HAPPY BIRTHDAY
I heard him call, “Old clothes, trash, tires. Old clothes, trash, tires.”
I looked from my bedroom window to see a sway-backed old horse pulling a wagon slowly down the street. Two children jumped out as it neared our house, a girl about nine -- just about my age -- and her brother, who was a little older. Although it was a chilly September morning, she wore only a light cotton, ragged, rather dirty dress. She didn’t look very clean either and her hair was a mess. Both she and her brother were barefoot. The rag man stayed in the wagon.
They ran, one on each side of the street, to the end of the block, then began knocking on every door as they came back towards the wagon. Most houses had something for them and they were soon loaded down with trash which they brought to the rag man. He had stopped the horse in front of our house and climbed down from the wagon with difficulty. I thought he looked a little like my father had, before he died, with his thin, lined face, stooped shoulders, so tired and discouraged. He put oats in a bag, slipped it over the horse’s muzzle, patting and talking to him as he did. Then, climbing back into the wagon, he began sorting through the donations, separating them into neat piles of clothing, shoes, tires and undefinable junk.
Mother had already left for work and I was dressing for school. There would be Assembly today so I wore my new dress because I was singing in the choir.
I ran downstairs when I heard a knock on the door. There she stood, trying to wrap herself in her ragged sweater. She averted her eyes as she asked if I had any trash I didn’t want? I felt embarrassed to have her see me in my new dress. Is she the white trash Mother warned me about? I asked her to wait while I ran back upstairs. Shouldn’t ask her into our house. She might steal something And besides, she should be going to school.
I gathered up two dresses, a sweater, socks and a pair of shoes that I had almost outgrown. Downstairs again, I put them in her outstretched arms and closed the door before she could say anything more, but not before I saw her face brighten with a smile.
I peeked through the living room curtains to see what her father would do. as she held out the treasures to him. He said something to her, hugged her close and gave her back all my clothes. It surprised me to see he was crying. Her brother arrived just then with a worn out tire which he threw into the wagon. She showed him what she had and all three were laughing now.
The father, as they settled in the wagon, gave each child some coins. The girl thanked him, saying, “For me, For myself?” Father rag man smiled and said, “Happy Birthday, Jennie,” as the horse began to pull the wagon slowly down the street.
It felt good to think that Jennie would be wearing my pretty dresses. I wondered how long it would be before Mother would find out they were missing and what I would tell her when she did. I wished my father was still here.
Jeane Davidson
August 22, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
EILEEN
EILEEN
I first saw her at church following a talk on William Wordsworth. She was with a group of women; a handsome lady, tall, white hair cut short, defined sharp features and ruddy complexion. Her outfit of wool plaid skirt, beige sweater and brown oxfords suited her, I thought. She was criticizing the talk she had just heard as there had been no reference to Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy, whom she felt played an important part in William’s success.
I introduced myself a little later over coffee and found her name was Eileen McKeon. She told me she was raised in the Lake District of Northern England where the Wordsworth family lived. Her grandmother had been their neighbor. “And,” said Eileen, “My grandmother did not hold William and his cohorts, Coleridge and De Quincy, in high regard. In fact she did not admire many of the men who were visitors of the Wordsworths. They drank to excess and used opium until they couldn’t stand.”
I found Eileen to be an intriguing person, due in part to her British accent and expressions. It was not unusual to see this 70 year old lady riding a bicycle across the bridge at Fair Oaks Blvd. either heading towards or coming from her home on McKinley Ave.
Later that year, Eileen and two of her friends made a trip to India where they apparently ruffled some feathers. In one of her stories, she described their curiosity about whether or not Indian gentlemen wore underpants under their long, white robes. (She had already found that the traditional Scots wore none under their kilts). So it seemed their best approach would be to stand underneath an open staircase. However, the three elderly foreign women were too conspicuous and were asked to leave by an Indian guard.
