Camy Sorbello: Western Skies

MORE WITH TOMMY LEE JONES

2006-06-17T11:31:00.000-07:00

Tommy Lee Jones seems to show up here quite a bit. No surprise. He's a mainstay of Trans Pecos Texas, my Texas as I like to say.

I bought the DVD of Jones' movie, "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada," filmed in the Big Bend area. It's the first DVD I've ever purchased, and I've already watched it twice. I have several viewings scheduled for friends and family who may or may not share my enthusiasm for it.

The film is a masterpiece, influenced by Kabuki, Greek Tragedy, Sam Peckinpaw, and Renaissance art more than John Wayne. See it.

But that's not the real reason Tommy Lee is back in my blog. He's appearing in the movie "No Country For Old Men," based on Cormac McCarthy's latest book. It also takes place in West Texas. The Cohen brothers, Ethan and Joel, famous for "Fargo", are directing. They filmed on location on The Pinto Canyon Road.

The Pinto Canyon Road. That's where I have been stopped twice by the Border Patrol. I have a witness, my friend Edgy. The BP pursued me with lights flashing and tires spinning. At least as much as possible on a treacherous, one lane road with hairpin turns and sudden dropoffs.

The first time, the officer approached with his hand on his gun which was in his holster which he unsnapped. I shut the engine, and put my hands on the dashboard where he could see them. Seemed the wise thing to do.

I've gathered that the Migra doesn't much like me. First, there's the New York plates on a dusty four wheel drive vehicle on a road that's barely a road. Then there's my name. Way too Latin for them.

Last, there's my looks. Obviously not Anglo.

"They don't like how you look," explained Edgy after the second incident. "They think you're a Mexican."

"Why?" I asked.

"'Cause you look like one." There was an exasperated tone to his voice.

I may still look like a Mexican. But I hope now I can travel the Pinto Canyon Road without being accosted by our National Police Force (aka the INS). The presence of Hollywood may have given it some panache, if such a thing is possible in West Texas. At least, it should have discouraged the narcotraficantes and wetbacks from traveling it, which in turn, should discourage the Border Patrol as well.

We can only hope.

I doubt that the Border Patrol stops Tommy Lee Jones on back roads. Or Cormac McCarthy. Or the Cohen Brothers.

Next year, I'll head up the Pinto Canyon Road again. With my New York plates. And my Latin name. And my non-Anglo face.

We'll see what happens. I'll keep you posted.

ACCENT OVER THE "U"

2006-05-22T11:05:00.000-07:00

I can't get used to the name "Jesus".with an accent over the "u",so popular among Mexicans. Even as a Sicilian/American/Catholic, I find it strange. Now, we've managed to resurrect every obscure saint, male or female, that ever existed and baptize our babies in their names.
Sometimes,the girls have some form of Mary; Mary Jo, Mary Anne, Maria Theresa. The boys are often Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John with Joseph and Anthony thrown in for good measure. But no matter how many kids you have, depending on the efficiency of the Church's birth control method (the ultimate oxymoron, resulting in families with kids born nine months and ten minutes apart)we've never run so short of names as to use the Lord's.
But the Mexicans (perhaps they're more Catholic than the Italians?) use it even in the feminine form, Jesusa, and the diminutive, Jesusito. A very dedicated priest I know, from Sonora, Mexico, is Padre Jesus. Was his vocation predestined by his name, or just a serendipitous coincident? Quien sabe?
At the Dollar Store in a small Texas border town, a young employee wore a tag that read "Always Here to Serve You--Jesus". (no accent over the "u") It was startling to say the least. This kid looked like he'd be hard-pressed to direct us to the laundry soap aisle, let alone our divine reward. But he most likely had more job security than employees named Cody or Travis. After all, how do you fire someone named Jesus?
Last year, a relative sent me a postcard from her Florida vacation. "Outside Orlando we visited Jesus..." A tent revival, I wondered? Nope. It went on to say ..."and Berta and Diana." Friends of ours. She forgot the accent over the "u".
When I inherited a company cell phone from a seasonal employee, the display read "a message for Jesus"--no accent. Had lots of fun with that phone. Jesus received messages like:
The spare tire is fixed, come pick it up,
Do you want to see the new movie at the Regal? It's a steamy one,
And my personal favorite,
Can you bring the wine for dinner on Sunday?
Perhaps the best way to handle this dilemma of the accent over the "u" is to change the spelling altogether. In the old TV series "Rawhide," starring a very young Clint Eastwood, the wrangler of the remuda was a Mexican fellow named Hay Soos.
No "u".
No accent.
No problema.

MICHAEL'S FRISBEE

2006-05-12T07:41:00.000-07:00

I found the frisbee out in the yard where the kids had been playing with it. It's back indoors now, where it can't get lost or chewed up by a dog or lawnmower.

The Open Door Mission in Rochester sent it years ago as a thank you gift for a donation I had made at Christmas. It's quite sturdy for a promotional item--white with blue graphics, including the words "restoring hope."

It was brand new and clean when my nephew Michael first started visiting me, his Tia. Since I didn't have any kiddy-character dinnerware around, this frisbee became the perfect dish. It was smooth plastic with a rim deep enough to keep food from escaping.

In those days I improvised everything. I sat Michael on the floor on a Mexican blanket and covered a small footstool with a towel as a tablecloth. I have pictures of him, big smile on his face, as he sat there and ate from his frisbee dish.

When he finished eating, and it was play time, I washed the frisbee and put some small toys and books in it. Many of his "toys" were improvs also. An empty Quaker Oats canister became a hat, a telescope, or a horn. Plastic measuring cups could be stacked like blocks, or nested by size. Even my bookmarks had pictures of animals and flowers on them, and we worked on words and colors as we sorted through them.

But there was always the frisbee. Early games of peek-a-boo, as Michael hid behind it and giggled when he peeked out at me. The frisbee as a hat, balancing on his dark hair until he slowly tipped his head and let it fall in his lap. Then he learned to roll it to me. I rolled it back across my not quite level farmhouse floor so he could learn to catch it too.

In the summer, we used the frisbee as a scoop when we played in the green turtle sandbox under the silver maple tree, along with empty yogurt containers and plastic spoons (more improv toys). We discovered it would float in the swimming pool, circling around with the flow of water from the filter. With Michael in my arms, I would swim with it, or toward it.We made a whirlpool and tried to catch the frisbee as it whooshed past.

As he grew and learned to swim, he threw the frisbee and paddled on his own, trying to catch up with it to throw it again. He still plays that game in my pool, either on his own or with his sister, Maria, his cousins, or his Tia.

And Michael plays frisbee. As in, throwing it and catching it. Today, the white Open Door Mission frisbee gets used like a frisbee. Not a plastic dish, or a peek-a-boo toy.

Michael plays golf now, "like Tiger," he says. And he plays T-ball in his back yard, and kicks the soccer ball here in my driveway. He goes to school on the bus, carries his backpack, and calls me on the phone to tell me what's new. "Maria threw up today," he reported recently. "She ate fruit, then she threw up. But she's okay now."

I don't know if he remembers eating off the frisbee when he first came to Tia's house. He had arrived from Guatemala just a short while before, at the age of ten months. I mentioned it to him once, when we were playing frisbee outside, how he had used it as a dish when he was little. He laughed, and said, "that's a funny thing, Tia."

