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.
Tuesday, May 19, 2020
Wednesday, May 6, 2020
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.
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.
Friday, May 1, 2020
'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,
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.
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!
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