Color in the Streets

Sitting in Mexico, sunshine & blue sky, slightly chilled from the whispering breeze wafting into the open doors & windows (yes, it’s December here too).  Christmas music playing.  For me.  Ben objects but plays it for me anyway.  His memories of this Christian holiday are nowhere near my own pleasant memories.  I am sad for him.  Thinking it through…

In my childhood home, where Dad was a Methodist minister & Mother was often choir director, Christmas was a time for music, gifts, gatherings, lights, & Christmas trees.  Children starred in plays about baby Jesus & Santa & his reindeer. Choirs sang cantatas, Christmas carols, & classics like Ava Maria & the Hallelujah Chorus.  Everyone smiling, in my world at least.

Mother & I made sugar cookies with chilled dough rolled out & cut into shapes with metal, & eventually plastic, cookie cutters.  The sugary dough was yummy – until someone came along & told us all that it wasn’t safe to eat raw egg.  That was the end of scraping the bowl & licking the beaters that had blended the ingredients into a soft, sticky mass.  Fresh from the oven we moved the warm cookies to wire racks to cool then decorated them with homemade icing & sprinkles (gingerbread men scored raisins for facial features) & packed them in decorative boxes lined with wax paper.  A color-coordinated bow & tag completed the packages as we lined them up for their recipients.  The mailman, the trash men, the gas station attendant, the barber, hairdresser, & anyone else who provided a public service to our home & family.  It left me feeling warm & happy, though at that point I didn’t really understand why.

Every December Dad would take me & my brother to a field somewhere to cut down our own tree.  When Phil left for college, I got to go alone with Dad.  I loved it, loved traipsing through the fields with him, looking for just the right tree.  Usually it was on some church member’s land, scattered with a few small groves of trees left after someone some time back had cleared the land for cattle.  The trees were never very big.  Just big enough.  8’ was pretty much the norm.  I remember the last year Dad & I went.  Ambling along Dad stopped in his tracks – Look up! he whispered.   Ahead of us a red fox had stopped in his tracks as well.

We all decorated the tree together after Dad filled the bucket that held it in place with rocks & water & Mother covered it with some tablecloth or scrap of fabric saved just for that purpose.  There were shiny Christmas balls, bells, angels perched on our tree, & sometimes strings of popcorn & cranberries.  The final piece, of course, was the star placed on the treetop by Dad just before turning on the lights.  It was customary to place your tree in a front window for all to view each evening as they walked or drove by.  Our tree would stand for 2-3 weeks, others for months.  Taking it down always signified the end of the magic for me.  Back to the reality of day to day life, back to school.

In this season going to church was about singing & food & gifts & wearing new frocks.  Decorated & sprinkled with twinkling white lights, the sacred building held me spellbound.  What was this feeling that was so different from the rest of the year?  And why so different?

Christmas hymns, long my favorite, gave way to popular songs at home, played either on the record player or by Mother on the piano.  Early on in my childhood folks still gathered to go caroling in nearby neighborhoods.  The joy of the season welled up in my throat, my eyes.  Sharing this energy, moving in unison to bring joy to others, was magical.

Candlelight service on Christmas Eve was always my favorite.  Everyone (above a certain age, I suppose) was given a white candle with a paper sleeve to catch any drippings.  I’m sure it wasn’t safe.  I imagine there were accidents somewhere, sometime.  But for me it was magic to see the church fill with candlelight as we joined our voices in the old familiar Christmas hymns…Silent Night, Oh Little Town of Bethlehem, Joy to the World, and so many others.  Made even more magical for a small girl by the anticipation of Santa Claus & his reindeer.  Had I been good?  What would be under the tree for me?  How would I ever go to sleep?

Early Christmas morning I’d sneak to the tinsel draped tree where the lights were already on as Mother padded into the living room in her robe & slippers.  Christmas music chimed softly nearby.  Dad, who’d read ’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS the night before, now read, with reverence, “the (Biblical) Christmas story”, as the gathering of kings around a babe in a manger long ago was called, just before handing each of us our gifts.  Shiny metallic paper & ribbons lay scattered on the floor as each package was unwrapped.  Stockings were filled with fruit & nuts, ribbons & bows for my hair, new socks for my brother.  Then we transitioned to the kitchen where Dad made omelette or waffles to go with the hot chocolate we inhaled at the table, holding our dearest gifts close.