Eileen’s handsome home faced McKinley Park, with a picture window providing a view of the park from her living room. She told the story that, on one occasion, her bridge group was meeting there for their weekly game. Eileen had just come from the kitchen with coffee refills when she saw the astonished faces of her guests, who were staring out the window. “What’s happening?” asked Eileen, as she turned to see what had startled them.
It was a well dressed man who stood on the sidewalk in front of the house and thought it appropriate to entertain her friends by exposing himself. Eileen called the police immediately; they showed up just after the visitor left. Upon their questioning her, an officer asked Eileen if she recognized the flasher.
“If I had recognized him, I would have invited him in the house, now wouldn’t I? ” she replied. The officers left and her bridge party continued, leaving, I suppose, her guests with a great story to take home.
The last time I saw her was at the clinic where I was waiting for my appointment. She burst out of her doctor’s office flushed and angry. “He told me to stop eating meat, stop drinking wine and eliminate salt from my diet! I have never heard of anything so ridiculous.” I tried to talk with her, but she stormed out the door.
It was two days later that word came to our church office. Eileen had had a stroke, was in the hospital and wanted no visitors, no cards, no flowers. She died within the week.
I miss that lady.
I first saw her at church following a talk on William Wordsworth. She was with a group of women; a handsome lady, tall, white hair cut short, defined sharp features and ruddy complexion. Her outfit of wool plaid skirt, beige sweater and brown oxfords suited her, I thought. She was criticizing the talk she had just heard as there had been no reference to Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy, whom she felt played an important part in William’s success.
I introduced myself a little later over coffee and found her name was Eileen McKeon. She told me she was raised in the Lake District of Northern England where the Wordsworth family lived. Her grandmother had been their neighbor. “And,” said Eileen, “My grandmother did not hold William and his cohorts, Coleridge and De Quincy, in high regard. In fact she did not admire many of the men who were visitors of the Wordsworths. They drank to excess and used opium until they couldn’t stand.”
I found Eileen to be an intriguing person, due in part to her British accent and expressions. It was not unusual to see this 70 year old lady riding a bicycle across the bridge at Fair Oaks Blvd. either heading towards or coming from her home on McKinley Ave.
Later that year, Eileen and two of her friends made a trip to India where they apparently ruffled some feathers. In one of her stories, she described their curiosity about whether or not Indian gentlemen wore underpants under their long, white robes. (She had already found that the traditional Scots wore none under their kilts). So it seemed their best approach would be to stand underneath an open staircase. However, the three elderly foreign women were too conspicuous and were asked to leave by an Indian guard.
Eileen’s handsome home faced McKinley Park, with a picture window providing a view of the park from her living room. She told the story that, on one occasion, her bridge group was meeting there for their weekly game. Eileen had just come from the kitchen with coffee refills when she saw the astonished faces of her guests, who were staring out the window. “What’s happening?” asked Eileen, as she turned to see what had startled them.
It was a well dressed man who stood on the sidewalk in front of the house and thought it appropriate to entertain her friends by exposing himself. Eileen called the police immediately; they showed up just after the visitor left. Upon their questioning her, an officer asked Eileen if she recognized the flasher.
“If I had recognized him, I would have invited him in the house, now wouldn’t I? ” she replied. The officers left and her bridge party continued, leaving, I suppose, her guests with a great story to take home.
The last time I saw her was at the clinic where I was waiting for my appointment. She burst out of her doctor’s office flushed and angry. “He told me to stop eating meat, stop drinking wine and eliminate salt from my diet! I have never heard of anything so ridiculous.” I tried to talk with her, but she stormed out the door.
It was two days later that word came to our church office. Eileen had had a stroke, was in the hospital and wanted no visitors, no cards, no flowers. She died within the week.
I miss that lady.
