Monthly Archives: October 2023

Run for the border!

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The resort where we’ve been staying for the past year’s weekend getaways.

We love the beach. How perfect that we found a beach four hours south of Phoenix across the border in Mexico. With wide expanses of a white sandy beach, calm warm waters of the Sea of Cortez, we thought we found paradise.

Until this past weekend. It’s paradise until it’s not.

Two things freaked me out.

First, crossing the corder at a Lukeville, which is out in the middle of nowhere on the south side of Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, I saw something I’ve never seen in the dozen or so times we’ve been there.

There were a thousand men lined up on foot to cross into the United States from Mexico. There were no women or children. They were young, all colors and presumably nationalities. I’ve seen news of massive border crossings in Texas, but nothing at Lukeville. This was the first time I’ve noticed anyone on foot.

Next, we had to run the gauntlet in the desperately poor town on the Mexican side of the border. Usually it’s without incident, but it’s shocking to see people living in abject poverty. It’s nothing like our lives in the United States. The speed limit is 25 mph which the signs say 40 kmh. We have to drive through window washers who jump in front of our car with a spray bottle. People are begging in wheel chairs, missing limbs. It’s so sad.

Once through the town the speed limit increases slowly. We were last in line of about seven cars and trucks when red lights flashed behind us. We pulled on the shoulder to let the vehicle pass, but it stopped behind us! We were pulled over in Mexico.

For what, we had no idea.

We were approached by two burly Mexican cops who told us to roll down all the windows, asked for my husband’s driver’s license and told us we had been speeding at 60 kmh. (Not true.)

They said they’d write a ticket and we had to pay at the courthouse before we continued. My husband asked where it was. They said they’d show us but they’d keep the driver’s license until we paid. Oh — and the courthouse was closed for the next two or three hours.

But they could do us a favor. Pay them $160 American dollars, they’d return the license and we could be on our way. Which we did.

It made us angry, but what else could we do? End up in a Mexican jail for not paying? Now I’m fearful of the drive back. We need to find an ATM in case we need cash again at the border town. I’ll be happy to be back in the USA.

However, I have some empathy for the people living in the squalor of the border town watching countless Americans driving through to get to the beach resorts an hour away — driving luxury cars, trucks and RVs. Pulling people over all day long for $160 a pop is a decent living.

It took us a bit of time to relax. We ate delicious meals, walked the beach and read.

Here are a few photos:

Would you want to come back anytime soon? Would you be afraid? Why or why not?

Comfort foods

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I woke up so happy the other morning. I was dreaming about making clam chowder with my mom.

My mom, who passed away from Covid on January first this year, believed strongly in two main foods to make anyone feel better. Clam chowder and wild blackberry pie. I could count on both each time I’d visit her in Olympia, Washington after moving to California.

I have collected a series of cookbooks (photo above) that my great-grandmother published in the 1890s and early 1900s. My great-grandfather was a newspaper man and owned a printing press. To earn extra money, great-grandmother Nellie published and sold her cookbooks across the country as a fundraiser for church auxiliary groups.

Just think, she had to typeset these beauties by hand!

I decided to check out my great grandmother’s cookbook to see if my mom followed the recipe for clam chowder. There are a few differences. For example, we use bacon today instead of pork. We don’t use fresh clams. And what the heck are common crackers?

I love this quote from the Soup cookbook:

“Soup preceding sumptuous meal,

Preparing well the way

For happiness and joyous weal,

To brighten every day.”

This is how I make clam chowder — the way Mom taught me:

Dice potatoes and boil in water. Chop onions and bacon into small pieces.

Brown onions and bacon, drain the grease.

Add flour to onions and bacon and brown. Add milk or heavy cream and allow to thicken. Add potatoes with boiled water. Add a can of clams with liquid.

Sometimes she would throw in a can of creamed corn.

I’ve written about comfort foods HERE and what my daughter finds as her comfort food. It surprised me.

What’s your favorite comfort food? Is it from a family recipe?

Trying to escape Funkytown

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My daughter’s pug Waffles as an energetic pup.

I was so looking forward to my kids’ visit. Now that they are gone, I’m in a bit of a funk. I figured it out when I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to leave the house for my morning walks. I can tell my husband is a little worried about me.

Unfortunately when my two adult kids, new bride and her brother were here, things didn’t go exactly as planned. We had a heat wave and since they all live in the Bay Area, the heat doesn’t agree with them. Then the AC went out their last night in the casita and DIL got very sick.

And I got scared!

She vomited for hours. They finally decided to pack up and leave. Once she was in the AC of the car, she felt much better. I worried about her health unlike anything I’ve felt before. I realized how vulnerable she is. How vulnerable we all are.

I’m trying to leave Funkytown. We’re headed on a weekend getaway to Mexico, which is a four-hour drive away. The beach always makes me feel better. In the meantime, I have a community newsletter to complete and will keep moving.

What’s your secret for getting out of a funk?

When were you picked?

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Me and my brother, back in the day.

There was an article in the Lifestyle section of the Wall Street Journal that captured my interest. It was written by Rich Cohen and called:

We Never Really Escape the Gym-Class Draft

Does the childhood fear of being picked last explain our insecurities later in life?

