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."