Friday, August 3, 2007
A Lesson in Courage
My name is Carol Sunderstrom Castillo. I am fair skinned, with blue eyes and long, straight, blond hair like my mother. I was born in Seattle, Washington to Karl and Elaine Sunderstrom 19 years ago. I have two older sisters. Ingra lives in Denmark where she is a designer and Irene is married and lives in France. I am a senior at St. Mary’s High .
Mother was killed in an auto accident when I was three, so I don’t remember a lot about her. Grandmother Sunderstrom came to my house to take care of me and has just stayed on even now when I’m grown up.
I don't see much of Father as he seems always to be working or attending a meeting. Grandmother spends a lot of her time in her room with “a sick headache.” There has always been a maid around but they never want me to have friends in because they would dirty the house or would be in the way. And I couldn’t have a dog either, even if I would take care of it.
I always wanted to be ballet dancer. Father told me I walked like a duck, but he said if I could find someone willing to take me on, he would pay for dancing lessons. So, I found Ms. Carlotta who taught in an academy not far from St. Mary’s. She thought I had talent and, after two years of training, I am finally going to appear in a performance. It has been very hard work and my feet still hurt after a long rehearsal, but I love it! I wrote Irene and Ingra about my progress and they always support me. In fact, Irene invited me to stay with her in France if I want to continue my study there.
Sometimes on Saturdays, I go to Father’s shipyard to visit. He invites me into his office where I drink strong, black coffee and eat some of the doughnuts he always has there. The men working for him are rough and loud, but I like them because they are always so friendly.
That’s where I met Carlos. He was carrying a huge load onto the ship and I could see his neck and shoulder muscles were wet from perspiration. His body was stronger and more developed than any of the the men in my dance classes and I liked to watch him move. I wondered how he would look in a leotard, so handsome with his dark skin, black hair and brown eyes. As he turned to lower the heavy load he was carrying to the ground, he saw me looking at him. He smiled and spoke in Spanish , “Hola! Soy Carlos. Cual es su nombre?”
I felt special. Not like when other guys had spoken to me. This time was different. Before I could answer, his foreman shouted at him to get back to work. As he was leaving, I yelled, “Carol. Carol Sunderstrom.”
I looked for Carlos each time I went to the shipyard and before long found reason to be there more frequently. He always smiled at me but It was difficult for us to talk while he was working, so he told me where his rooming house was and said he was through work at five o’clock and we could go somewhere for dinner that night.
I was there waiting for him in the BMW Father had given me on my 19th birthday. Carlos didn’t want me to come with him but asked me to wait in the car while he showered and changed clothes. He said his room was a mess.
We went to a Mexican restaurant where he liked to eat. We found a small, round table in the corner lighted by a stubby candle. Since I wasn’t familiar with Mexican food, he ordered for me -- chili, tamales, refried beans and cervezo which bubbled when I drank it.
He told me about his childhood, though it seemed so foreign and violent, I couldn’t really imagine his living that way. But I loved most to look at him as he spoke of things he remembered. His brown eyes seemed to be flecked with gold in the candle light and his white teeth looked whiter against his dark skin when he laughed. He laughed a lot and called me a “pocito conejo” because, he said, I was like a scared rabbit when he described some of the things that had happened to him.
Carlos left home when he was fourteen and had been picked up by police in every country where he had been, usually he had become involved in a fight for some cause or other. He finally crossed illegally into the United States and found work right away as a miner in Arizona. When he got tired of that, he signed on as a stevedore. That’s when we met.
We fell in love, of course. Or perhaps I should say, I fell in love with his impetuosity, his courage, his Latin good looks. He was a passionate lover, I discovered, and I soon outgrew my guilt.
Still, we were both surprised when I discovered I was pregnant. Telling Grandmother was unpleasant, but necessary. She told Father, of course and he left word that he wanted to talk to both of us the next evening.
Carlos arrived at our house on time, dressed neatly in a new white shirt which made his skin seem even darker. He had polished his beloved brown boots to a high shine and I felt so proud of him.