The frisbee is in the house with me now. I'm not usually sentimental about anything other than photographs. After all, it's just a plastic disk, grass-stained and scraped a little after all these years. The blue lettering has faded a bit, but I can still read the words. "Restoring Hope".

ANOTHER ROTUNDA TALE

2006-04-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

I get a lot of requests for another story about Paul Rotunda, especially from folks who knew him. There's no exaggerating a Rotunda tale. Fact trumps fiction every time. My earlier entry, WATERLOO, had me bailing him out of jail.

This one took place in the wilds of Wayne County, and involves a horse of questionable ownership. It was a Monday Morning Story. The sort of answer you'd get if you were careless enough to ask, "Paul, how'd your weekend go?"

"Rotten!"

I should have known better than to continue, but what the heck.
"Why? What happened?"

An aside: Paul had a talent for nicknaming people that was Dickensian. Walking Jesus (a guy who paced); Jack Benny (a cheapskate); Turkey Legs (she shouldn't have worn shorts) Banjo Eyes (round wire-rimmed glasses); Possum Face (hard to describe, but it fit); Dirty Charlie (hygiene not a priority).

Since I can't remember who, exactly, was his colleague in this scenario, I'll ascribe it to Cockroach. You could pick him out of a crowd just by that name, even if you'd never seen him before. It was uncanny.

"Me and Cockroach got this horse."
"Where?"
"Doesn't matter. We just got him. Brought him out to that farm off Swamp Road" (not the real address, readers)
"That's good, Paul."
"No, it's not." Pause, while he lights a Camel. "It up and died." Pause, while he puffs the Camel. "And somebody called the sheriff."

"Because a horse died?" Even in Wayne County, I can't imagine a dead horse being big news.

"No. Some bullshit about it being stolen."
"Was it?" Pause, while he smokes some more, followed by no answer.

I halfway hoped this was the end of it, but I had heard enough Monday Morning Stories to know it wasn't. And the other half of me hoped he'd go on. He did.

"Good thing we had that tractor." There's a non-sequitur for you. "We scooped out a hole between the barn and the woods, so we could bury it right quick."

Bury was pronounced Burry, but I got the point.

"We had a tow chain in the truck, wrapped it around the leg and drug it in and dumped it. Then we pushed the dirt back in over it."

"That's good, Paul, so it all worked out okay."

"No. We didn't make the hole deep enough, and the four legs was stickin' up in the air."

He demonstrated this by flinging his arms straight up as if I couldn't picture it on my own otherwise.

"But I was smart," he said, tapping his head to make sure I got the point."I grabbed my pruning saw from the back of the truck, and I went to sawing away for all I was worth on those four legs stickin' up and I threw 'em off into the woods just as we heard the sheriff's car coming down the road."

He lit another Camel, and blew out a long line of smoke.

"And I real quick kicked the dirt over the stubs just as the sheriff pulled into the yard."

"Well, Paul, then I guess it worked out okay." I figured that was the end. Wrong.

"No. Would have, except for that damned hound dog." Pause.Smoke. "It comes runnin' out of the woods, with a horse's hoof in his mouth, and drops it right at the sheriff's feet."

And without further ado, or explanation, he headed out to work, puffing on the Camel as he went.

TOMMY LEE JONES, AGAIN

2006-03-01T09:43:00.000-08:00

I saw the movie "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada," a masterpiece for sure by that polo-playing genius, Tommy Lee Jones. I rushed to see it as soon as it opened, at only one nearby theatre, because I know it won't last long. There were no previews shown, no reviews written, and no hype for it whatsoever.

Three other people were at the screening, and this was two days after the movie opened. The film won the Palme D'Or at Cannes, but who cares back here in the states?

This is what I call a "little" movie. No big name cast or massive special effects. No earth-shattering plots twists. Just a good story about everyday people and the way life goes sometimes.

For me, the best part was just looking, seeing the locales that are so familiar to me in West Texas. I could pinpoint some settings specifically, like the hoodoos near Redford, created by wind erosion. One spot looked like Tornillo Creek, doubling as the Rio Grande, and the windmill and stocktank might be the one Edgy and I stopped at on the Pinto Canyon Road. I was home, that's for sure, watching that movie.

But beyond that, my own personal connection to the places and people, it sure deserved a lot more attention than it got. It said a lot about friendship and promises, truth and deception,law and justice, and the gray area somewhere between them.

Melissa Leo (one of my favorites), playing the waitress, had her own unusual sense of loyalty and devotion. And she stuck true to it. Dwight Yoakum, the local lawman, did his duty as far as he could, then left the rest to the Migra. Smart man.

But it's the promise Tommy Lee made to his Mexican friend, Melquiades, that carries the story. He kidnaps the Border Patrolman who shot Mel, digs up the dead body, and heads down into Mexico on horseback to bury him at the little town in Coahuila he'd talked about. It's an odyssey in the ancient and modern sense of the word, a journey beyond geography.

The ending was a surprise. Even I couldn't have guessed it. See this movie. It's very good.

You may need to rent it, since it's hardly playing anywhere and not for long at that. And that's a shame.

THE EMPTY LOT

2006-02-12T10:31:00.000-08:00

They bulldozed it down. Completely. Nothing left but an empty lot. It isn't like I hadn't been warned. My brother told me it was going down when he drove by. So I was prepared, I thought.

Still, it seemed a shock. The empty lot. Nothing on it but a bulldozer with fresh mud on its tracks. Open space where I'd never seen space before. Where the building used to stand.

No, it's not a house I lived in. I have no sentiment for houses, and have never understood people who do. I could live in a tent as easily as not. Attachment to dwellings never made sense to me.

The piece of my past that was bulldozed out of existence was my Aunt Vi and Uncle Joe's garden center. My brother, my cousins, and I all worked there growing up. And we all carried on the family business tradition with florist shops, tree farms,and landscaping companies.

There was the store itself, where we displayed the hard goods like pottery, tools, and chemicals. Chemicals that smelled bad and have since been outlawed.

The three-sided counter sat in the center, with massive NCR cash registers where we had to make change with our brains, not a computer. Plants were grown in muddy clay pots that we wrapped in old newspapers. Customers seemed not to mind back then.

The little greenhouse was my favorite because that's where the cactus grew. It was hard for Aunt Vi to walk past them without stopping to soak them down with water. She knew they were supposed to be dry, but it still bothered her. So she let me take care of them when I was working, since I was the only one there who loved the spiny little buggers.

She did keep a few good-sized Aloe Vera plants in that greenhouse, nice and handy to medicate cuts and burns. She was ahead of her time, since most people had never heard of Aloe Vera and used drugstore ointments instead.

In the big greenhouse we displayed a variety of hanging plants--episcias, Boston ferns, hoyas. They were dirt cheap, but still didn't sell. The interior decorators of the day hadn't yet informed people that they were supposed to love hanging houseplants, so ours hung around longer than some of the help did.

Both greenhouses were made of glass, obsolete now, except for conservatories like Kew Garden or Lamberton. Plastic has taken its place.

When Uncle Joe and his landscape crew were out on jobs, Aunt Vi and "her girls" ran the place. He once asked her if she wanted him to leave one of the boys at the store, to help out.

"No," she snapped. "Get 'em out of here. We can get more work done without any of them in the way. Right, girls?"

Right. But this was the sixties, and some of the truckers were a bit shocked when a crew of girls started unloading heavy boxes or sacks of soil. And customers didn't expect us to haul rolls of dripping sod out to their cars. Aunt Vi had us driving trucks and running tractors. Gender was never an issue.