I don’t remember how or when I found out there was no real person named Santa Claus.  It must not have been very traumatic for me.  Maybe I just outgrew it.  I’m not sure Dad ever did.  For years after I left home for college & then marriage, he would dress as Santa, hiring himself out (after retiring from church work) to parties & churches, handing out gifts as he Ho-Ho-Ho’d.  Oh, how he loved it.  Eventually he bought an expensive well-made suit, wig & beard that made him the best Santa ever, complete with a twinkle in his eye.  He could’ve fooled anyone!

In 1985 Dad was dying from colon cancer.  He spent that last Christmas on the living room couch.  My ex-husband & I took our son to the local Belk’s store where a photographer was taking Christmas portraits.  Finally, the 3 of us together on film.  We were proud to hand our framed print to Dad when we visited at Christmas.  He was thrilled & chuckled when he said, “Do you have to die around here to get a family portrait?”  Even at that point he loved to laugh.

After Dad died & Mother moved into a little house in Louisville, KY, to be near my brother & his family, she yearned for all of us to be together at Christmastime.  Once, when my son was a teenager, we made it happen.  My brother & his family, me & mine, all piling into the small house our Mother called home.  It was a joyous time, one of the highlights of my mother’s life I dare say.  The smile on her face, her arms raised with hands clasped together as we all arrived at her door, are images etched in my mind forever.

During my 32 years of marriage we always had a tree decorated for Christmas.  Early on I made gifts for everyone but once I’d started nursing school, then went to work, all that ended.  I joined the rat race of shoppers, looking mostly for practical gifts & eventually for the latest toy or pair of shoes (Jordan’s) for my son.  There was no church in our lives, no Christmas music unless we set the radio to just the right station or played some leftover Christmas album.  Gradually it became a task (rather than a joy) to organize gifts & travel to one place or another.  Often I only had 1 day off of work, if I was lucky, so travel was less & less of an option.  My world of Christmas hung by a thread.

When I moved to Hillsborough to be with Ben he took me to an afternoon event of a Christmas sing along & my heart soared.  I was in my element, my magical world again!  In Virginia his large family gathered to celebrate.  I thought of my mother & how she would love to have been there with us. In Hillsborough the tradition I’d grown up with of having a real tree was displaced by a handcrafted curled metal table tree that could only hold a few ornaments. We made up for it with lights strung inside & out.  Gradually I collected ornaments with birds & pine cones to hang alongside my snowman set, a gift from my first nursing workplace, & the Hallmark collectables I’d picked up at Deerfield Pharmacy in Boone.  Those snowmen are with me still.

So it’s Christmas in Mexico, where evergreen trees are found only in the high mountains & craftsmen sell sturdy trees made of thick twigs by the carratera (roadside).  This year we bought one, along with handmade Mexican ornaments & some lights for the tree & terrace.  On a walk one morning I spotted a small spool cable set by the road for trash pickup.  I figured it’d make a perfect tree stand, draped with cloth, & it does.  Every night & every morning I turn those tree & terrace lights on.  My heart soars.  I’m a little kid again, filled with excitement, hope & promise.  Though I’m missing my granddaughter’s first real Christmas (she’s nearly 2 now), I know we’ll see her on FaceTime.  We sent gifts through Amazon. The easiest way from here. But I long to hold her.  I want her to know the Christmas I knew as a child. I’m glad she has parents who love her so dearly.

Where have those feelings, those traditions gone?  Is it all no more than what & how much to buy now?   This winter holiday that begins in July?  How did this happen?

My mind stretches & my heart bursts open.  What does it mean to me now?  Now, finally, with encroaching age & the trauma of the past year, for me it is once again about giving & sharing.  Not the same giving as I did as a nurse where there was so much responsibility tied to a paycheck.  This time it is: Who can I help?  Who can I make happy?  Who can I surprise?  What does the poor Mexican family down the street need?  Who needs a local “getaway” & a hot Christmas meal?  I don’t mind that this holiday sprang up from the birth, fictional or not, of a man named Jesus.  What if it is just symbolic of how to care for each other?  What if the point, really, is to gather together & share our thoughts & gifts & love?  To create memories?  What if there was no Amazon?  No online purchasing?  What would you give?  How would you connect?  What will you & your family & friends remember about Christmas in 2020 & for many years to come?  How will we create more “magic”?