Father said, “How do you do,” when I introduced them, but did not offer his hand. He spent several minutes questioning Carlos as to his family background and future plans. I knew this visit was not going to end happily for us.
Father asked where we would be living and how soon I would be moving my belongings. He told Carlos not to expect any financial help from him and to report to the office tomorrow to pick up his final paycheck.
I saw Carlos’ face darken and his eyes took on a strange red light. I remembered some of the violent scenes he had described and managed to take him outside before violence erupted.
We drove back to his room where we made plans for our future. We knew we had to marry and Carlos insisted it would be a Catholic priest. He arranged this for the next week and I would stay with him until our wedding. I knew why he didn’t want me to see his room. It really was a mess!
Father was gone when I returned to the house to gather my clothes and Grandmother was not in sight. I went to my room to pack and realized this was not the way it was when Ingra and Irene left home home. I cried for a while, but Carlos was waiting. I took what I could carry in two suitcases, just those things he liked to see me wear. The hardest to leave were my beautiful ballet costumes and slippers. Well, that life was over and I was now Mrs. Carlos Castillo, with a baby of our own on the way. I didn’t need my father or my grandmother.
We left Seattle the next day, heading south for the sunshine in my BMW. Carlos was quiet. “Thinking,” he said, “of what do do to take care of you and the baby.” I felt safe and loved. Whatever he wanted to do would be fine, I knew.
We were going where he thought he could find work in the mines.I had never seen a mining camp before; in fact I had seldom been out of Seattle I was not prepared for Midland, a mining town in southeastern California. Carlos was hired right away to work in the iron mine and we were directed to a company house which we were to rent. It was supposed to be furnished, but all that meant was a broken down couch and a wooden rocker, a bed and a table with four chairs. There were no dishes or cooking pots. The refrigerator was old and not very clean and there was no cooler. It was terrible, but all the other houses looked the same, so I knew we could get by.
Our rent was taken out of his paycheck every week. The company paid for our electricity and water. There was no phone. We bought oil for cooking and heat from the company store as well as groceries and general items. Anything we spent there would also be deducted from the paycheck. There was even a bar for the miners where they could charge drinks. What was left of the pay would be given us in cash. If more things were purchased than we had money to pay for that week,we could sign “chits” which would appear in the next week’s envelope in place of that amount of money. After the first two weeks, i could see we weren’t going to have much left except chits. There was nothing for Carlos to do after work except stop at the bar with the mine crew and it didn’t seem like he was spending much when drinks were put on his weekly bill. Not only that, when he drank, he argued with everybody and sometimes got in fights.
I felt so lonely and afraid. How could we take care of a baby? Carlos didn’t seem to be worried at all. He said he had a good job and we had a house. What more did I want?
Then I met Irene Jenkinson in the general store. She had her little boy with her and I told her I was pregnant. She was so nice to me, even invited me to visit her for lunch the next day. When I told Carlos that night, he said her husband was the boss on his mine section and he was a decent man to work for.
I wore my prettiest dress which wasn’t too tight yet and walked to her house for lunch. Their house was not nearly as nice as ours in Seattle, but it was about the best one in Midland. There were curtains and rugs and even a swamp cooler. We had a lovely visit and a nice lunch.
Mrs. Jenkinson was so easy to be around and talk to. I told her how Carlos and I had met and how hard it was to be away from Seattle. And that I didn’t really know how to cook or keep house and was afraid to have the baby because I didn’t know how to take care of it.
She said she had had a rough time too, when she got married and gave me a lot of advice about how to do things. She even loaned me some dishes and sheets and told me to come by anytime to visit. Then she said she would pay me to help her with the house and her little boy if I wanted to. I did want to and helped her twice a week. I didn’t tell Carlos though. She showed me how to open a bank account at Midland Bank and I put all the money I earned as well as the little bit I could save from his pay check into a savings account.