Aunt Vi and Uncle Joe are both gone now. We cried when they died, and mourned our loss as a family. Their funerals included spectacular plants and floral arrangements, reflecting their lives and ours.

So I didn't think the empty lot would be anything more than just that, an empty lot. It surprised me, then, the sudden, strange feeling I had when I saw it, quickly, out my car window, as I zipped by in the rush of traffic. Just a few seconds and I had passed it.

It's small, that lot is. Nothing like the large, expansive businesses my brother and cousins run now. But it's where we all started. Watering the plants. Unloading the shrubs. Ringing up the sales. Shaking the snow off the Christmas trees.

And drinking coffee with doughnuts at break time. I still don't know where Aunt Vi got those heavy diner-style cups, white with the dark green trim. You could bounce them off a concrete floor and I swear they wouldn't break.

One concrete floor near the storage room had the initials J and J scribed in it, with the year, 1963. Uncle Joe said it stood for Joe and John. Uncle John said it stood for John and Joe. I guess it stood for them both, and how brothers can work together sometimes.

I wish I'd thought to go back there and hammer out that piece of cement before it got crushed and buried by the muddy bulldozer track.

I don't look at that empty lot anymore when I drive past it. I just watch where I'm going.

MARCONI, MAY GOD FORGIVE YOU

2006-01-26T18:05:00.000-08:00

I swear, on a stack of TV Guides, I'm not a television snob. I like TV.Not just the pompous, self-rightous, left-leaning PBS programs, either.

I'll watch Law & Order, Seinfeld, Frasier, re-runs of the Beverly Hillbillies. So I'm not on a rant about how awful TV is, and how it's ruining our society and poisoning our kids' minds. Maybe it is, but somebody else can rant about that.

My peeve is the fact that it has to be everywhere. Everywhere. Whatever happened to The TV Room? Now, every room in the house is a TV room.

Been camping lately? Instead of the warm glow of a campfire, you see the warm glow of the television, in RV's, pop-ups, even tents.

Recently I was in the waiting room at my doctor's office. Some idiotic talk show was blaring from a corner TV. Drove me crazy. Finally, an older man stood up, marched across the room, shut the TV, and said, "well, that's the end of that crap!" My hero.

At a local diner there are TV's perched like gargoyles in every corner. The reception is dreadful. Snow and static nearly obliterate the soap operas. Nearly, but not completely. The waitresses keep one eye on "The Bold and the Beautiful" and the other on the soup and the salad.

And so it goes. Cars. Garages. Hospitals. Nursing Homes. Gift Shops. Liquor Stores. National Park Bookstores.

When was the last time you walked into a home or office, and didn't see a television?

And just how long have Ashcroft and Rumsfeld been around?

I'M A PLAYWRIGHT

2006-01-26T17:39:00.000-08:00

First of all, I'm not a playwright. I'm a novelist--whose book has not been published. That, my dear Reader, is like floundering in deep water. You grab at anything that can keep you afloat.

So, when GeVa Theatre in Rochester sponsored a short playwriting contest, I grabbed at the chance to bring my novel's characters to life.

In short, I became a playwright. I reworked two scenes from my book and added some stage directions. Amazingly, I got The Call from GeVa that my entry was one of the winners. The chosen plays would be read by professional actors.

As the creator of Juan and Elena, I felt a bit like God. Or Dr. Frankenstein, depending on my mood. What if the actors' portrayals didn't jive with my vision of the couple? Would I suddenly become a hysterical diva, ranting like a tyrant? Would I have a meltdown, collapsing in tears and despair? Or internalize my distress, ulcerating my innards?

Hopefully not.

I blew into Rochester on Wednesday, January 18th, in a windstorm, arriving at Writers & Books, the site of the readings. As usual, I felt like the country mouse in the city. But that didn't last long. Chuck Lyons, editor emeritus of the esteemed Palmyra Courier-Journal, was also a winner! He had e-mailed me: "I told you when I entered this that I'm not a playwright. I stand by that statement."

Not so. I read his play and it was great.To my amazement, GeVa had actually chosen plays about real people, vignettes of life that made sense.

Rehearsal time arrived. I met Amy Jensen, the director, and Marcy Savastano, who would portray Elena Garcia. They were both a size zero, maybe a one if they inhaled hard. But Marcy, like my character, was a dark-eyed brunette, pretty and perky. A lovely Elena.

I panicked for a moment when I met "Juan Rodriguez." Ken Klamm, the actor, was tall, stocky, and blond. Muy Anglo-looking to play the role of a Mexican. But my doubts about his talent disappeared as soon as he started reading.

For a half hour, I became a real playwright, collaborating with Amy, suggesting emotions and gestures for the two actors. More than once, I squelched a strong urge to jump up and fling the script (all two pages of it) to the floor, and scream, "No! That's not the way it goes!" Not because the actors were far off the mark. They were really quite good. But because I had a tiny, sweet taste of power.

I understand now why authors are banned from rehearsals and sound stages. That sense of power, and the need to control your own creations is overwhelming, intoxicating like vintage (last week) Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine.

Because Marcy and Ken quickly grasped the characters' personalities and understood the scene I'd written, the rehearsal passed smoothly. We took a dinner break.

Then, Show Time!

My play was scheduled first. Was it because it was so good, it would set the tone for excellence? Or was it so bad, they wanted to get shed of it as fast as possible? Neither, I suppose.

A hush fell o'er the crowd. Not really, but that corny phrase sure sounds swell.

The director of Writers&Books announced, "'River Out of Eden' by Camy Sorbello."

I hoped I was wearing the enigmatic Mona Lisa smile I'd perfected eons ago in college. It may have looked more like the Cheshire Cat from "Alice in Wonderland." Sort of a DaVinci/Lewis Carroll meld. Regardless, I was careful not to lip-synch the dialogue along with the actors.

The audience, including friends, family, and colleagues, seemed transported by the brilliance of my play. That is, they didn't fall asleep, they didn't boo or throw fruit, and they didn't run away screaming. At the end, they applauded the talented actors.

Then I stood to the sound of thundering applause, or so it seemed, and waved to the groundlings.

Even Shakespeare couldn't have asked for more!

(reprint courtesy of the Palmyra Courier-Journal, Ad-Net Direct, 2006)

CONTRABAND TORTILLAS

2006-01-08T13:46:00.000-08:00

They've got more guts than you could hang on a fence.

My eighty year old amigos, Phyllis and Gene, married nearly sixty years, took part in a Christmas mission of mercy across the Rio Grande. Gene, a World War II vet, has two fake knees. Phyllis, a diminuative Queen Elizabeth II look-alike, can't swim.

But they both volunteered to be part of a flotilla of five canoes that traveled from Rio Grande Village in Big Bend Park to the shore near Boquillas, Mexico. They helped deliver hams, turkeys, fabric, clothes, dried milk, candy, books, tires, brake pads, and most of all, friendship.

Back in the good old days, before nine one one, before we turned into a nation of cowards and fools, Phyllis, Gene, and the rest of us, visited Boquillas freely and frequently. We shared meals with our friends, caught up on family news, and left with a handpainted walking stick and fresh cooked tortillas.

Not any more. Those items are considered contraband.

When the canoe Phyllis rode in neared the shore, Pablo, also eighty, waded into the Rio to give her a hug. It was illegal for her, or anyone else, to step out onto the shore.