   Happy Holidays!  Merry Christmas!  Happy New Year! 

Feliz Navidad!  Feliz Año Nuevo!

Tepehua (tay-PAY-oo-wah) is the name of an indigenous population of México, and also the name of a barrio (neighborhood) on the hillside above Chapala. The barrio has a history of drug and alcohol abuse, crime, violence, and disease. Women lack knowledge of nutrition and birth control. Children often lack the proper documents that make education available, limiting their possibilities for the future. In 2010, with so much need realized, a small group of volunteers gathered together and, with the help of the Rotary Club, found funds to create the Tepehua Community Center. The non-profit organization set goals to provide better health, education, and economic opportunities for the residents through advice, counseling, and guidance. Addressing these issues primarily with the women of the barrio, positive changes began taking place. A soup kitchen brought local people in for healthy meals and socialization, with frozen soup provided to those who are homebound, old, &/or infirm. A bazaar provided shopping for gently used items. An education program was put into place, teaching children AND parents to read and use computers. Medical, dental, and maternal health care, even acupuncture, became available at the Community Center clinic, including education on diseases like cancer and STD’s. And over time a program was established to provide fresh, clean water as an alternative to the plethora of easily accessible refrescos (soft drinks) believed to contribute to the rise in kidney disease in the barrio.

My initial interest in Tepehua grew when I spotted well made, colorful face masks just inside the door of the Tepehua Treasures Thrift Shop. When I began asking questions about the beautifully made items stacked on shelves just inside the door, I realized that the person answering me (behind the mask!) was Mary Ruzich, seamstress and friend I had met last year through a neighbor. In fact, our meeting took place – PRE-Covid – on a trip to the fabric district of Guadalajara.

Leaving behind a much enjoyed sewing group in Mazatlan, Mary happily joined the Tepehua Sewing Center that had been organized in 2012. She took over direction of the group over a year ago when its beloved founder Irka passed away. Mary’s career as an elementary school teacher and long time seamstress made her a perfect fit for the job.

Twice a week the highly organized, well-equipped Tepehua Sewing Center hosted a group of ten women who came together to learn business and sewing skills. Mary is constantly listening for opportunities for the women to learn new skills and generate income. In addition to the ever-evolving array of projects, she also teaches them how to do alterations and quilting. Their expertly made products include potholders, eye glass holders, teddy bears, pillow cases, small shoulder bags, aprons, shopping bags, place mats, small zipped purses, the face masks I love, and many more quality items which are sold at community events and the Tepehua Treasures Thrift Shop (in Riberas del Pilar, next to Computerland for those of you who live in the Lakeside area). “It’s all for our children and grandchildren” the women say. Their skills have brought a higher quality of life to all in the barrio, “making lives better, one stitch at a time…”

Enter Covid. The Tepehua Sewing Center classes dropped to half their normal size. When cases began showing up at the medical clinic adjacent to it, the decision was made to close the Center for now and farm projects out to the women in their homes as much as possible. The sale of their products provides much needed income and any disturbance in that process can be catastrophic. Covid has certainly taken its toll, limiting sales opportunities through community events, in addition to limiting classes.

Tepehua Treasures Thrift Shop, is the primary support (no other fund raising is allowed) for the Community and Sewing Centers. They welcome donations of nearly any kind – clothing, jewelry, books, household items – for sale in their store. Monetary donations can also be made via PayPal, check, or cash. Volunteers tend the store Tuesday through Friday from noon until 3 PM. Masks and use of hand gel are mandatory before entering. Hours are short because more volunteers are needed. I recently heard a volunteer explain with great pride the many ways the shop income serves the Tepehua barrio. But here, also, sales are down due to limitations related to Covid. The need is great.

