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.