Carlos was trying hard to get a better job in the mine. He had started out as a laborer, just breaking rocks with a hammer, but wanted to learn how to use dynamite to blast out tunnels. I felt afraid when he told me, but he said his mine boss was real careful and wouldn’t let them dynamite if it was dangerous.
A month later, he had his new job with a good pay raise. He was so happy he didn’t stop at the bar as often any more. We had money left every payday instead of chits, and I could save a little bit more each week in the bank account. Carlos didn’t lose his temper as he had before and his smile was still the way I remembered it. We started thinking about a name for the baby. Carlos knew it would be a boy and wanted to name the baby Hector, after his father. I didn’t like that name, but thought we would talk about that later.
Then one day, Carlos came home early -- and drunk. I knew something terrible must have happened when i saw him reeling down the dirt road. I met him as he came to the house, but he pushed me out of the way, went into the bedroom and slammed the door, swearing. I didn’t know what he was saying. All I wanted to do was to stay out of his way. I slept on the living room floor that night and the next morning he left right after breakfast without saying anything.
I went to visit Mrs. Jenkinson to ask her what to do. She knew what had happened. Her husband had asked Carlos to return to the bottom of the mine to help his old crew because someone was out ill. Carlos had refused to do it since he was “a dynamite man now and dynamite men don’t pound rocks with a hammer.” I guess he became violent again and the section boss had to fire him.
I hurried home to be there when Carlos returned. He had picked up his pay envelope and said we were packing to go back to Mexico. I knew how disappointed in himself he must be and asked why he didn’t go back to the boss and apologize. Maybe could get his job back. He said he had never apologized to anyone and never would.
I told him I had a little money in the bank, so we stopped on the way out of town to withdraw it; he didn’t ask me where it came from.
Now we are on our way again. To Mexico this time, Carlos, Hector and me. I wish I had some of Carlos’ courage and he had some of my patience. I am afraid for us.
Jeane Davidson
July 24,2007 .
Mother was killed in an auto accident when I was three, so I don’t remember a lot about her. Grandmother Sunderstrom came to my house to take care of me and has just stayed on even now when I’m grown up.
I don't see much of Father as he seems always to be working or attending a meeting. Grandmother spends a lot of her time in her room with “a sick headache.” There has always been a maid around but they never want me to have friends in because they would dirty the house or would be in the way. And I couldn’t have a dog either, even if I would take care of it.
I always wanted to be ballet dancer. Father told me I walked like a duck, but he said if I could find someone willing to take me on, he would pay for dancing lessons. So, I found Ms. Carlotta who taught in an academy not far from St. Mary’s. She thought I had talent and, after two years of training, I am finally going to appear in a performance. It has been very hard work and my feet still hurt after a long rehearsal, but I love it! I wrote Irene and Ingra about my progress and they always support me. In fact, Irene invited me to stay with her in France if I want to continue my study there.
Sometimes on Saturdays, I go to Father’s shipyard to visit. He invites me into his office where I drink strong, black coffee and eat some of the doughnuts he always has there. The men working for him are rough and loud, but I like them because they are always so friendly.
That’s where I met Carlos. He was carrying a huge load onto the ship and I could see his neck and shoulder muscles were wet from perspiration. His body was stronger and more developed than any of the the men in my dance classes and I liked to watch him move. I wondered how he would look in a leotard, so handsome with his dark skin, black hair and brown eyes. As he turned to lower the heavy load he was carrying to the ground, he saw me looking at him. He smiled and spoke in Spanish , “Hola! Soy Carlos. Cual es su nombre?”
I felt special. Not like when other guys had spoken to me. This time was different. Before I could answer, his foreman shouted at him to get back to work. As he was leaving, I yelled, “Carol. Carol Sunderstrom.”
I looked for Carlos each time I went to the shipyard and before long found reason to be there more frequently. He always smiled at me but It was difficult for us to talk while he was working, so he told me where his rooming house was and said he was through work at five o’clock and we could go somewhere for dinner that night.
