Hector "Macho" Camacho

By kiki

I watched the boxer Hector "Macho" Camacho documentary, and it left me with a lasting poignant feeling. That is no surprise since the boxing graveyard is litter with broken bodies and warped minds of boxers who lived in the fast lane at the height of their careers, only to self-travel in the end, shadow boxing in the lonely, friendless boulevard.

The flamboyant "Macho Man" was born in Puerto Rico's northern coastal valley city of Bayamón. He and his family moved to New York City's Spanish Harlem at a young age, where he grew up to become his barrio's boxing darling. Hector won numerous Golden Gloves titles. He also had an extraordinary pro career, winning two or three world titles. But, like young fighters before him, he could not handle fame and fortune when it was handed to him. In the early years of boxing's history, the young boxers would fall prey to the temptation of wine, women, and song. By Macho Time, fast women and drugs brought tough fighters to their knees and most never recovered. Hector was shot and killed in 2012.

I hope that Hector, in his dreamless sleep, has found peace.

Connie's Pezuña

 By kiki

One early morning about three weeks ago, I was awakened from a deep dream by a loud thump; at first, I didn't give it much thought. But then I notice that Connie was not in bed, so, like Sherlock Holmes, I got up to investigate the missing wife. I found her on the floor, in a heap by the foot of the bed. I then noticed that her eyes were closed and that she wasn't moving. The first thought that came to my mind was that she had taken the journey to the other side, but as I was reaching out to touch her to make sure if she was still with us or not, she opened one eye and said: "damn it, kiki, will you please help me up?" I think I heard "please" not sure, though. Connie is not a big woman; she tips the scales at about 135 pounds, give-or-take a couple of pounds. But, I'll be darn if I could pick her up, so I said to her, "stay here and try to relax while I call AAA so they can send a tow truck" As I walked out of the room to ask Fernie to come and help me pick her up I thought I heard the word "cabron" After we had her safely back in bed I asked her as to what had happened. She said that she wasn't sure; she said she had gotten up to go to the bathroom and that after taking two or three steps, her left ankle gave out (she broke the same ankle about ten years ago, she still has nuts and bolts on it) causing her to fall. By late afternoon her left pezuña (hoof) was black and blue, and her ribs hurt. The following day I asked her to call and make an appointment with her doctor, she never did. Finally, last week, and only because her pezuña was hurting a lot when she walked, she called her doctor. X-rays showed that she had broken her pinky toe. Her doctor then sent her to a hoof specialist, which she saw today. She was outfitted with a boot that looks like it once belonged to Frankenstein; she will have to wear the Frankenstein boot for six weeks. 

 What a fuck-up mess this blog site has become. 

"Bullshit"

By kiki

This morning with mask and walking cane, I was out running errands at the post office, market, CVS, gas station, bank, etc. And when I got back home, I was dead on my feet, so I told Connie, "I am not up to this running around anymore" she looked at me and said, "what do you expect? After all, you will be 85 years old in December," I started doing the math on my fingers and toes when she said 85 years because 85 years just didn't sound right. I counted 84 years, and I told her she was wrong. "so how old are you going to be?" After double-checking my math, I told her I would be 84, not 85, in December. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "bullshit!" Connie was either pulling my chain or she was in a cold-hearted mood. I sometimes wonder if she voted for trump. 🤣

Dr. Bernhart Schwart

 By kiki

                                        Dr. Bernhardt Schwartz

Dr. Bernhardt Schwartz was a legend in the boxing-wrestling world. He was also a hero to a young child and his family. In his younger days, he saved the life of a young toddler. The child had gotten a safety pin stuck deep in his throat, and Dr. Schwart got it out before the child swallowed it. It must have been a big deal back then because it got a write-up in some newspaper. He proudly had the newspaper clipping taped to a glass partition in the lobby of his office.

His office was on 111 Street, a few doors south of Broadway, in South Central L.A. He would arrive and leave early: 5: 00am-11:00am. I asked him why those hours, and he said he aimed to be in and out before the gangsters got out of bed. The good doctor had his own file system. It was a system like no other you have ever seen. His patient files were on bundles of paper bound with rubber bands. He had a mountain of files on top of a desk. The good doctor didn't need any darn cabinets!

