One day in our neighborhood

The above chickens were my chickens. The hen's name was Pertelote. My wife and I lived in Barrio La Campana in a relatively large village in Southeast Sonora. It was pretty much like any other barrio in Mexico with lots of noise and activity. There were dogs barking, donkeys braying, roosters crowing, and a normal flow of venders hawking their goods. As usual one could see an occasioal woman sweeping her yard and the street in front of her casita. Here and there dish water flew onto the dirt street with a dash and a flare that indicated many years of dish-water-throwing experience. There were always a few women spraying water on the street to dampen the dust. Kids played in the dirt, sometimes a few ran up and down the street, pulling small hand-made kites. They were my neighbors going about their daily business of living.

My chickens ran loose like all the other chickens in the neighborhood. They continued to run loose as days turned into months, and the little yellow chicks began to turn into chickens. They grew larger and just about the time they were big enough to eat, my esposa and I had to move back to Texas.

That created a problem between my wife and I. I just wanted to leave them and let them run around the neighborhood as usual. My wife wanted them moved to a friend's house on the Rancho Rincon so our friends could look after them. Reluctantly, I agreed and borrowed a coop to move them in.

I picked up three good friends, and we returned to the neighborhood to catch my chickens. We didn't consider it a problem, allowing that it would take awhile because it is better to take your time and go about it slowly and deliberately. We were going to ease a chicken into a corner, throw a blanket over him and put him in the coop. Now I know, from experience, that best laid plans can go terribly wrong. Lacking a better plan, I opted to ignore the lingering doubt in my stomach, knowing that once the caper got started, there was no turning back.

When we arrived, got out of the pickup, moved the coop to a strategic place, retreived our light blankets, and discussed the plan, that, of course, created a lot of interest in the neighborhood. When we herded the first chicken into a corner and threw the blanket on him, all hell broke loose.

Every kid in the neighborhood started chasing my chickens, every dog started chasing any chicken, women were out in the streets yelling at the kids and beating at the dogs with their brooms. All the neighborhood chickens began squawking and were running everywhere. Some chickens were flying through the trees and down the streets. My wife was wringing her hands and crying. Hell it was a sight to behold.

Finally and a little to my amazement, all my chickens were caught and secured in the coop. The neighborhood returned to its usual routine, and all was well.

A few days later R and I left for Texas. As we drove away, I was well aware that I was leaving behind a nice time in my life and quite possibly a life I could not duplicate, ever again.

MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION AND THE LANGUAGE YOU NEED TO KNOW

There are many ways to get to where you want to go. One of those ways is to ride a camel. The method of transportation you use depends upon a lot of things, I guess, but one thing I found was that each has its own unique kind of language.

For example, when I first rode a camel, I quickly realized that there were several things I needed to know. They are cantancerous individuals and you can only get a proper response if you know the correct body movements, sounds and the proper utilization of a stick. As you can see in the above photo, I was just beginning to learn the differences between right and left, as in Arabic.

I liked camels, and most of the Bedouins I met. One of the things I learned is that bedouins are unique and just want to live their lives and to be left alone.

It would be easy to join the legions of automatons and march lock step across the endless plains of hate and madness, or I could choose those things that are good and kind and decent.

So, to get to where I want to go, I choose to walk on the path that requires a language of love, balance, and peace.

Ghosts in the Western Wind

(1958 or 1959)

Everyday work is not always forgettable. Once in awhile there appears something miraculous and wonderful to make a routine day memorable. For example, one day on the ranch, James, Al and I started the day early, around 4:30 A.M. We ate a big breakfast of thick bacon, home-made bisquits, gravy, fried eggs, lots of hot coffee and had fresh milk from our Jersey cow. Then we each roped out a horse from the herd in the round corral. Mine wanted to fight, so we fought. The only casualty was a broken rail on the fence. Then a long ride, about five miles in the cold West Texas darkness, to a big pasture of about 15 sections (15 square miles).

There we began a hard ride to round up the 35 horses in that pasture. Around noon and nearly done, James rode up and we switched horses because his young stallion was getting tired. James took off to find three missing horses and I headed North to link up with Al and the herd. As I was winding down a canyon on the "cap rock," I caught a movement and low and behold there was a mountain lion running along in front of me. I had never seen one before so I encouraged my horse along to get a good look. After a minute or two the lion disappeared into the rough, and I stopped on a knob to let my horse rest.