I was there waiting for him in the BMW Father had given me on my 19th birthday. Carlos didn’t want me to come with him but asked me to wait in the car while he showered and changed clothes. He said his room was a mess.
We went to a Mexican restaurant where he liked to eat. We found a small, round table in the corner lighted by a stubby candle. Since I wasn’t familiar with Mexican food, he ordered for me -- chili, tamales, refried beans and cervezo which bubbled when I drank it.
He told me about his childhood, though it seemed so foreign and violent, I couldn’t really imagine his living that way. But I loved most to look at him as he spoke of things he remembered. His brown eyes seemed to be flecked with gold in the candle light and his white teeth looked whiter against his dark skin when he laughed. He laughed a lot and called me a “pocito conejo” because, he said, I was like a scared rabbit when he described some of the things that had happened to him.
Carlos left home when he was fourteen and had been picked up by police in every country where he had been, usually he had become involved in a fight for some cause or other. He finally crossed illegally into the United States and found work right away as a miner in Arizona. When he got tired of that, he signed on as a stevedore. That’s when we met.
We fell in love, of course. Or perhaps I should say, I fell in love with his impetuosity, his courage, his Latin good looks. He was a passionate lover, I discovered, and I soon outgrew my guilt.
Still, we were both surprised when I discovered I was pregnant. Telling Grandmother was unpleasant, but necessary. She told Father, of course and he left word that he wanted to talk to both of us the next evening.
Carlos arrived at our house on time, dressed neatly in a new white shirt which made his skin seem even darker. He had polished his beloved brown boots to a high shine and I felt so proud of him.
Father said, “How do you do,” when I introduced them, but did not offer his hand. He spent several minutes questioning Carlos as to his family background and future plans. I knew this visit was not going to end happily for us.
Father asked where we would be living and how soon I would be moving my belongings. He told Carlos not to expect any financial help from him and to report to the office tomorrow to pick up his final paycheck.
I saw Carlos’ face darken and his eyes took on a strange red light. I remembered some of the violent scenes he had described and managed to take him outside before violence erupted.
We drove back to his room where we made plans for our future. We knew we had to marry and Carlos insisted it would be a Catholic priest. He arranged this for the next week and I would stay with him until our wedding. I knew why he didn’t want me to see his room. It really was a mess!
Father was gone when I returned to the house to gather my clothes and Grandmother was not in sight. I went to my room to pack and realized this was not the way it was when Ingra and Irene left home home. I cried for a while, but Carlos was waiting. I took what I could carry in two suitcases, just those things he liked to see me wear. The hardest to leave were my beautiful ballet costumes and slippers. Well, that life was over and I was now Mrs. Carlos Castillo, with a baby of our own on the way. I didn’t need my father or my grandmother.
We left Seattle the next day, heading south for the sunshine in my BMW. Carlos was quiet. “Thinking,” he said, “of what do do to take care of you and the baby.” I felt safe and loved. Whatever he wanted to do would be fine, I knew.
We were going where he thought he could find work in the mines.I had never seen a mining camp before; in fact I had seldom been out of Seattle I was not prepared for Midland, a mining town in southeastern California. Carlos was hired right away to work in the iron mine and we were directed to a company house which we were to rent. It was supposed to be furnished, but all that meant was a broken down couch and a wooden rocker, a bed and a table with four chairs. There were no dishes or cooking pots. The refrigerator was old and not very clean and there was no cooler. It was terrible, but all the other houses looked the same, so I knew we could get by.
Our rent was taken out of his paycheck every week. The company paid for our electricity and water. There was no phone. We bought oil for cooking and heat from the company store as well as groceries and general items. Anything we spent there would also be deducted from the paycheck. There was even a bar for the miners where they could charge drinks. What was left of the pay would be given us in cash. If more things were purchased than we had money to pay for that week,we could sign “chits” which would appear in the next week’s envelope in place of that amount of money. After the first two weeks, i could see we weren’t going to have much left except chits. There was nothing for Carlos to do after work except stop at the bar with the mine crew and it didn’t seem like he was spending much when drinks were put on his weekly bill. Not only that, when he drank, he argued with everybody and sometimes got in fights.