I was lucky enough to visit the Tepehua Community Center this week, thanks to Mary. The large white-washed building proudly sports its name facing the wide cobblestone street. There is not much activity on the street – or in the building. The ample industrial kitchen is quiet and the dining area is lined with stacks of colorful plastic chairs waiting to be put to use again. The bazaar, with its low-priced items, is a bit musty from 10 months of closed doors. The Sewing Center is quiet except for Spanish conversation between Mary and the office manager, Esperanza, working together on a quilting project. Through a rear window I see a hilltop crowded with small concrete block homes. Below, at the back of the building, sits the medical clinic, its van, and the water program building with its new truck. The clinic is only open 2-3 days a week now. A sudden too–toot-toom of a trumpet raises my eyebrows and Mary explains that a family lives in a downstairs casita, acting as caretakers. Their son is learning to play his instrument, bringing the building alive as I stand listening.

Moonyeen (Moonie) King, Director of the Community Center, describes how things have changed this year: “With everything came a sense of urgency… Dental activity was by appointment only so no lines waiting….Food was picked up at the door in packages…and potable water was delivered…The entire organization is working with limited hands on deck or boots on the ground.” Just last week the title of the land where the Community Center stands was signed over to the people of Tepehua, assuring that the Center will be theirs for years to come. Donations from the Rotary Club and the private sector “financially and materially, kept us going” the Director says. There is hope.

And “so this is Christmas…and what have you done?” In the craziness of 2020 so many are in need. Those of us who have so much have the opportunity to reach out to help those less fortunate. Tepehua and its “treasures” have become my cause. Perhaps they will be yours as well.

So “Merry, Merry Christmas! And a Happy New Year! Let’s hope it’s a good one, without any fear.” (John Lennon). Feliz Navidad! Blessings to all.

For more information about the sewing program, or to arrange a tour, contact Mary Ruzich at mruzich53@gmail.com or +1 541 690 2771.

To learn more about the Community Center and the Thrift Shop, visit:

https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.tepehua.org%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR2Iq9hyOeffYMQ1Xcnfmaau7fIMYFlOP75jPSCFl1DtZM0uUN1F3lU0xDE&h=AT2M68mK7HcyXcVofLaVn37Zifxr1FmCXHhoOueba7LQH3_qAtU3dmvzxKndvFzYKVhJ3UBTkZRU5wAbHZqsgtm4XsnITkALUm0rg2lNSQnv8qj3ZEBzKwgtzMsle3pO43qWkuoJ

https://tepehua.org

(Thanks to Mary for her time, assistance, and some of the photographs. And to Esperanza & the volunteers in Tepehua Treasures for their co-operation.)

 An emergency visit to the vet this past Sunday morning took us to the nearby town of Chapala. Once we knew Tumi was in good hands and most likely had a less serious issue than we’d imagined, we took off to explore a bit.  Chapala has been a favorite of mine since I first visited the area.  It has a small city charm that keeps bringing me back.

It’s interesting that I could never find a population number for the town of Chapala itself, only for the municipality.  That number is over 50,000 (2015) while the number for the nearby village of Ajijic, west of Chapala, is around 11,000.  It is about 5 miles east of Ajijic and about 25 miles south of Guadalajara, sitting on the edge of Lake Chapala, which supplies about 60% of Guadalajara’s water.  This is the largest inland body of water in México, averaging about 4.5 meters deep, 15 miles wide and 33 miles long.

The name “Chapala” has uncertain origins.  Some say it derived from the Nahuatl name of Chief Chapalac. Another theory is that the name means “the place where pots abound”, referring to the primitive indigenous practice of appeasing the gods by throwing clay pots, spotted with blood from earlobes, into the lake.  The Nahuatl language goes as far back as the 7th century CE and brought us the words chocolate, avocado, and tomato, among others.  Around 1000 B.C. native people drifted into the area.  Chapala became a small fishing village that grew into “summer farms” as colonization began in the 17th century..  Between the 16th and 18th centuries the population was mostly indigenous.  

The town of Chapala was founded in 1538 by a Franciscan evangelist.  In 1548 the adobe and grass church “San Francisco de Asís” was built near the lake’s edge.  By 1550 the population consisted of 825 married people and 349 children.