                                The doctor's desk after he cleaned it

Although he had a gruff exterior, he was a soft-hearted man. Boxers and wrestlers were treated by the good doctor whether they could pay. Sometimes he wouldn't accept payment; when asked how much you owned him, he would tell you, "Nothing, next time, just bring me a cigar."

His health deteriorated with his wife's passing, but he remained the fight doctor because he was dedicated and loved boxing and wrestling. But, there were times when you could see in his eyes that his heart was in it anymore. So - I genuinely believe that he died from a broken heart.

Early Morning Somersault

By kiki

Earlier this morning, while the house was still dark and everyone was still in their dreams, I went out to the backyard for my morning walk. As I sometimes do on my early morning walks, I had a lively conversation with my drunken imaginary friend, Beto. Just as I started to tell Beto that it was too freaking early to be drinking, I stepped on a hole, and with a twisted ankle, I did a sort of a sideways somersault. I landed on my left hip, and the first thing that flashed on my mind was my Pops face (he died after a fall and broken hip). It was, after all, a fall that rattled the rocks in my head. Beto said, as I checked myself for broken bones and found none, "por pendejo," 

I lay sprawled for a few minutes before I tried getting up. Just as I was going to ask Beto for help, he said "every man for himself," and with that, he was in the wind. Pinche Beto! - Unable to get back on my feet, I got on my knees and crawled to the chain-link fence that separates our backyard to a section that I call our "junkyard" because that's where all our junk lands. Finally, I was able to get up by grabbing the chain link and pulling myself up...Back in bed, and about an hour and a half later, Connie woke up. "Babe, I felled down," I mumble to her. "Are you okay?" she asked, "yes," I replied, "por pendejo" were her last words before she started sawing logs again. If Chata, our late British Bulldog, had been here, she would still be laughing at me - With this kind of friend's, who needs enemies?

Beto

By kiki

My imaginary friend Beto paid me a visit today. It had been months since I heard from him. I was dozing off in the backyard while getting some sun rays when a loud voice brought me out of mi rinconcito oscuro (my litter dark corner) that I favor in my head when I am looking for some peace and quiet.

"Orale pues, what's happening, brother?" Beto yelled into my good ear. The dude scared me, what with his Lone Ranger mask and his reeking of alcohol; I almost jumped out of my skin. Once I recovered, I asked him where the in hell he had he being at. "rehab, dude, rehab," he answered. I thanked him for wearing a mask (the mask only covered his eyes area) "pues tu sabes, gotta be careful con la pinche 'Rona," I asked him where his sidekick Chuy was, "I don't really know, but I heard that he got deported to TJ." Connie came out as we were doing the good luck fist bump. "Are you talking to your friends again?" she asked. I told her that I was talking to Beto but that Beto was only visiting. "Don't invite him for dinner" I turned around to tell Beto that he wasn't welcome to dinner, but he was already hiding. He is afraid of Connie. 

As soon as Connie returned to the house, Beto showed his Lone Ranger face again, 'is she gone? " he asked, almost in a whisper. "Yeah, she went back inside," I replied. "Anyways, as I was hiding from Connie el Pinche, Chuy called me from Tijuana (both use throw-away cell phones); he wants to make it back to la Ciudad de Los Angelitos (City of Angels). No quiere vender naranjas en las calles de Tijuana pa pagarle al coyote (Chuy doesn't want to sell oranges in the Tijuana streets to pay the coyote). You wanna come with me and see if we can sneak him across the border?" Chale, not me!

Underage Drinking

By kiki

How did you get your booze when you were underage? - In the early '50s, we used to drive to East L. A. where we knew a store owner on Eastern and Floral that sold beer to underage guys.

I didn't drink in my early or mid-teens. And that is because one day, my dad put the fear of God in me. When I was about 12-13 years old, we were hanging around our Simons Brickyard nightly lumbrita (small fire), and one older guy had a quart of beer. He started passing the quart around, and when it came around to me, I took the big bottle like an old pro, and I took a good chug of the brew. 

