L.A. Dreams, Fires and Mayhem

    Poetry and prose come into our lives, sometimes sorting visions, offering other points of view, recounting experiences, summing up feelings, calculating moods or capturing lives and people, alive, dead and in between. Perhaps the psychotherapists know why we count on the art of narrative and aesthetic of words evoking meanings and memories and maybe even further enlightenment, elucidation, and answers. Or at least the questions. Questions. All of these things may lead to something. Understanding. Expression. Meaning.

    I found myself looking up into the heavens

    Into the sunny blue sky

    Under a slight California canopy

    Six thousand feet above the sea

    We went as a big group.

    Climbing on a ship called Radiance

    We had fun times

    Created good and pleasant memories

    However 

    In life there has to be contrasts

    Perhaps maybe as my colleague

    Said

    As I explained things to her yesterday

    The cooks and servers get the salad

    From places where norovirus breeds

    The salads are delicious, as my wife avows

    Yet these tiny, vicious microbes

    Are passed into our bloodstreams and sinuses

    Which transposes themselves to our stomachs

    Which causes a toxicity

    And pain

    Finding ourselves bent over on our knees

    Lying in helpless repose

    A fever, a headache, agony of varying degrees

    And loved ones hoping the best, giving items

    Of relief

    We pray, we make well wishes

    We that suffer offer any manner of hopes

    To feel better

    To hold down our food, or even water

    I laid down on the ground,

    I remember

    Looking into the tranquil ceiling of the earth

    Trees and leaves 

    A peaceful reminder     

    Life is okay

    Things are all right

    Outside of me, trembling and churling inside

    Long nights followed by long days,

    Little TV, or books, a vacation of determination

    To finish out the time off

    Alive

    Survive to the next round

    I was laying somewhere in the mountains of 

    San Bernardino

    Seeing the peaceful frames of the blueness

    Looking up high above

    I found myself again in Pasadena

    Lying on my back

    Seeing more trees and leaves

    Branches holding their treasures

    While I could contemplate 

    A peaceful time for my body

    While the sun alighted upon us

    Giving warmth, providing hope

    The trees of Pasadena

    Giving me some respite

    yet

    There are always 

    Worse circumstances, more terrible trials

    Such as the devastating fires

    Or earthquakes, of which I was shushed

    When I mentioned

    A week later those trees and leaves

    Are strained and possibly consumed

    By huge winds and flames of destruction

    The buds and branches that gave me peace

    Are now struggling to exist

    As do the inhabitants, seeing their homes

    Their possessions, all the dreams 

    Collected

    Now burnt

    Charred and discarded

    By winds and heat

    A week's difference

    Thousands of people had no idea

    Their trees, bushes, lawns, and homes

    Would be left

    in ashes.

    Some died

    Many more are left bereft

    Lost their valuables

    Their dreams

    Vanquished

    The higher ocean temperatures

    Caused bigger, warmer winds

    Small embers carry the flames

    That will not be forgotten

    For the lifetime

    of the Souls that it touched

    And overwhelmed

    Unlike the norovirus

    Which has done its internal damage

    and wrecked some moments for a short period

    But allowed us to make it through

    To be whole once more

    I dream of Los Angeles

    My years there, the beaches, the streets

    The hills, the harbors

    The traffic, the people

    

    Even celebrities and famous buildings

    Many sweet moments of nostalgia

    Restaurants and parties

    Barbeques and games

    Yet, now, the dreams have been ruined

    For the lack of water, the rise of air currents

    The forces of nature

    Have left many lying down

    Looking up to the faithful skies

    Pleading, praying

    Can we grow back what has been lost?

    May the trees and nature give us peace again.

    May it happen, L.A.

    We dream of being there.

    We beseech the Gods

    And God, for you.

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

Ach, nein! I lost the Second Part, after finishing it this morning.

Problems with posting and saving. Had problems with other sites like this.

Basically, I wrote about the four people that did not go on the chartered van to La Bufadora.

80-year-old mother and grandmother (and great-grandmother) born and raised in Pasadena, California.

77-year-old father, step-father, and all of the above, born and raised in San Diego, California.

50ish year-old wife, born and raised in San Bernardino.

40ish year-old sister-in-law, born and raised in San Bernardino.