In 1915, after WWI, Norwegian speculators decided to turn Chapala into a resort town complete with a railway and motorized water taxis.  They planned to build a dam that would dry up enough land to allow for luxury homes, a first class hotel, and a casino.  The railway contributed to the town’s growth until 1926 when the lake flooded the tracks.  After years of abandoned disrepair, a wealthy family bought the old train station, donating it to the municipality in 1991.  The beautiful old building now serves as a museum and small art school. An old train car sits out front but the tracks are long gone.

Beside the renovated museum is an artist’s plant and architectural “remnants” store, full of native plants and unusual treasures.   Down the street is the municipal park with swimming pools, tennis and volleyball courts, and an amphitheater.

The town proper is bustling with activity.  Here you’ll find the central plaza and market, restaurants, small grocery stores, furniture stores, and other businesses found in most small towns.  I’m told that on Niños Heroes you’ll find the well-known Fabrica De Dulces Chapala, a small candy factory that’s been in business for over 80 years.  Old buildings mix with new.  Many have seen famous painters and authors over the years.  DH Lawrence wrote The Plumed Serpent here.  His old house now serves as a B & B.  Find out more on https://lakechapalaartists.com/?p=9528

Near the old church the malecón sprawls along the lake’s edge, filled with craft booths, visitors from near and far, and small boats that tour the lake or take you to nearby Scorpion Island (no, it’s not covered with them; just shaped like one).  Vendors wander the malecón with their famous ice cream and twirling voladares spin upside down from a 60′ pole to mysterious flute music.

Further east past the malecón is the Chapala Yacht Club with tennis courts, soccer fields, a small bullring, and health clubs.  This is the sight of the annual Feria  Maestros del Arte, where a selection of the best crafts men and women in México are invited to attend each November to sell their carefully constructed wares.  For many the Feria provides most of their annual income.  Buyers and collectors come from all over the world to attend this fabulous event.  Hopefully online sales will help some of these wonderful artisans survive without the Feria this year.  Check it out at http://feriamaestros2.com

After lunch I headed for the public bathroom behind the mercado (market).  Not my favorite place but…when you gotta go, you gotta go.  Last time I was there the baño was closed for repairs.  Now it’s unisex!  (And I thought México was behind!)  As I started for the door a Mexicano was coming out.  Was I in the wrong place?  But there on the stall doors were hand-written signs, one for Hombres, one for Mujeres.  I laid my 5 peso coin on the counter and saw a little Mexican boy, maybe 9 or 10, holding paper towels.  With a big smile he picked up my coin, ran outside the open doorway, and returned with a stack of folded toilet paper.  Right.  As I stepped toward the sink he smiled and raised the lever for water.  “Como se llama?” I asked him.  “Fernando”, he said.  “Mucho gusto, Fernando.  Y muchas gracias!”  And that’s Chapala.

Let me add that I have truly struggled with the format of this post thanks to the latest WordPress update. There is much more to the story of Chapala but I’ve struggled long enough. Unless I can wade through it or find help sorting it out, it will be awhile before you hear from me again. Thanks for your loyalty! Wish me luck!

Where in this world would I be if it weren’t for Ben Dyer?  My life partner.  Did I tell you how we met?  Let’s start there.

In 2002 I was living on my own in a beautiful little cabin overlooking a small stream in the woods of Ashe County, about 12 miles from Boone, North Carolina.  I’d been divorced for two years, bought my first house, and adopted my prize Welsh Corgi, Sir Berwÿn of Bethel.  I was feeling pretty dang good.  Kicker was that I was scheduled for a partial thyroidectomy three weeks after my move, to remove a benign tumor.

The phone rang.  It was my friend Chilton.  “I have a funny story for you.  We have this friend who stays with us once a month for a few days while he goes to acupuncture school.  He lives near Chapel Hill but he wants to move.  He told us he’d been going on Match.com looking for a woman to get to know in the mountains.  He found someone but she won’t answer his messages.  I told him to pull up the profile.  Boone’s not that big.  Maybe it’s someone we know.  And guess what, Chris!  It was you!  Can I give him your number?”  A life-changing phone call to say the least.

That first call happened two nights before my surgery.  I met him 10 days later.  He arrived in my driveway with a big smile and spent the day taking care of me since I was obviously still recovering.  Walked my dog, brought lunch, washed dishes.  That was 18 years ago.  Hard to believe.