Yolanda tried to hand her the tortillas, still warm from the comal, but Phyllis had to refuse them. If she had taken them, she would be a criminal. A smuggler, dealing in illegal tortillas. A serious crime. Compromising Homeland Security.

Phyllis, Gene, and the others balanced in the boats, careful not to fall out into Mexico. Their friends stood in the muddy water. It was the only way they could embrace.

It was a good visit, but too short. Happy mixed with sad.

With the goods unloaded, Phyllis needed to sit on the wet floor of the canoe. She didn't mind. She's been wet before, she told the boatman.

They waved good-bye and shouted Merry Christmas.

The canoes headed back, fighting the current all the while.

Fighting the current all the while.

POSSUM WARS

2006-01-03T16:55:00.000-08:00

It's me against the possums, and it's anybody's guess who will win.

It started with a rank odor in my kitchen closet. Acrid. Piercing. Like strong, eye-talian cheese that's seen better days. I assumed, naturally, that it was a dead critter of some sort, and the odor would soon pass.

It wasn't. And it didn't.

My Sherlock Holmesian gray matter deduced (or is it deducted?) that it was a possum residing in my south wall. Using cat food as bait, I set a trap on the back porch. Within an hour I caught a possum big enough to make two meals out of, if one were so inclined. I was not.

Since I had used a Have-A-Heart trap, I chose not to blow its ugly little head off, which would have made quite a mess. Instead, I released it several miles away near a lovely, pastoral habitat, far from any house or barn.

One down, and several more to go. It seems I have a whole tribe of these varmints living in my house like it was a marsupial condominium. They skitter up the outside wall. They gallop inside the ceiling. They masticate the two-by-fours. They thunder back and forth like a stampeding herd. At night. Possums are nocturnal. Recently, so am I.

Thus far, I have managed to catch three of them. But it's slow going. I may try running a trapline like the voyageurs and mountain men of old--a series of Have-A-Hearts bordering my back porch, their metal gates snapping in succession like an outdoor percussian concert. Music to my ears.

It's a race against time. Will I rid the house of these varmints before they chew through the electric lines or sever the TV cable? Or will they drive me insane with their incessant intramural migration?

Like I said, it's anybody's guess.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NANI

2005-12-07T14:20:00.000-08:00

I still wish her a happy birthday every December 7th, even though she's been gone from us for many years. I know she hears me anyway. And I wanted to be sure and enter this today, on her birthday.

Of course, most people know December 7th as Pearl Harbor Day. At least, some people do. To judge from the front page of the Rochester newspaper, it's hardly worth mentioning. So much for never forgetting.

But Nani, we'll never forget her. Today's weather was just the sort she hated. Way too cold, windy, icy conditions. A far cry from her childhood in Sicily. Once indoors, she tried to replicate the Mediterranean climate by jacking up the thermostat into the equatorial range of temperatures. She was comfortable, as were her two cats, while the rest of us sweltered.

Last night, I set up the Christmas manger scene that once belonged to her. It's unusual in that it has two black wise guys instead of just one. She chose the figures herself, years back, at Sibley's Department Store. They were imported from Italy, which of course made them the best. I assume she didn't know that only one of the three kings was supposedly African, and that's why she chose two. Maybe she just figured one of them was Sicilian, or Calabrese. With Nani, it's anybody's guess. Her sense of logic was her own. I love that manger scene a lot, and enjoy it up every year.

It's fashionable lately to face situations with WWJD (what would Jesus do?). But, for me, it makes more sense to ask WWND; what would Nani do? This leads to some amusing possibilitis.

Once, she threw wooden carrot crates at a farmer twice her size because he tried to go back on a deal they'd made. Another time, she pulled a knife on a guy who was
making improper advances. And we all remember the time she lifted a Rochester cop up off his feet. He didn't think she could do it. Guess she showed him.

She wasn't a woman to mess with. Think Granny on "The Beverley Hillbillies" with a touch of Sophia from "The Golden Girls".

It's interesting that I'm posting this on the internet, using a computer, when Nani's life began before there was even electricity. She welcomed the new inventions in her life, especially TV and the telephone, her favorite. She'd be surprised to know this message can be accessed anywhere in the world, and people can read about her.

So, what would Nani do? That's what I ask myself some days.

She'd just keep going, barreling through life at top speed. Cooking up vats of sauce, rolling miles of biscotti dough, and filling hundreds of cannolis. Saying the rosary. Lighting candles at church. Cutting up liver for her cats. Watching "Little House on the Prairie" reruns. Just keep going.

Happy Birthday, Nani

WHERE'S MY PULLETZER?

2005-12-04T12:26:00.000-08:00

I wasn't sure what to title this entry. Chickens to Churches? Fiestas and Funerals? A Gibson Guy and Graveyards? Canals and Cows? Pageants and Preachers? The choices seemed endless, and endlessly ridiculous. The point was, I wanted to touch on some of the adventures and misadventures (trite word, I know) of a free-lance journalist.

My first article, written eight years ago for my local paper, was titled "Who is This Gibson Guy?" and took hours of research for what basically turned out to be a story about a 19th century banker and land developer. Pretty dull stuff, as it turned out. But it was a byline and I was thrilled.

Since then, I've covered a variety of people and places for stories that range from silly to serious, mundane to momentous. None of them pays worth a hoot, but it sure makes for an interesting life, full of highlights and low-lifes.

Someone asked me once what kind of articles I write. I answered, anything that's not illegal, immoral, or unethical, as long as it pays and it's fun.

I thought when I began writing instead of farming, I wouldn't need to be outdoors in all kinds of dreadful weather. I was wrong. In pursuit of the scoop, I...

Conducted an interview in 100 degree heat at Hill Cumorah during set construction for a pageant.

Dodged bulldozers and backhoes in mudholes and dustclouds, in temperatures near 100 to cover a story on antique construction equipment.

Nearly froze to death traipsing along with some folks who wanted to cut their own Christmas tree, like Chevy Chase and the Griswolds.

Jumped on a moving barge on the Erie Canal, in pouring rain, to get the scoop on what it's like to work the canal route.

Wrote in the dark during a Halloween history/ghost walk through town. My notes looked like Egyptian hyroglyphics!

Besides braving rain, sleet, snow, you get the picture, I've had occasion to interview clergy from several denominations, including...

An aged, retiring Catholic priest, beloved by his parishioners, who was later accused of child molestation.

A Dutch Reformed pastor, also retiring and beloved by the community, whose responses to my questions consisted of monosyllables.

A newly-ordained Jesuit from a local dairy farm who apparently could talk about nothing other than his PhD thesis on British medieval history.

Many local Mormons, who can't seem to understand that Sicilian peasants did not leave oodles of letters and centuries of records for geneologists to uncover.

But I've been fortunate, too, to interview people whose lives are worth recording.

Families with children adopted from China. Two little girls, dressed in their traditional Chinese clothes, greeted me at the door, and gave me chopsticks and an embroidered purse when I left.

Veterans of World War II. Their memories are sharp, with stories of the Battle of the Bulge, Hitler's vault, and the kindness of strangers to boys far from home. One vet, a POW in Germany, told me his story just weeks before his death.

Refugees from Kosovo. Families who trekked over mountains and lived in tents until resettling in the US. They struggled with more than just language, as gender roles and the pace of life here were hard adjustments.

Old Farmers. There's no other way to describe them, the folks who remember herding cattle to the railhead down the middle of the highway. There was no traffic to worry about. They raised purt near everything they needed (except coffee and sugar) and can't figure out why there are so many trees here now. Doesn't anyone need firewood and cropland anymore?