    I broke down some of their backgrounds, some of how they may view Mexico based on their perspectives. Living in southern California with many Mexican-Americans, the various travels that they have done and experiences that would give them insight into a visit like this, to downtown Ensenada, with good reminiscing and service and relaxing.

PUBLISH CHECK.

    The matriarch of 8 children and umpteen grandchildren, in the 30s now, plus the next generation, she lived in Provo, Utah, shortly, was married in Hawai'i, and taught for decades in highly Latino San Bernardino, both as a public middle school teacher and community college professor. She learned quite a bit of Spanish, enough to communicate many things.

    She has been the mother to full-time missionaries to Portugal (and Cape Verde), Spain (and Morocco), the Philippines, and Spain again. I lived in her home for two years while I served in the Spanish branch in the Waterman building, mixing with Mexicans, Mexican-Americans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, and some extractions of Colombia, Peru, and few other outliers.

    She has definitely been in and around Mexicans and the country, she has many life interactions with the peoples of Mexico and those that have come and gone. 

    Zoltan, as he has been known, fought in the Vietnam War as a Marine. He returned, injured, surviving a IED explosion, and drummed. He had two sons, both of whom married a European, an Italian and a German. That is an American thing, right? Marrying outsiders and all becoming one big melting pot. Zoltan recently retired for good, done with the junior college career after selling outdoor pools most of his adult life. He had been to Mexico a little bit, but not as much as the grandma (we call her abuela because of the proliferation of grandmothers), and I believe he can give you the rundown on the U.S. -Mexico relations over the decades.

    My wife grew up going to Mexico, to Ensenada beaches, not too far from home, then with her mom, her best friend, and her mother to Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta, of the big jewels of Jalisco state, a place that I desired to go to many years later, having my own journey to discover the places in Mexico to go. Trying to catch up with my wife. She and I did our trips together, mostly between 2000 and 2005, plus the 2018-day trip to Tijuana. Was that 2018, or the year before or after? It was mostly a Doheny Beach reunion, near San Clemente, Orange County. My wife and I checked out the historically significant San Juan Capistrano mission up the road. Earlier iterations of Mexico.

    My wife and kids made it Roatan, Honduras, and two more stops in Mexico along the Caribbean, including the big excursion to Chichen Itza, in the heart of the Yucatan. This was end of the year 2021.

    We divide and conquer Mexico, like the time I walked into Ciudad Acuna, Coahuila. 

    The sister-in-law, like my wife, grew up going to the Baja Peninsula (North), and later married a man who lived in Chile, so now she has been there twice. Based in the nice suburbs of Dallas, they now go abroad and see different countries. I am impressed by what she learns of the local histories and cultures. She has gone to Mexico on some trips with her family, including to the northeast Sea of Cortez. She sent her oldest daughter to a mission in and around Phoenix, Arizona, where she worked mostly with Mexicans and Spanish speakers in that part of the States, which is a huge mix of all of the peoples.

    So, the four of them had a good time eating and relaxing in Ensenada, near downtown, while the 18 of us others went to the three stops in about 8 hours. More of that in the Tercera Parte.

UPDATE: President-elect Trump has been talking a lot of international geography, like Panama, and Greenland, and even the Gulf of Mexico, which he thinks would be better known as the Gulf of America.

    Claudia Scheinbaum, the first female Mexican president, came back with a few retorts, which I do not blame her for. While Prime Minister Trudeau is now ending his lengthy Canadian reign, there is discussion about they become our "51st" state. Yes, ridiculous. 

    But, that is what we get with open elections and free society.

    Long live freedom. And the United States. And Mexico! ! Viva mejico! Viva la revolucion continua.

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 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

 

To My Warrior Friends and Mates: Gone from Here, Not Forgotten Pt. IV

1) Kelly C.  2) Scott C. 3) Robert P. 4) Jeremy H. 5) Scott H. 6) Ben S. 6) LT M. 7) Rob N. 8) Amarea W. 9) Paul F. 10) Max T. 11) Nicholas B.  12) Dave P. 13) Greg B.

    The last three. These warrior friends. There are others who have died (we all do or will), whom I have known, but most of them lived longer, more lived out lives. That is reason to cherish and celebrate them, those that made it to their 90s. Or 100. Or even 73, like my mom.

    In these pages I recall and celebrate, give tribute to those who have passed on. And left so many behind. Me, sometimes just a smaller part of their legacies. They who left us young, never achieving the wrinkles or age spots.

