One brother-in-law, played Mexican and Latino music on his phone. It was sunny and pleasant. And while crowded on our transport, and considerable stops and traffic most of the way, we saw parts of the city and the countryside and ocean.

    Some of the family was young enough to not recall going to Mexico before. Well, perhaps that is not right. We had a boy of nine, the youngest, the others 12 or 13. I suppose most of them remember going to the Yucatan and Honduras from three Christmases ago. I did not go on that trip because of work.

    Anyway, we parked up hill from the strip leading to the blow hole. We walked down, trying to keep an adult with the minors for safety reasons. Not a dangerous place, but still. 

    What did I observe? What did we see and witness?

    TO BE CONTINUED