Funerals and cemeteries. I've become a de facto expert. Formal Victorian cemeteries, rustic Texas graveyards, and even a home burial, conducted by friends on the deceased's remote mountain property.

The only thing I refuse to cover is town meetings. I don't care who needs a permit to build a new dog house, or whether the appraiser is going to be strung up at sundown.

Local politics may bore me, but four-legged chickens, now there's a scoop. Posthumous poultry isn't usually very interesting (think Kentucky Fried) but this fellow was the exception. He was a great interview, perched for all eternity on a piece of plywood, two legs holding him up and two spares. His owner filled in the details, about his birth in the 1940's, his charming personality, and his untimely demise, cut down in the prime of his chickenhood by a fowl deed indeed--hit by a car. What a story!

I didn't win a pulletzer prize for that one, but it's just a matter of time, if I keep lancing free.

POLO & TOMMY LEE JONES

2005-09-11T06:03:00.000-07:00

Tommy Lee Jones, cowboy and actor, would hold my attention if he stood there and read the phone book. He is one of the only cowboy actors left. We all know there'll never be another John Wayne. But at last Tommy Lee Jones still has the guts and gumption to make cowboy pictures. Lonesome Dove. The Good Old Boys. The Missing.

His latest is The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. He directed and stars in it.It's garnering prizes in places like Sundance and Cannes and Toronto. Jones plays a ranch hand who hauls a dead Mexican, killed in Texas, back down to his hometown in Mexico to be buried. Shades of Lonesome Dove with an international twist.

When I received my weekly newspaper from West Texas, there was Tommy Lee Jones on the cover in a large photo, playing polo with a bunch of rich guys from the tony Reata Polo Club. It was the lead article, a real coup for the editor I suppose. I zoomed right into it. It covered nearly the whole front page.

Except for a little article shoved into the corner next to the polo report. "Bodies of three immigrants found." A footnote, in a way. Three illegals found dead of exposure, not too far from the polo match. The polo match which included "handsome men and women with foreign accents" and "champagne handed out at halftime".

The three could not be identified due to "extreme decomposition and lack of identification."

I turned to page 2, where both stories were continued. Another huge chunk of prose on "Polo". Gushing quotes about the space for up to 140 wonderful horses. Details about the visiting teams from Dallas and Houston.

Only two inches of text on "Bodies." Attempts to find the families, and an expression of sadness from the sheriff. It was scrunched in between the polo story, a bail bond ad, and a sale on used pick-up trucks.

My desk is cluttered with newspaper clippings from the last few weeks. The Tommy Lee Jones/Dead Bodies article, the "No Spanish In The Workplace" controversy, comments on the porous border and what to do. Debates in Congress. In the newspapers. In the workplace.

Three nameless mojados decompose in the nearby mountains. Three families in Mexico wait word from El Norte that their boys made it through okay. Down in West Texas, Tommy Lee Jones plays polo with the rich guys and probably doesn't read the newspapers. And here in Upstate New York, I plan to go see his new movie. I bet it's pretty good.

RADIOACTIVE UNCLE

2005-08-01T16:54:00.000-07:00

I have returned from my annual foray to Crotch Lake. Yes, that's what it's called. It's a wilderness lake two hours north of Kingston, Ontario. For fifteen years I've travelled there in July with my tribe of relatives and assorted friends for R&R--fishing, boating, swimming, reading, and of course, the Italian national sport, eating.

Each year I dread crossing back into the US of A. Given my incredible bad luck with, along with my incredible bad attitude toward, the INS (aka Border Patrol, aka Homeland Security, aka La Migra, aka a******s) it doesn't always go swimmingly.

I believe I am already in their database system due to my altercations with them along the Tex-Mex border. At this time, I shall not go into detail regarding those incidents. Let's just say, we have a history.

Last year, I waited three hours in a rainstorn to reach the US/Canada border, but was able to pass through after a few simple questions and a glance at my passport. This year, the wait was only an hour and a half, and the sun shone brightly.

My Uncle John was riding with me. We passed the time listening to Marty Robbins singing cowboy ballads on the CD. He sang about Texas and Mexico a lot, and escaping the law "out through the badlands of New Mexico." I should have taken it as an omen.

We handed over our IDs to the border guard. He asked us our citizenship. We managed to say "USA". Then came the beep.

A young, petite, female guard (for some reason, I feel I should describe her) was circling my car carrying a black box not unlike an old-time transister radio. It beeped. And beeped. Continually.

"Has anyone in this vehicle had a medical procedure done recently?" asked the guard.
Apparently all those other questions, like "do you have any alcohol, tobacco, or live bait with you?" aren't really that important after all. They never did get around to asking them.

Fortunately, Uncle John's doctor had given him a document regarding a test he'd had the week before that had left him, apparently, radioactive.

Still, we had to follow three guards to the interogation area. My uncle was asked to step out of the car. He sat in the shade on the edge of a brick planter filled with geraniums and marigolds. They told me to drive through a cement bunker, similar to a car wash. Then I was "encouraged" to shut the engine and go "check on your uncle."

One of the guards had entered the building and returned with a larger black gadget that looked like those old Geiger counters from the 1960's. He scanned a wand slowly up and down my uncle as the gadget beeped. At the same time, he studied the doctor's document closely.

Uncle John is 82. He's not in perfect health. There he sat, his wooden cane resting on the red brick beside him, as Homeland Security checked to make sure he wasn't a threat to his homeland's security.

"Casablanca" is Uncle John's favorite movie. In it, Humphrey Bogart's "letters of transport" have the power to get people out of Morocco.

Like Bogie, Uncle John had the medical "letter of transport" with the power to get him out of Canada.

Since I was his driver, I got out too. The guards were very considerate and courteous, assured us all was in order, and directed us back onto the interstate heading south. None of them resembled Claude Rains.

And now the INS has me on their northern border hit list. For attempting to smuggle my octogenarian, radioactive uncle into the US from Crotch Lake.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

WALLY & THE PINK LOCUST

2005-07-02T20:16:00.000-07:00

Wally Miller died. I just found out. Hadn't thought about him in years. Not since old Mr. Aldrich passed on.

When I knew Wally, he was middle-aged. He drove Mr. Aldrich around in the old pick-up truck to deliver plants they grew in a little greenhouse on the Aldrich farm. Wally didn't say much. Taciturn. He always wore a gimme cap and work clothes, and walked sort of stoop-shouldered and bent over. Walked just like Mr. Aldrich, except that he was elderly, and Wally wasn't.

But he'd worked for Mr. Aldrich for so long that he resembled him quite a bit. They were often mistaken for father and son. Both were thin, looked alike, walked alike, worked side by side, and rode around together in the pick-up.

The plants Mr. Aldrich grew were a bit unusual. He didn't need to worry about making big money from his little greenhouse. It was more of a pastime than profession. He would surprise us with a petunia or tomato variety that was very old, or very new, but not very ordinary.

Unlike Wally, Mr. Aldrich was upbeat, cheery, and rather talkative. Always had something pleasant or interesting to say, didn't gripe or gossip. Generous, too. One year he gave us a seedling of a pink flowering locust tree. He had one in his yard and had taken cuttings from it. Wasn't selling any, just giving them away to friends.
We planted it in our yard.