A few days later, after we had finished dinner, my dad asked me to step outside with him, I did. He told me that he had heard that I was drinking beer at the fire; I 'fessed up and said that what he had heard was true. He then got in my face and told me that if I did it again, he was going to, among other things, beat the living crap out of me. After that, I didn't drink any adult beverages until I was 19 years old, and by that time, I was already married and out of the house. By the way, my Pops never laid a hand on me in his life.

The End of A Tradition

                                                 Convict Lake 

By kiki

For me, a family tradition that started in the mid-1960s because of age and health issues has ended. I've recognized that aging closes the window of physical strength (and perhaps mental acuity) to travel the Sierra. 

We started a tradition of going trout fishing on the last weekend of April, the Eastern Sierra trout season's opening weekend. Memories of those times; I will always cherish: Those memories create sadness and gratitude for the times I've had. 

I now view every season as one more clip from the ribbon of time that I wished I had left to be with my boys. For me now, my one hope is to one day know that all of my sons and my two adopted sons, Camper Mike and Pinche Mijo, AKA Rico, are together up in the Eastern Sierra wetting a 4-pound test line in one of the many pristine lakes or creeks that are in abundance in the Sierra. - I don't know if I deserved it, but I would like them all to drink a beer in my honor. And so, with teary eyes and a heavy heart, this old fisherman bid farewell to God's Country, the Eastern Sierra, and to all of my boys, I say, "have a great day of fishing, and I love you all."

                                          Independence Creek

Orale Pues

By kiki

In the wee morning hours, Connie and I were sitting up in bed watching an old movie, and with the end of the film came hunger pains: so I jumped out of bed and walked to the kitchen to see what I could find to munch on. Finding nothing, I walked back to our love room, and I said to Connie, "orale pues!" I was hoping that would prompt her to get up and fix me some breakfast, but the tone of voice she used in answering me gave me second thoughts "what?!!' I couldn't think of anything to say, so I muttered, "no te dejas" (don't give up) "nunca" (never) she retorted. I went back to bed; it was only 3:00 AM.

Shooting The Messenger

By kiki

Lately, I have had some Facebook friends and relatives who are Trump supporters attack me, and others for posting articles that are not kind to Trump, even if written by conservative Republican authors. "Oh really" was one comment posted on my post of an article written by long-time Republican David Frum. I am sure the comment poster didn't even read the article because he didn't mention one thing in the article. That was followed by a rant about God and the Devil. One friend ran off the rails with his comments that I had to block him.

Now, I don't have a problem with those that believe in Trump; they, like the rest of us, are entitled to their opinion. But I think that instead of attacking the messenger, they should defend Trump's childish antics. They should read the articles and then point out what facts the authors got wrong. Instead of shooting the messenger, they should defend Trump's mocking of a disabled reporter, his insulting of people, his degrading of women, and his lie after lie. Finally, they should let us know how all that is okay with them because if they accept Trump, they own his actions.     

'nuts

By kiki

                                  1930 Ford Model A flatbed truck

On an early 1951 autumn day, Pops sat the family down in our Simons kitchen to tell us that we were all going to Moorpark in Ventura county to pick walnuts with other extended family members. It sounded like fun because at age 14 (I turned 15 in December of that year), I had only once been out of the Simons Brickyard for an extended period (in 1947, we went to Hollister to pick prunes), so yeah, I was ready to once again be a world traveler. And Moorpark sounded like it was a million miles away, but in reality, it was only about 75 miles away, but either way, I was once again ready to see the world outside of Simons. 

Making the trip with us was my Tia Lala Arriola (née Baltazar), and her two young children: one-year-old daughter Kathy, and nine-year-old step-son Frankie, her husband Frank Arriola was staying behind to keep working at his job, also going, but driving their own car, was my Tia and Tio, Carmen and Tony Adame. Writing with a vague memory, I'm not sure if my maternal grandma, Mama Maria Adame, was with us, but most likely, she was.  