I felt so lonely and afraid. How could we take care of a baby? Carlos didn’t seem to be worried at all. He said he had a good job and we had a house. What more did I want?
Then I met Irene Jenkinson in the general store. She had her little boy with her and I told her I was pregnant. She was so nice to me, even invited me to visit her for lunch the next day. When I told Carlos that night, he said her husband was the boss on his mine section and he was a decent man to work for.
I wore my prettiest dress which wasn’t too tight yet and walked to her house for lunch. Their house was not nearly as nice as ours in Seattle, but it was about the best one in Midland. There were curtains and rugs and even a swamp cooler. We had a lovely visit and a nice lunch.
Mrs. Jenkinson was so easy to be around and talk to. I told her how Carlos and I had met and how hard it was to be away from Seattle. And that I didn’t really know how to cook or keep house and was afraid to have the baby because I didn’t know how to take care of it.
She said she had had a rough time too, when she got married and gave me a lot of advice about how to do things. She even loaned me some dishes and sheets and told me to come by anytime to visit. Then she said she would pay me to help her with the house and her little boy if I wanted to. I did want to and helped her twice a week. I didn’t tell Carlos though. She showed me how to open a bank account at Midland Bank and I put all the money I earned as well as the little bit I could save from his pay check into a savings account.
Carlos was trying hard to get a better job in the mine. He had started out as a laborer, just breaking rocks with a hammer, but wanted to learn how to use dynamite to blast out tunnels. I felt afraid when he told me, but he said his mine boss was real careful and wouldn’t let them dynamite if it was dangerous.
A month later, he had his new job with a good pay raise. He was so happy he didn’t stop at the bar as often any more. We had money left every payday instead of chits, and I could save a little bit more each week in the bank account. Carlos didn’t lose his temper as he had before and his smile was still the way I remembered it. We started thinking about a name for the baby. Carlos knew it would be a boy and wanted to name the baby Hector, after his father. I didn’t like that name, but thought we would talk about that later.
Then one day, Carlos came home early -- and drunk. I knew something terrible must have happened when i saw him reeling down the dirt road. I met him as he came to the house, but he pushed me out of the way, went into the bedroom and slammed the door, swearing. I didn’t know what he was saying. All I wanted to do was to stay out of his way. I slept on the living room floor that night and the next morning he left right after breakfast without saying anything.
I went to visit Mrs. Jenkinson to ask her what to do. She knew what had happened. Her husband had asked Carlos to return to the bottom of the mine to help his old crew because someone was out ill. Carlos had refused to do it since he was “a dynamite man now and dynamite men don’t pound rocks with a hammer.” I guess he became violent again and the section boss had to fire him.
I hurried home to be there when Carlos returned. He had picked up his pay envelope and said we were packing to go back to Mexico. I knew how disappointed in himself he must be and asked why he didn’t go back to the boss and apologize. Maybe could get his job back. He said he had never apologized to anyone and never would.
I told him I had a little money in the bank, so we stopped on the way out of town to withdraw it; he didn’t ask me where it came from.
Now we are on our way again. To Mexico this time, Carlos, Hector and me. I wish I had some of Carlos’ courage and he had some of my patience. I am afraid for us.
Jeane Davidson
July 24,2007 .
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Silly Blog
Why do I want a blog?
What could I possibly do with a blog?
How can I ever find time to waste learning about blogs and trying to use one?
Who will ever see it or want to?
Sigh!
What could I possibly do with a blog?
How can I ever find time to waste learning about blogs and trying to use one?
Who will ever see it or want to?
Sigh!
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