I sat on the ground where I could look out across beautiful West Texas. It was conveivable that some Native Americans had sat on that very spot because it was prominent and offered a great view of the distant prairie. It was not out of the question that they had thought about the same things I was thinking about.The sky was clear and bright blue. There were no con-trails and no air pollution in those days, at least in the remote areas of West Texas. Since it was a beautiful day, I could see across, maybe twenty or thirty miles. I couldn't help but think how pretty it all was, how fortunate I was to be there, at peace, smelling the clear fresh air and I wanted it to go on forever.

I thought of the Native Americans who had lived there, about their hopes and dreams that turned to anguish and hopelessness as their way of life was destroyed forever. In a very short time, Spanish Conquest for Glory, God, Gold and American Manifest Destiny left only grim reminders of their beloved past: pictographs on the cave walls, living utensils, spear points, and artifacts littering the West. I could only imagine their devastation and despair.

The wind was getting up. Finally I rolled a cigarette, lit it up, and, with one last pensive look at that vanishing wilderness, stood, mounted my horse and wandered off down to the plains to find Al, thoughtful that my life would be as fleeting as the smoke off my cigarette.

Now, fifty years later, I cherish those memories of a time and a place that had far fewer problems and sorrows. I regret the loss of my innocence, and the life snatched from me forever, on another seemingly mundane day, the day that I received a "draft notice" from the president of the United States, JFK, ordering me into a vast new world of decadence, leaving me with only a ghostly memory of a simpler life that could have been.

Enduring Images

One day in March of 2006 I had a wonderful experience, an experience I won't soon forget.

My best Mexican friend and I were on a very remote dirt road in the barrancas of Sonora, Mexico. We were looking for a person who could help us with our research on Pahkos (Indigenous ceremonies). The going was slow, more suitable for a 4x4. As we inched along, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look and to my amazement and wonder, I was looking at a live Jaguar, about 100 yards away, apparently stalking an old, sick mule.

I attempted to get a photograph, but in the heat of the moment, I panicked and failed miserably to get the normal lens converted to a telephoto lens. Nonetheless, I cherish the mental image and think myself a very lucky man.

Above photo taken from web images, apologies to photographer because I forgot where I got it.

"Fortune favors the Brave" Quote and photo compliments of http://probullstats.com/bull-riding.php

Onect up in the panhandle of Texas a friend of mine and I went to a rodeo. Welp, he just wanted to get drunk and have a good time but I wanted to make a fortune. We went to the office to register and draw my bull. I paid my money, mostly what I had left from all the beer and chewing tobacco and motor oil we had to buy...and reached in the bull- jar and drew out #4.

That created a little stir because I soon found out that #4 had a bad reputation, was nasty, mean and that most people who drew him cancelled.

Not me though, hell it was an opportunity to get rich. I soon became the focus of the arena and strangers were quick to tell me how many riders had been thrown off "Long's number 4 Bull." Now that was not very reassuring and soon I went about my own business avoiding social contacts and if confronted preferred to remain silent and sullen worried that the frown on my face might give away the nagging discomfort in the pit of my stomach.

Well, to make a long story short, it came my time and as soon as I sat down on that bull I knew I was in trouble. He did not bat an eye. He did not twitch a muscle. He was just coiled into a huge spring of savage lightning and thunder filled with murderous rage. I pulled my hat down, questioned my decision and nodded to the gate opener. I don't rember much after that but bits and flashes that lasted for what seemed like forever. After an eternity of participating in primordal fury I heard a distant Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Thank God, but the worst was yet to come. I released my grip and went flying into the air, seeing bits and pieces of horns, stars, dirt and after another long period of being underneath a stomping, bucking maniac, I partially passed out. Of course there was great elation and electricity in the air and as I was being led away, I wiped the blood out of my eye, spit a lot of dirt out of my mouth and stopped, a couple of seconds, to savor the moment, because for an instant, for a very brief moment, the twinkle of a star, I was a hero, a winner. I never had that feeling again in my long and eventful life.