Soon the day of departure was upon us; I'm sure it was on the weekend: Tio Frank Arriola and Tio Magdaleno Baltazar rolled up to our house in a 1930ish Ford Model A flatbed (with side and back panels) truck. With our basic stuff loaded, we were ready to hit the open road. Unfortunately, 1951 was when Southern California had very few freeways, so I'm unsure how we got to Chatsworth and the Santa Susana mountain pass (the low mountain pass connects the San Fernando Valley and Simi Valley). Driving up the mountain pass, the Model A truck was coughing and sputtering; it was making noises like it wanted to quit on us; so every now and then, 

Tio Magdaleno, who was riding shotgun to Tio Frank, would jump out of the slow-moving truck to give it a helping hand, like a push, over a small hump. Once it was over, the hump, Tio Magdaleno, would help himself to a beer; he had a galvanized bucket full of beer and ice in the back of the truck. Once out of the pass, it was an easy ride to Moorpark, where we stopped at Castro's Market to ask for directions to the farm we would be working at, I don't remember the name of the farm, but it was next door to the Underwood Farm, one of the biggest and best known Moorpark farms. Once we found the farm on State Route 118, we settled into the worker's housing.

                                              Santa Susana Pass

Once settled, I explored the worker's camp, really looking for girls, and I found two of them. The girls said they were from the Chavez Revine 'hood of Palos Verdes. But more about the girls later.

On the day we started picking the walnuts, the farm owner came to talk to Pops. The two, as they converse, kept looking at me. Finally, a few minutes later, they called me over, and the owner asked me how old I was and did I knew how to drive; I told him I was 14 and that yes, I'd know how to drive. "Okay, you're the truck driver, but first, you need to go to the high school in Oxnard and get a work permit" I got the work permit. So for the harvest duration, I drove the truck with a twenty-something-year-old Mexican national who didn't know how to drive, picking up the sacks full of walnuts. And that's why my hands were not stained black where we got back home. Picking walnuts will stain your hands black, and it will take weeks for them to clear up.

One late afternoon I was riding with Tia Camen and Tio Tony in their 1939 Chevy. We were on our way to Castro's Market to buy some goodies, and on the way there, the newlyweds had a lover's quarrel. At one point, Tony took his eyes off the road to argue his end, and while arguing with Carmen, he hit a parked telephone company truck. Like, good citizens, we stopped to assess the phone company truck and the '39 Chevy; the damage was minor to both vehicles. The telephone guy looked scared shitless when we tried talking to him. He told us that he had to call his boss, we said "okay, we'll wait" He then proceeded to climb a telephone pole where he hooked a phone to a line. After a few minutes, he climbed down and said that his boss said that we shouldn't worry about it since the damage was minor, so we continued to Castro's. Tony and Carmen, if memory serves, didn't stay for the duration of the harvest. I remember them going back to Pico soon after hitting the truck. 

Now back to the girls: I can only remember the name of one of them, and it's not the one I should recognize for reasons that I will explain soon. The one I remember was called Suger. Suger was a 15-year-old diabetic; thus, the nickname I later learned was that she died while in her twenties from the disease. Now for the one I can't remember: this girl who was about two years older than me was the one I hooked up with during the time we were in Moorpark. So I should remember her name, right? But I don't. Once we left Moorpark, the girls were just a memory, or so I thought.

Fast forward to the late '50s: Connie and I had already been married several years when one day she said, "let's go visit my mom, a cousin of mine is visiting from L.A., and I would like you to meet her" So we drove to Jimtown in West Whittier to meet Connie's cousin. 

When we entered the house, I saw a young woman sitting on the couch that looked familiar: the girl from Moorpark. The one I had hooked up with, but before Connie could introduce us, the young woman goes, "Hey, I know you, but I can't remember from where." But, before the night was over, we've brought up Moorpark. So, we both remembered from where we knew each other. But, today, I can't remember the name of Connie's, now late cousin. And I'm afraid to ask Connie!         