For some reason, I was always picked last or second to last in PE — whether it was Red Rover, dodgeball, volleyball or anything. How depressing is that? I am somewhat athletic. I started skiing at age two. I could swim. I took ballet. Yet, my school chums saw me as someone they didn’t want on their team. I think it was my thick glasses. I was terribly near-sighted from birth.

From the article:

It’s the sort of alienation you experience in junior high school but feel forever. Being just another number among a pool of available picks, you see yourself, maybe for the first time, through the cold eyes of an appraiser. You are no more than a body in the mind of this person, an object with too many deficiencies to catalog: chubby, knock-kneed, weak-armed, timid, poorly coordinated, scared of the ball, slow.

You will also feel yourself, for the first time, trapped in a body, isolated from even your closest friends, of whom you might think: Oh, dear lord, as bad as it gets, as long as it takes, let me be taken before him.

What’s worse, you know that you’re being judged on all the wrong qualities, in all the wrong ways. Yeah, I’m slow, you think as round three gives way to round four. I can’t throw very hard, and I don’t move too quick. But there’s one thing I know how to do well: kick ass at dodgeball.

Apparently, this picking by your peers is no longer allowed. Of course most things that make kids uncomfortable is no longer allowed.

When were you picked? Do you think they should still allowing choosing teams by peers? Why or why not?

Doggin: A Dog Story

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This is Waffles, my daughter’s pug in an ugly Christmas sweater I bought him. This story isn’t about Waffles, but Doggin, who my husband had growing up. But I thought this cute photo of Waffles was worth posting, since this about a dog.

I wrote a children’s fiction story called Doggin, based loosely on my husband’s dog. It was published in the Los Angeles Times section for kids, which unfortunately, they got rid of along with the wonderful editor who put me on contract.

Here’s the story:

‘Doggin’

BY ELIZABETH WICKHAM

One day after school, Billy found an empty kennel.

“Doggin!” Billy called. He had to find Doggin before Granny did.

Billy ran to Mrs. Fixie’s house.

“That hound of yours was here,” Mrs. Fixie said. “Look at my flower garden!”

Billy’s stomach hurt. “Please don’t tell Granny. I’ll plant some flowers.”

“My leather gloves are missing, too. I bet Doggin took them!”

“I’m sorry, but do you know where Doggin went?”

“He headed for the Sanchezes’.”

“Oh, Doggin!” Billy called. If Granny found out that Doggin got out, there would be trouble.

“Billy! Doggin was here!” yelled Mr. Sanchez. “Look what he did to my chair.”

“Please don’t tell Granny. I’ll fix your chair.”

“I think he took my wallet, too,” Mr. Sanchez said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sanchez. But do you know where Doggin went?”

“I saw him run to the Chens’.”

“Oh, Doggin!” Billy called.

Doggin had dug up flowers, broken a chair, chewed up gloves, and taken a wallet! Billy shivered thinking about it.

“Billy! Doggin was here!” Mrs. Chen said. “Look at my sheets.”

Billy’s stomach flipped.

“I’m sorry,” Billy said. “I’ll wash your sheets.”

“Billy, Doggin took off with my purse,” Mrs. Chen said.

Billy was worried about how mad Granny would be. He worried that Doggin was lost.

“Mrs. Chen, please don’t tell Granny. I have to find Doggin first.”

“Billy, we have to talk to your Granny.”

Billy ran back to his house in tears, with Mrs. Fixie, Mr. Sanchez, and Mrs. Chen following.

“What’s going on?” Granny asked.

“Doggin dug up my flowers,” Mrs. Fixie said. “And stole my gloves.”

“Doggin chewed up my chair,” Mr. Sanchez said. “And took my wallet.”

“Doggin broke my clothesline and dragged my sheets through mud,” said Mrs. Chen, “and took my purse.”

“Billy,” Granny said. “I told you that if there more trouble, we’d have to give Doggin away.”

“Granny, I don’t know where Doggin is. I think he’s lost for good.”

Clang! Crash! Boom! came from Mr. Funk’s house next door.

“G-r-o-w-l!”

Everyone raced to Mr. Funk’s house. Granny tripped over a garbage can.

“Doggin has to go,” Granny said.

“Where’s Doggin?” Billy asked as he raced into Mr. Funk’s backyard.

“Oh, my!” Mrs. Fixie said.

“Doggin, stay!” Billy yelled.

“I called the police,” Mr. Funk said.

Doggin obeyed. He stayed just as he was told. He stayed on top of a burglar’s chest!

“Who owns this dog?” the policeman asked.

“I do,” Billy said. “His name is Doggin.”

“That’s one brave dog. We’ve been after this cat burglar for weeks.”

The burglar wore Mrs. Fixie’s leather gloves. Next to the burglar was Mr. Sanchez’s wallet and Mrs. Chen’s purse.

As the policeman took the burglar away, a photographer took Billy and Doggin’s picture.

The next day, the headline of the newspaper read: “Hero Dog Catches Cat Burglar.”

After that, the neighbors said only marvelous things about Doggin.