We dated for 3 1/2 years long distance.  I was a home health nurse, he had his own handcrafted jewelry design business.  On one of his visits he suggested I consider going to massage school since my nursing job was completely exhausting and my real love was Healing Touch.  “You could live with me and go to Body Therapy Institute.  It’s one of the…..”  He had me at “live with me”.  I sold some of what I owned, including my sweet cabin, filled up a 26′ U-Haul and moved (with Ben’s help, of course) to Hillsborough, NC.  Only the beginning of a big new adventure!

Ben promised to take me to Italy (how romantic!) but it took 12 years to make it happen.  Between his work and show schedule and my school and nursing schedule, we stayed pretty busy.  When Italy finally happened we both realized how much traveling enriched our lives, brought out the best in us.  We took many trips between 2014 and 2018, mostly in the US.  We hiked in Washington state, Bainbridge Island, Victoria, BC, Bryce Canyon, Zion, Canyonlands, Arches, Dead Horse Point, south rim of the Grand Canyon, Durango, Mesa Verde, Ouray (CO); visited Manhattan and Chinatown, Chicago and Oak Park, Seattle, Sisters, Bend, Ashland and the coast of Oregon.  In 2017, having decided not to spend the money on travel to London or Portugal, we spent a week in San Miguel de Allende, México.  I had been to Tijuana and Ben to Oaxaca years before.  When you see the colors of México, he told me, it will change your life forever.

If you have read my posts from the beginning you know that it took a lot of work to make this move.  After our trip in January 2017 we began to research locations.  We wanted Mexico but took trips in the States with an eye toward other possible locations.  That September Ben met his sister Melanie in Ajijic, Mexico, a place we’d learned about through our research and conversations with friends.  We returned together for a week in January 2018 then house/pet-sat for friends of Ben’s cousin Gayle for two weeks in March.  We found an apartment in the village for the month of August, determined to decide by then whether we wanted to live there (here!) or not,  It didn’t take long to decide so we started looking for a place to rent, with the aim of moving by December.  We found our Casa Morada, west of town, the last week we were visiting and signed up for renting as of November 1.

Back in NC the wheels started rolling and we spent the next few months winding things up, visiting the Mexican consulate for visas, stopping unnecessary mailings, making financial arrangements, closing down Ben’s business, etc.  I completed my nursing career in May and dived full-time into making it all come together.  In October Ben shut down his business and we had a huge estate sale, ridding ourselves of about 85% of our belongings, most of which we haven’t missed.  By November 27th, 1918, we were living in Ajijic.

Now here I sit on the terrace of our beautiful modern home, looking out at Lake Chapala, the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains, palm trees and terra cotta rooftops, writing this post.  Not anything I ever imagined for myself.  Not anything that I would’ve thought possible without Ben’s sense of adventure and possibility.   We could’ve stayed in Hillsborough, but we were bored, boxed in, ready for a major change in our lives.

Ben turned 70 last September and thanks to the generosity of a friend we held a blow-out birthday celebration at her house (her sister’s birthday also).  50 people came!  This year is a bit different.  With Covid restrictions in place, we’re not doing big gatherings.  And we aren’t traveling.  But Ben turned 71 yesterday and we’ll be going to dinner with friends tonight to a special restaurant to celebrate.  Maybe next year we can hold another grand celebration or visit some spectacular Mexican town.  But for now, with so much accomplished in the past 3 years (including the addition of our granddaughter in NC and adoption of our mini schnauzer Tumi), a nice quiet dinner with friends sounds good.

And so, dear Ben, Happy Birthday!  Feliz Cumpleaños!  Thank you for this great adventure!  I love you.

My favorite contemporary “spiritual philosopher”, Charles Eisenstein, says that we are in “the space between stories”.  We have left behind the world as we knew it, the one we thought would last forever, and we are so steeped in upheaval and change, that we do not yet know the world of our future.  We are in between.

We have a chance now, a huge opportunity, to create a different world, a more beautiful world, one we have perhaps only (or never) imagined.  We have a chance now to come together, to care for each other and Mother Earth.

Here is the Earth I love.