    Nicholas B. 

    He was a swell guy. He advanced in leadership in the Army National Guard, he was friendly, and helpful. Like a good Boy Scout. Not condescending there, just stating what the facts are. He was our top enlisted leader for a few years. He cut me some parental times to be a better dad, which I am forever grateful for.

    We got together the day after Martin Luther King Day to eulogize and celebrate him. It was a tender and bittersweet time. Many of us congregated to remember, reflect, be grateful. For life, friends, service. People like him. A keen warrior, a friendly warrior.

    He was a lot of things, mostly all good. A hole was left that will be hard to fill. Barely 40, if that. Part of the flag, I say. He deployed multiple times. He did his duties well.

    A U.S. Warrior. Intelligence and diligence.

        Dave P.

        Another Batchelor mate. He was short, not as short in 8th grade, but he was strong, muscular, had a dynamite soul and a kind heart. He died this last year or so from cancer. A successful life and participant from all I know. A dad, husband, worker. Everything most of us could ask for.

    My high school class website noted his passing. He made it to his fifties, as most of us have done. Of all the recounted lost warriors gone too soon, he is the eldest. Has his children, his life more less established. He made his mark. Not the others who came up shorter did not leave their indelible impressions and memories, but Dave at least lived long enough to prove what he had become, not just the getting there.

    Thanks, Dave, for getting there. Living a valiant and good life, from all accounts and stories.'

    Smiling, warm warrior. That is who I see.

    Gregory B.

    Whoa, my brother. My battle buddy, my soldier! I wrote some words in your website of memories last March. This year, 2024.

    I tried to write these from most distant to nearest. I have left out a few. 

    I am not slighting anyone else that I have known who has passed on, some of them too young.

    These baker's dozen are the ones that I wish to recount as the year runs out, this Friday night that I wind this down, the night before the shortest day of the year. These people all lived significant lives, and they all had significance to me and countless others.

    I got to be Greg's squad leader. I thought I did all right. Perhaps I was limited. I am sure that I have cried a few times for his loss. I met a young man last June who got to know Greg for a few months, and this guy loved Greg. Greg was a lovable, and sweet, and steady.

    I have shed a few tears for this big guy. He was about 6'4". He had his girlfriend in my unit, and I found out at his tragic passing that they were serious about each other. He died changing a tire while she was in the front seat. An illegal drunk driver without a license. Lives ruined.

    Yes, I think I have cried a few times for him and them. We were inspired by him, as I told the buddy in the kitchen at the fort. We felt it together. The love for Greg, his powerful presence. Understated, but strong. Thank you, Mr. Blowe. Yes, you recognized him. You recognized, did not ignore or shun, the greatness and sweetness in him, our brother.

    May heaven help us all to be so ready and righteous! No one is perfect, but there are some souls that seem that way.

        

    Yes, Greg, you were a powerful man. Only 30.

    _____

Final thoughts. 

    All of the people that I have known who died too young, from 15 to 52 or so, have had their lives shortened. Some of them took their own lives, which I will say is always tragic, no matter the age or circumstances. However, not that I am pro-suicide at all, but I must say that in most cases the people chose their final fate on earth. I hope and pray to see them in another life, I do not believe in heavy condemnation nor damnation for those that murder themselves, or even many others, cases depending. 

    It is tough when they go any way that they do, but when they are taken by accident like Greg, it leaves the soul wanting. It was an accident, perpetrated by a guy, maybe 24 years old, who was drunk, illegal... We say what a waste, what a shame.

    Waste and shame. The opposite of the totality of Gregory.

    And thus, we have it, those thirteen of my warrior friends. In four parts. They all gave, they all shared, they all left too soon.

    From Indiana, from maybe Pennsylvania or North Carolina, from Virginia. Americans, sons, daughters, husbands, soldiers, kids, imaginers, creators, dreamers, friends, competitors, inspirers.

    Heroes. Fighters. Souls to commune with in memory and towards the future.

    Scotty.

    Kelly.

    Bobby.

    Jeremy.

    Scott.

    Ben.

    Lieutenant.

    Rob.

    Amarea.

    Paul.

    Max.

    Nicholas.

    Dave.

    Gregory.

    We love you. I love you. We miss you. We wish the best for all your loved ones, who are many.

    We look forward to a future with you again, and to converse and laugh, reminisce and plan the next big thing.

    Everlasting life.