Wally's only activity, apart from Mr. Aldrich's place, was tending the little cemetery at the old Methodist Church. He mowed the grass, pulled the weeds, straightened the tombstones. It was a showplace, that little graveyard, thanks to Wally. I figured his folks must be buried there.

Nope.It was his fiancee. She had died suddenly just days before their wedding. She was buried in her white gown. Wally remained a bachelor the rest of his life. Had no interest in dating, or socializing, or traveling. Only in Mr. Aldrich's farm, and the Methodist cemetery.

We waited every spring for the pink locust to bloom. I'd seen the white ones, but never pink. It would leaf out fine, and put on steady growth. But no blossoms. Then, after several years, it finally bloomed. I remembered Mr. Aldrich, when he gave us the tree, saying how beautiful it would look. And he was right. It was worth the wait. Full, fluffy, fragrant flowers.

It was that same spring that Mr. Aldrich died. I think there was a direct connection between the two events. It couldn't have been coincidental. He died. The tree bloomed. Simple enough.

Without Mr. Aldrich around, Wally seemed to just fade away. I never gave him much thought. And now he's dead too. I figure he's buried in the graveyard he tended all those years. Next to his fiancee in her white wedding dress. Together, finally, for all eternity.

Sounds like a country-western song. If I could write music, and lyrics, I'd send it to Nashville.

But it's just a little story about people in a little town. Nothing special or excitng. No car chases or explosions. Just an old man with a greenhouse. And a guy that pulled weeds in a graveyard. And a locust tree with pink blossoms.

ROADKILL, ETC.

2005-06-25T07:04:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine just experienced his first car-deer collision on an interstate in Rochester. The unfortunate critter (deer, not friend) received a coup de grace from a nearby cop, as the deer was in no condition to survive the wreck.

If he had lived, he could have been served with a summons for several violations; jay-running, using an interstate without a license or vehicle, improper lane change, vandalism, destruction of property, attempted manslaughter, attempted murder.

Instead, he was euthanized--a sterile term for a bullet to the brain--for his transgressions. Not a happy scene for anyone involved, but a far too frequent one.

My friend survived unhurt. His car will be fine too, after two grand worth of rehab.

Snakes, slithering along, terrify people. Bears, hairy and hoary, frighten them. Alligators, with their enormous teeth, send them running. But everybody loves Bambi.

A recent article listed the most dangerous, as in, deadly, critters in America. Bambi was number one. Deer kill 150 people a year in this country, due to road collisions. They host the tick that carries Lyme disease,a serious neurological and auto-immune illness. And they spread several bovine diseases to domestic beef and dairy cattle.

Snakes and bears cause on average from less than one death per year, to perhaps four or five. The snake bite victims are almost always handlers--religious clergy that use poisonous snakes in their sermons, or pet lovers who are tired of Fido and Fluffy and want something more exotic to curl up in their lap.

But Bambi comes uninvited. He invades urban parks and suburban yards, in the process of crissing and crossing roads without looking both ways first. Bambi is a killer, though most people are loathe to admit it.

Disney, like Dr. Frankenstein, created a monster. Hunters are seen as homicidal maniacs, lunatic gun nuts running wild in the woods. Kids who hunt are careful not to mention this pastime to friends and teachers. They are taught in hunter safety classes how to manage confrontations with animal rights activisits who may accost them in the field. Back away slowly, gun pointed down, and don't engage in any verbal debate.

My city friends think my attitude toward deer is dreadful. They are rabidly anti-hunting, and pro-deer, regardless of how ecologically unsound their overpopulation. Perhaps I should show these folks pictures of endangered wildflower habitat ruined by Bambi and his buddies, or trees and shrubs stripped bare and left to die in the swamp (whoops, I mean wetlands). I know better than to mention crop damage, as that would just start a harangue against the farmers, which I can definitely do without.

The argument that "the deer were here first" doesn't work with me. If it weren't for us, there wouldn't be 1.2 million deer in New York State alone. It's our agricultural and horticultural habits that supports them. Scientists theorize that when the first Europeans came here, there were probably only a million or so whitetail deer in all of what is now the 48 states.

We nearly eliminated all their natural enemies (wolves, bears, etc.), regulated or outlawed hunting, and created pastoral havens for them to live and multiply in. And now we're stuck with them, until inbreeding and overcrowding creates a natural control and decline. Warning: it won't be pretty when it happens.

As for my friend with the rearranged and reconfigured car, he has often mocked my opinion on deer. I think he felt it was just one more of my many rural eccentricities, amusing but foolish. Ah, but no longer. He has been initiated with blood (the deer's, not his own, thankfully) into the fold. Now he knows.

And this is why I like the NRA far better than PETA.

Happy Hunting!

GUADALUPANA

2005-06-16T17:19:00.000-07:00

Yo soy Guadalupana.

I am a Guadalupana. I have been one for quite a while. I just never realized it before, or didn't have a name for it.

For several years now I have collected images of Our Lady of Guadalupe; statues, candles, calendars, keychains, notebooks, scarves, plaques, refrigerator magnets, Christmas ornaments. My comadre Marilu brought me a mini-shrine from Guerrero of la Virgen made of seashells.

There seems to be no limit to the different ways she is portrayed. Lunch boxes, shopping bags, bookmarks, pill boxes, coffee mugs, t-shirts, hats. Just when I think I've seen every conceivable item or location with her image, I see something new. She is everywhere in the Latino world.

Muchas Gracias to a dear and generous friend who gave me a copy of a new book, "Guadalupe--Body and Soul." This exquisite volume tells her story in poem and pictures, and shows the faith and devotion people have for her.

In one photo, she is a tattoo covering a man's back. Prisoners do this so they won't get stabbed in jail, as no one would dare to attack La Virgen. In another, she adorns the uniforms of a soccer team in Mexico City.

In Chihuahua, Mexico two years ago, we came upon her suddenly beside a curve in the road. A rock, at least twenty feet tall, had been propped up and cemented into the ground. On it was her image,painted in colorful, intricate detail;the gold esplendor, the red and yellow roses, the blue star-speckled robe.

Beside it sat a small shrine with a compartment for candles, offerings, prayers. I was the only Catholic in our group, but my friends indulged me--and what they saw as my pagan superstitions--so we stopped.

I needed a picture, of course, to show the folks back home. Handing my camera to Barbara, I tried to look not unholy as I stood beside the huge painting and squinted into the desert sun.

I needed to leave something in that shrine, some offering, along with a prayer, to Our Lady of Guadalupe, in gratitude for her many blessings on me and my family. But what to leave?

First, I got lucky. I opened the little glass door to find a votive candle and matches. Good start. Light the candle, say a prayer.

Then I reached in my pocket and found a dime, nickel, and penny. I set them beside the candle. But it still didn't seem like enough; sixteen cents and a borrowed candle.

Now, maybe they had been there all along, and I just hadn't noticed. Probably.
Off yonder a little ways, among the caliche dust and rocks, a clump of yellow flowers bloomed. No other vegetation anywhere. Just the clump of flowers. Brittlebush, I think it was, but no matter.

They weren't the bright, fragrant roses that Juan Diego had seen covering the hillside in 1531, the flowers he wrapped in his tilma and presented to the bishop.

No, these were just desert weeds. My desert weeds. I hurried over, picked them and laid them beside the coins as an offering to La Virgen. Another quick prayer, and I closed the glass door to the shrine.

As we walked back to the car, I took one last look at that huge painted rock.

How had they hoisted it upright? It had to weigh several tons. And whose land, public or private, was it on?