Yes, my friend and I were happy because I had made 48 dollars go-round money and we had plenty of beer and chewing tobacco that night and sometime in that dreamlike night of drinking and dancing, we managed to find our old Ford, stumbled into a dead horse, opened the passenger side doors because the dead horse was too close to the car, laid on the seats and passed out. Next morning came way too quick, and we soon discovered that we were broke again.

My worst airline trip, ever

I don't have any photographs of commercial planes, so I just grabbed a photo I like. A fellow Army Pathfinder took this photo of a jump I was on. I told him I'd be third out on the port side so the little dot underneath the port side of the plane is me. We were static line jumping a c-130, ADM, 1000 feet AGL and at about 110 or 120 knots over Antelope DZ at Ft. Hood, Tx. I especially like this photo because of a photo anomaly. Note the third person from the left. His chute is pushing and forming an arc of water molecules, dust, or something.

But, to the tale of our commercial airline misadventure:

My wife and I had a reservation for a flight from Ciudad Obregon, Sonora Mexico to Dallas DFW via Tucson (circa 1998).

We'd had this reservation for three months. On the date of departure we took a bus to Navajoa then to Obregon. At Obregon we took a taxi to the airport which is about four miles outside town. It is kinda in the middle of nowhere and before they can land or take off a plane someone gets in a pickup and drives the runway looking for livestock that may be of some concern.

We walked into the sleepy little airport and the only airline there was AeroMex. We couldn't find the airline we had reservations for, "S.W. Cropdusters, Inc." or something like that. We asked the people at the AeroMex and they told us the Airline had been shut down by the U.S. FAA. The time was 11:30 A.M. The clerk at AeroMex was very nice and said their next and last flight out, that day, was at 4 P.M. and that she'd get us on that one, but it was to Phoenix. Our reservations on Delta was from Tucson at around 3 P.M. We had no choice but to fly AeroMex to Phoenix - and there try to change our reservation, on Delta Airlines, to DFW, next flight out. The Mexican airline clerk took us to town and dropped us off at a pizza joint and picked us up an hour later and retured to the airport. We went out at 4 P.M. , courtesy of AeroMex and landed in Phoenix about an hour or two later.

To make a long story short, Delta changed the reservation to the first flight out the next morning, we rented a car, stayed in a motel, got up at 5 A.M, turned the car in, checked our luggage in, went to the gate, discovered that the flight had been canceled, told to re-schedule for later in the day, went to the next flight out gate and demanded to get on stand by, got on the plane and landed in DFW. Yea! But our luggage was on another plane so we filed lost luggage, caught a Super Shuttle home and about 3 A.M. that night our luggage was delivered to our house. Whew!

AeroMex never charged us for that flight to Phoenix. As far as the puddle hopping airline, we contacted our credit card company, and after about 3 months, we were credited for the full amount that had been deposited to make the reservations.

Everyone at AeroMex had been very nice and helpful to us. It only added to the many positive experiences I've had with the Mexican people.*

I am a lucky man.

*I suppose it is OK to make a footnote here: certainly there are exceptions, but they pale in number and mostly because I choose to avoid those people, places, and things.

This photograph was taken in Aduana, Sonora, Mexico. The varmint on the left is one of my better friends in Mexico. I have stayed many months in his chicken house. Thats what we call it yet it really is a storage room removed from the main house in Southern Sonora.

My friend was once a boxing champion in the Navy. After many years of successful treasure hunting he is semi-retired and now resides in a beach house in Mexico and at another one of his homes on Puget Sound in the North West. From his back porch we can sit and watch the seals or porpoise and eat buckets of clams. The clams are from his beach.

He is one of those friends you can confide in and be comfortable around. You know he will watch your back. A short story about James Bowie. Once he got into a bar fight and admonished Sam Houston for not helping him. Sam repied, "Well James, you were in the wrong." To which Jim Bowie said, "Hell, I know I was in the wrong, that's why I needed a friend." Well Bob is one of the men who would help me in a bar fight even if I was in the wrong.

It is rare to get make a friend like that and I wish I could see him more often, as well as a few other similar Mexican friends.