The Coronavirus Crisis

By kiki

Never in my 84 years have I seen anything like the coronavirus crisis we are in today. Yes, I was born during the great depression, "en el tiempo de la crisis" as my Pops used to say, but I don't remember any of it. So what we and the rest of the world are going through today is uncharted waters for me. It's a sad thing to see all the misery that this virus has sprung upon millions of people around the globe. And the rate of death is unbelievable: thousands are dying worldwide every day, and there seems to be no end. But somehow, someway, we will win this fight; I just hope to be alive to see the people's hands rise in victory. 

Some still believe that the coronavirus is "fake news" or that it is made by the media to be bigger than what it really is; try telling that to those who have lost loved ones. Conspiracy theorists come out of the woodwork just to wreak havoc on those suffering from this terrible virus. Shame on them! 

I want to say to our family members and some family friends who work in the medical field, and there are quite a few of them on the frontlines fighting to defeat this terrible foe: "YOU ARE MY HEROES."

2020 Coronavirus & Eastern Sierra Trout Opener

By kiki

For over 50 years now, my boys and I have eagerly waited for the last April weekend to make the trek up Highway 395 and onto the Eastern Sierra for our traditional fishing trip on the opening day of the trout fishing season. 

But this year, 2020, nature has thrown us a curve with the coronavirus epidemic.

My boys and I were looking forward to showing some new friends our favorite fishing holes. But a few days ago, the June Pines Cabins manager called James and told him that because of the virus, they, and most of the June Lake Loop, would not be open for the opener. She gave James a choice to get back the money that had already been paid or save it for a later date. After James talked to his fishing mates, it was decided to keep it for a later date. Now the question is when? Because nobody knows when this virus that is killing people all over the globe will itself be dead. So, for now, everything is in limbo.

The fishing tradition started in the mid-1960s by my late cousin Tony Adame will need to take a back seat to the fight against the Coronavirus. We need to win this war, but I hope we will not lose the war or any of our fishing group members in winning the battle. God willing, the tradition for the boys and friends will continue next year. 

I decided late last year that I had made my final trip to the Sierra because of age and health issues. However, I do have one last hope, and that is to end: where it all started, my participation in the trout fishing tradition, with a few mid-summer days in the Independence and Lone Pine area. The Independence and Lone Pine area fishing is mostly creek and stream fishing. That was my favorite type of fishing in my younger days, but my legs haven't cooperated for about the last 15 years; they just won't walk me up and down the creeks anymore. So I have had to settle for lake fishing, which is okay, but I miss looking for the pools in the streams. 

Hopefully, if I spend a few days in the area, my legs will become young again. I'll settle for just a few days. 

     

For Frank and His Beloved Chata

By Randy De La O

You cannot own a dog anymore than you can own another person.

If you are lucky and blessed enough to find a dog that loves you and loves you unconditionally then you have found something special.

A friend that will run with you, play with you, bring out the boy that lives inside of you and comfort you when you have the blues.

They will bark like crazy when someone passes by the house or knock on the door but even when it drives us nuts we know why they do it. They are protecting their family.

All they ask in return is to be fed and watered, a spot in the house to find comfort and a spot in your heart to be loved.

Their time with us is always too short. The time with our beloved friends always ends too soon. We mourn their loss when their time comes.

People that are lucky enough to know the unconditional love of a dog know something that cannot be shared with words. It can only be experienced.

You will never have a more loyal friend!

Our Beloved Chata AKA Miley

By kiki

                                            Our beloved Chata

We have lost our beloved Chata. Chata, our English Bulldog has made her transition journey, and in the process, she took a piece of my heart with her to doggie heaven. I vividly remember the day I first met Chata: one early evening in 2008 I was lying in bed watching TV when James walked into my room and threw a bundle of joy at me. I caught the bundle in midair and I took one look at her smashed face and I was a goner. On that day Chata and I embarked on a friendship that took many twists and turns. Twists and turns because like most females she was a moody creature; one moment she wanted to kill me by knocking me down and biting my feet; in the next moment she would be, with a sorry look on her face, licking my face. We all wish her a peaceful and painless journey to doggie heaven. Rest easy Mija, and know that we love you and that we will never forget you.
  

                                                             Chata

Every living thing has its time, every living thing begins and every living thing ends. And as much as it hurts; let us not shy away from that reality. 

                      Our beloved Chata is home, where she belongs