Who had painted that detailed, perfect image? When? How? Why? Was it for favors received, or favors requested? Was it in memory of someone? Or a penance for something?

It stood alone in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert, surrounded by mountains and desert, silence and space, a monolith to faith. I watched until the road curved around another craggy hillside and she was out of sight.

Yo soy Guadalupana.

WATERLOO

2005-06-14T12:27:00.000-07:00

Waterloo, New York is barely a blip on the map, though it's the seat of Seneca County. On the TV news last night, they announced that a new, multi-million dollar jail will replace the nearly 100 year old one that will be torn down.

The camera took us through a tour of the current, wretched calaboose, detailing how inhumane the facility was for the local criminal element. It brought back memories. Nearly thirty years ago, I myself had the opportunity to see the Waterloo Jail in person.

No, not as a prisoner. I was bailing out Paul Rotunda, alias Indian Charlie (may he rest in peace), a friend, employee, and more than anything, a character of mythic proportions. Here's what happened.

"Babalooch!" (his nickname for me)
"Paul, where the hell are you. We're busy here."
"I'm in Crowbar Hotel."
"Jail? What for?"
"I don't know. Some bullshit thing. I'm in Waterloo. You gotta get me outta here."
"How much, Paul?"
"Five hunnert dollars."
"Whoa! What did you do? It's never been that high before."
"Salt in the Battery."
"You put salt in somebody's battery?" (He'd once put sugar in his girlfriend's gas tank, so it seemed logical, in a way.)
"No. Salt in the Battery. I hit somebody."
"Oh, you mean assault and battery."
"That's what I said. Salt in the Battery." (He shouted as though I were deaf or daft.)
"Okay, I'll get it, but I need to deliver a truckload of flowers to a church in Newark first, then I'll come down and bail you out. Tell them to just keep you there, and I'll show up after lunch."
"Okay, Babalooch. But hurry up."

Waterloo looks like it belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting, or as a Hollywood set for the next Mayberry. Quaint, tranquil, and white-bread. You get the picture. I circled the town square and parked in front of the majestic, domed courthouse.

At the jail, there was one bored-looking deputy perched on a stool behind a desk. He lit up like a light bulb when I entered. This was years ago, when I was younger, thinner, prettier. I must have been the best-looking thing he'd seen all day.

"Hi. I'm here to bail out Paul Rotunda. He works for me."
"Wow." (big grin and gleam in his eye) "He said you'd come but I didn't believe him."

Now, this provoked me more than the leer did.

"I said I would. Why didn't you believe it?"
"I dunno. Anyway, Miss, you need to sign here, give me the bail money, and I'll release him to you."

I pulled out the money, held it in front of me, and just as he reached for it, snatched it back against my bosom (which he had been eyeballing).

"I want to see him first," I said.
"What?"
"I want to see him first. I need him to work. How do I know you haven't beat him up? He's no good to me if he can't work, and I'm not paying five hundred dollars cash for a pig in a poke. I want to see him first."
"He's not beat up."
"I don't know that if I don't see him."
"I can't do that. That's not how it works."
"Well, it's how I work," I said, as I started to stuff the money back into my very snug jeans. "If I can't see him first, I'll just take my five hundred dollars and go home, and you can put up with him here until his court date, which probably isn't for several weeks." I started out the door.
"No, wait." He slammed his pencil down on the desk. "I'm not supposed to do this, you know."

He seemed less enamored of me than before, and even less keen on the idea of putting up with Paul any longer than necessary. So he hauled out his clanking keyring, which looked remarkably like the ones in the cowboy movies I'd seen, and grumbled "follow me."

One of the stupidest moves I've ever witnessed was this deputy walking in front of me. No one else was in the building. I could have easily grabbed his gun from the holster, pulled one of my own, stabbed him with a knife, or hit him over the head. I could even have had an accomplice outside the wide open front door. No metal detectors back then. Absolutely no security or precautions whatsoever. He was a sitting duck.

We descended into the bowels of the lock-up. Paul was hanging onto the bars, also like in a western movie, grinning so wide that the gap where he'd pawned his gold tooth showed.

"I told you she'd come," he said to the deputy. "He didn't believe me, Babalooch. I'd have bet him money, 'cept I ain't got none."

"Paul, are you okay?" He looked fine, but I thought I should ask anyway, if only to annoy the deputy. "They didn't mess you up any, did they?"
"Nah. But the food's rotten in here."

The deputy unlocked the cell. "She made me bring her down here to see you. Wouldn't make bail unless you were okay." I think he thought that statement would upset Paul. It didn't.

"Hell, Paul," I said. "I would've bailed you out anyway."
"I know you would, Babalooch." He stepped out of the cell.

The deputy seemed upset by my statement.
"You made a sucker outta me," he said. It wasn't very hard to do, I thought, as I shrugged my shoulders.

The deputy seemed as happy to see me leave as he had been to see me arrive.
That was the first and last time I ever saw the Waterloo lock-up, until the news video last night.
It brought back fond memories of Rotunda, who was acquitted of the Salt in the Battery charge.
And of my younger, thinner, prettier days, when I emulated the great Mattie Ross herself. And got away with it.

MORE MINUTEMEN

2005-06-13T12:12:00.000-07:00

It's spread to Texas. The vigilante group that "guarded" the Arizona border to help protect us against the terror of working Mexicans, has inspired some Texans to take up the same cause.

The only part of the border I'm familiar with is Trans-Pecos West Texas. These warriors will be hard-pressed to survive that territory, let alone accomplish anything.

They plan to be equipped with cell phones and GPS guidance systems. Good luck, guys. Those gadgets don't work there, trust me.

I hoped to get more info from their website. But since they want donations and memberships, and the articles are all written by people with names like Wolfman and Sundog, I didn't give it much creedance. They also had lots of words spelled incorrectly, not a good sign either.

As for the efficiency of the Arizona Minutemen, I did hear a first-hand account by some folks who saw them live and in action, so to speak. Four young Mexican fellows I spoke with up north had crossed over in Arizona the week before.

"Oh, you shouldn't have crossed there," I said. "The vigilante guys, the Minutemen, are along the border."

"Oh, yeah," answered one. The others smiled. "We saw them. They were sitting there in their lawn chairs with their binoculars, looking across the border into Sonora. We just walked about a half mile away and crossed over, no problem."

It is to the Minutemen's credit that they caused no problems and took no action that resulted in injury to anyone. Hopefully, the same will happen in Texas. My concern there, however, is more for the safety of the Minutemen against the harsh terrain and elements. They may end up being aided and abetted by the very people they are out to nab.

Now there's a great idea for a TV movie!

RODEO!

2005-06-11T14:54:00.000-07:00

Just finished "riding" through a great book called "Rodeo--No Guts No Glory". It's mostly photography, black & white, with some accompanying text, by a woman named Louise L. Serpa.

She is a self-taught photographer and in 1965 was the first woman allowed in the rodeo ring to chronicle this death-defying, and brain-rattling sport. She knew she could show no fear, or she, and women for years to come, would be banned from the arena. Even when she was stomped by a bull, resulting in two cracked ribs and an injured spleen, she just jumped up and kept snapping away. Later, when she couldn't breathe, she decided to head for the hospital.

I like this woman. I could taste the dust and smell the cowshit as I looked through her book. And admire the cowboys, of course.