Best of all was what Granny said — “Doggin can stay!”

https://www.latimes.com/entertainment/la-xpm-2011-jul-31-la-et-0731-story-20110731-story.html

Copyright © Los Angeles Times

In real life, Doggin did catch a burglar. I don’t believe my husband and Doggin made it into the newspaper though. My husband said Doggin was a hound dog mix. I wish I had a photo of him to share.

What is your favorite breed of dog? Or do you prefer mutts or mixed? Or cats?

A California Times publication

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Bill would do what?

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Clips I saved in a scrapbook from my journalism internship as a student at the University of Washington in Seattle.

Thanks to fellow blogger from Writing from the Heart with Brian for his post about “The Elements of Style” by Strunk and White. It brought back memories of my first encounter with the powerful little book that has been by my side since my internship as a “stringer” for a Washington state newspaper.

The Elements of Style was listed as one of the 100 best and most influential books written in English since 1923 by Time in its 2011 list.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Elements_of_Style

I haven’t thought about those days “like forever.”

Our professor, who was an intimidating former editor/publisher of a Northwest paper before he retired to “professoring,” selected 12 students to move to Olympia, Wash., our state Capitol. He assigned each student a newspaper where he believed they’d fit.

For example, a single mom who was older than the rest of us, got the Seattle Times, the biggest newspaper in the state. I was assigned to The Daily Chronicle and covered news for Centralia and Chehalis — the midpoint between Seattle and Portland, Ore.

I was surprised to be one of the chosen. In fact, I was scared to death having no interest or knowledge about government and politics. How was I going to write about it?

I looked up to — or rather worshipped my older brother at the time. He was the golden boy who was smart, good looking and could do no wrong in my eyes as well as my parents.

We got together so he could go over the basics of government with me. I was going to get a crash course in politics.

“What’s a Gop?” I asked pronouncing the word so it rhymed with cop. I was referring to the GOP or Grand Old Party.

“Is it too late to get out of this?” my brother asked. “Please, do not go!”

I was so afraid to go, that I procrastinated and showed up to the state Capitol several days late. My excuse was my part-time job at a restaurant. I was comfortable in my apartment with my roomie, watching General Hosptial and eating Kraft Mac-n-Cheese. I liked working with career waiters and waitresses. It was so less threatening than the unknown I faced.

I missed orientation, meeting the other students, but finally mustered up courage and made my appearance. My professor gave me a one-on-one tour. My best friend’s dad was a lobbyist for Weyerhauser and invited me to his office for my second crash course — this one about the timber industry. His wife was a big wig in the department of Natural Resources and they took an interest in me.

They helped me get off my feet and I busied myself with my first article, writing it longhand on a legal pad.

“I never would have selected you if I knew you wrote longhand,” the professor said stopping at my desk. “I can usually tell. Put down the pen and use the typewriter from now on.”

The 12 students, including me, shared one big room with our desks in two rows. The professor had a private office and critiqued our stories. He made us rewrite them before sending them via wire or snail mail to our newspapers. If there was a tight deadline, I’d call my editor at the paper and read the story to him as he transcribed it.

One of the students put up a picture of a cowboy and named him Bill. Then he posted all our headlines that included the word “bill.” Bill would to this. Bill would do that. Bill would do all sorts of things.

I turned in my first article to my professor. He called me into his office. It was marked with lots of red ink. He told me it was a great puff piece for Weyerhaeuser, but instructed me to get both sides of the story. He gave me names of several people to call who were in government or lobbied against the timber giant. He also showed me how to cut and paste my article so the most important facts were up on top.

Yes, back then we cut and paste with scissors and glue!

The article above about RIF by lottery above was from a bill that a Senator in my newspaper’s district proposed. My editor asked me to write about it. The bill and the article was supposed to be tongue-in-cheek. I got a call from a congressman reading me the riot act over it.

“You must feel so powerful!” he yelled at me.

I guess he missed the joke — even though I have the word “joked” in the article. Sheesh!

What memories do you have of an internship or first job? What did you learn?

Views from quarantine

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With the kids on their way to visit, my husband and I kept our promise to quarantine. The days at home gave me new appreciation for life in our backyard. (I wrote about the need to quarantine HERE.)

“Hey, it’s not that bad!” were my famous words I’d tell my swim coach after a hard set. We emblazoned the saying on t-shirts after the coach joked that he should advertise his Masters with my expression. (I wrote about not giving up — whether it’s swimming, fishing or writing HERE — complete with t-shirt pics.)

I discovered staying home “is not that bad” — and I that I love and appreciate my backyard.

The following are views that make me enjoy living where I do:

I watched three Harris Hawks land in a tree across the wall. They love to hang out there. Then one by one, they flew into our yard. I lost sight as they flew over our roof.

Here’s a video of one flying I captured in slow motion:

Look at the sparkle in our pool.
Here’s a young cardinal visiting my Bird Buddy until a Gila Woodpecker takes over.
I was standing outside and these quails didn’t seem to care that I was nearby.

I can’t wait to see my son, daughter-in-law, her brother and my daughter!

What are your favorite things or views from your home?