Much of the text consists of explanations of the different events, which I skimmed over, being familiar with the sport. But her personal experiences and anecdotes, as well as profiles of individual riders, interested me most. She admitted to being cautious, and more than once leaping a gate or fence, missing a great shot. But since there's a fine line between bravery and stupidity, especially in rodeoing, the fact that she lived to publish the book at all says a lot.

"Notes on Rodeo", by Larry McMurtry, appears at the end. Though he praises her, comparing her to Muybridge and Lotte Jacobi, he spends a great deal of time denigrating rodeos and cowboys in general, as is his way. For someone whose greatest work was the Pulitzer Prize-winning "Lonesome Dove," he sure knocks the Old West a lot.

"I don't admire rodeo, whereas Ms Serpa loves it," he says. He then rails on for two pages about the ills of rodeo, "show business" he calls it, and the demise of the ranching industry itself. Cowboys are only a myth, he claims, and an anachronism.And so forth.

Then he gets personal. McMurtry comes from a ranching family. He describes his father as "...the only cowboy I could ever care about..." Rather than seeing cowboys as "noble" as Serpa does, he writes,

"I see them as physically competent but emotionally limited men who are in most cases sexist, chauvinist, xenophobic, quasi-fascistic, and not infrequently dull."

Well, I declare! I do believe he cashed the many checks he received for the Lonesome Dove books (plural), mini-series, and TV shows. He apparently thinks the readers and viewers who admired his creations are saps and idiots.

"I thought Lonesome Dove was antimythic--" he writes. "Readers suck so hard at the old myths that they turn stones into grapes."

It's a cliche, I know, but he seems to be biting the hands that feed him, as he heads for his bank. Or having his cake and eating it too. You get the picture.

I still think Lonesome Dove is the greatest Western ever written. And I'd sure like to meet Louise Serpa and hear some more stories about her rip--roarin' rodeo photo shoots. And, unlike McMurtry, I do love cowboys.

Happy Trails to You, 'til we meet again.

LA MIGRA ESTUPIDA

2005-06-09T18:17:00.000-07:00

The latest issue of the NY State Farm Bureau newsletter has a cover story about the INS (now part of Homeland [In]Security) intercepting 22 migrant workers driving up from Florida to pick veggies in northern NY for a farmer there. Because six (out of 22) were not legal, all were sent back south.

So, the farmer lost $200,000 worth of produce because there was no one to pick it. It rotted in the fields. People are starving all over the world. People are starving in New York State. But two hundred thousand dollars worth, acres and acres, of good, nutritious, saleable, edible food went to waste courtesy of the INS.

And lots of folks down in Mexico who need the income sent from their dads, sons, brothers, uncles, up north didn't receive the money they were waiting for. There is no welfare, unemployment, or SSI in Mexico. There's just the family.

The third largest source of income for Mexico is money sent from workers in El Norte (just behind petroleum and tourism). Around ten and a half billion a year (dollars, not pesos).

Meanwhile, agriculture, like industry, is moving offshore. Every year we import more and more food, and more and more farms in this country are abandoned or paved over. A major factor is lack of labor. Not because there aren't people willing to do the work. People who want to work aren't allowed to.

In Ontario County, a dairy farmer was forced to scramble for help milking his cows when the Migra rounded up all his workers just before milk time and hauled them off to the INS cells in Buffalo. Have you ever been around cows whose milking time has passed? Not pleasant, not pleasant at all. (Ask any nursing mom if you want the details.)

But, as only one percent of the American population is actively involved in agriculture, it probably doesn't matter much to most people. Yet. Wait until the grocery shelves are bare, or an apple costs ten bucks.

And at the same time, these workers who are willing to pick the fruit, plant the trees, and milk the cows, are rounded up like cattle themselves, herded off by Homeland Security forces.

Do you feel safer now? Or maybe just hungrier?

WOMEN IN WESTERNS

2005-06-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

Much has been said about the use/misuse of women in western books and movies, as well as TV programs of years past. I feel there's way too much pissin' and moanin' goin' on. In books by Elmer Kelton, Louis L'Amour, and Larry McMurtry, women come out pretty much on a par with the men, for good and bad, dead or alive. Check it out, and see what I mean.

CAMY SORBELLO INTERVIEW

2005-06-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

RIT Professor Larry Belle recently interviewed me for Unreal City, the online literary journal. The latest issue isn't formally out yet, but readers can catch a sneak previews of my interview with the good Professor at www.unrealcity.us/comm/camyinterview.html.

Here's one of my family photos from the article:

CONFIRMATION

2005-06-07T15:53:00.000-07:00

The Comunidad Migrante de Nuestra Virgen de Guadalupe saw nineteen young Latinos confirmed by Bishop Matthew Clark last night in Sodus. I was lucky enough to be madrina, or godmother, to two of the girls.

And, for me, it was like a step back in time, to the experiences of my grandparents when they came here from Sicily. The people are dealing with a new language, a new culture, and economic struggles. Whole families, brothers, sisters, cousins, were at the church, confirming each others' kids, standing in for parents and grandparents still in Mexico or Central America.

The children, like my goddaughter Melissa, are "the bridge" as Father Jesus says, with a foot in each world, like my parents and aunts and uncles. They are being pulled in two directions at once, and must struggle to stay upright. The church, with Father Jesus and Sister Lucy, helps them keep that equilibrium.

None of the kids, or their parents, or even their uncles, with their cowboy hats and boots, and belt buckles the size of hubcaps, look like terrorists or undesireables.

Everyone was thrilled and honored to have the Bishop there. The photo op session afterward was like a swarm of papparazzi (whoops, wrong language) as everyone was videoing and snapping pictures, myself included. (As an experienced periodista, I wasn't bashful about standing on the pew to get a group shot of the kids.) Bishop Clark seemed to enjoy every minute of it, smiling, and shaking hands. I hope he realizes that his picture, with various confirmados, will soon find a place of honor in dozens of homes south of the border, where Rochester, and Sodus, are just a dot on the map, if even that.

And I, not really a gringa, but not a Mexican either, stood with my comadre Marilu and her husband Norberto, as Melissa, 12, received the Bishop's blessing. It was her idea to be confirmed, and she was proud and pleased, as was I.

Sara, in her 20's, came from Guatemala with her sister to work the farms in Ontario County. She knew no one to ask to be her sponsor, but she knew she wanted to be confirmed in her Catholic faith. Sister Lucy asked me last week if I would do it, and of course I said yes. In another world, as the saying goes, Sara and her sister would be models, they are that beautiful; petite, with bright smiles and spectacular long, Latin hair. Instead, they pack cabbage in a barn. And smile a lot. Little or no English that I could discern, but enthusiasm, optimism, and faith in so much. In them I see the strength of my grandmothers; little Latin women also.

Of course, there was food afterward, and talk, and kids running all over, and babies passed around to admire, and the Bishop said grace first and "worked the crowd" in the salon. "Worked" is a good word to use. Clark works the way all clerics should, but don't always. He connects with everyone, regardless of language barriers, or noise and confusion. He is a "hands on" bishop in the best sense. He scored points last night, not just for himself, but for the Catholic Church. He welcomed young adults through the sacrament of Confirmation, and he welcomed their families. Not just formally, but friendly, like a neighbor.

Folks that worked for me in the trees and wreaths years ago are now parents. They have learned English, settled in our area, and are making their home here. They proudly introduce their kids to me, and I am thrilled by it all! It's like a family reunion every time, and I'm so lucky to be included.

Hasta luego.