And here are two stories from my own “space between”:

A few weeks ago we discovered two dogs leashed to a line tied between two trees.  They were on the edge of the field on the other side of the wall behind our house.  We could see them when we walked up to our roof (mirador) and we could hear one of them barking a high-pitched yip – relentlessly.  For 20 hours straight.  Something wasn’t right.  It’s rainy season for us and the dogs had no shelter, no food or water.

I contacted a nearby Mexican neighbor who lives next to the field and asked if he knew what we might do.  Then I saw other neighbors who were quite concerned.  None of us liked the noise but mostly we were worried about the dogs.  One neighbor contacted a dog rescue representative who started working on it right away.

It turned out that the field is rented by an elderly farmer who counts on his corn crop for his own survival.  He’d tied the dogs out to scare away the squirrels that would want to eat his corn seed.  A mystery to us as we could see squirrels scampering through the field, out of reach of the dogs, enjoying themselves thoroughly.  (Everyone has a story.)

The result was that two neighbors bought houses for the dogs then several of us chipped in to buy a month’s worth of food for them.  Around here stray, hungry dogs are such a problem that pet stores will divide up large bags of food and give a special price to the rescue people.  The farmer wasn’t happy about someone (even another Mexican) complaining to him, of course, but within a few days he released the dogs.  The noise and the abuse stopped.  The corn crop is growing.  The dogs have food and shelter.

Like so many other places right now, school is happening on television and online.  There are many children here who can’t afford internet or a device to use for their lessons.  It turned out that our gardener’s children had access to wifi (in a home of 20 people with 8 men working, chipping in to pay for internet service) but no device other than an old cellphone.

I put out a plea on our local Facebook page asking if anyone had a tablet or computer to sell for a reasonable price.  The responses that came in were either complicated laptops or high prices.  Then out of the blue a good friend, who’d just upgraded, cleaned up and donated their “old” laptop to us.  Ben threw in his extra printer and some ink.  César and Noemi’s three children are now able to “attend” school.

After this happened I decided to ask my housekeeper (who speaks no English) if she had what she needed for her three children for school.  Shyly she answered No.  Again I put out a plea for low priced or donated devices.  This time nothing.  So I sent out an email to friends here.  Within days I had enough to buy a simple, new computer at Costco.

I was so excited about giving Alba the computer, including a note listing the names of all who had contributed, that she and I were both almost in tears as I handed it over.  Through Google Translate I was able to ascertain that she does have wifi and knew someone who could help her set it (the computer) up.  Two days later I received WhatsApp messages from each of her three children – en español – thanking us all for the computer.  Tears of joy filled my eyes.  It felt so good to be able to help.

So these are the stories that make up my “space between”, the stories that remind you that we are all in this together, all here to help each other in whatever way we can.  I’m sure you have your own stories.  This could be our new, more beautiful world, where all are equal, where those who have more give more, where we laugh and cry together, smile at each other, and understand that love, respect, understanding, consideration, and compassion are the stories of the  world we have only imagined.  That’s the new world I want to see.

Pandemic Effects: Episode 1

Pondering the effects of the current pandemic brings to mind all those Mexican people I have met, heard, or read about since I’ve been here who are caught in the grips of such mind-boggling change while trying to carry on their normal day to day routines.  I fear for their lives, for their health, and for their subsistence.  Let me tell you about the rug weavers of Oaxaca.

Forty minutes south of Oaxaca City, nestled in the hills, is the Zapotec village of Teotitlán Del Valle, “Land of the Gods”.  Legend has it that the villagers never used rugs, that their weaving was originally for cloth and clothing and that after a villager visited Texas and saw thick wool weavings on the floors, everything changed. Still other sources say that the change was driven by gringo dealers coming south to find a cheaper source for “Navajo-style” rugs.  What we know for sure is that in the mid-twentieth century the farming village of Teotitlán became a tourist town with generations of self-governing villagers working together, proudly and patiently producing their quality rugs.

Weaving started in Mexico with backstrap looms, but with the Spanish conquest of 1521 came the pedal loom, along with Churro sheep for wool and mineral salts and oxides for toning and fixing dyes.  Men became the primary weavers, often standing for hours at a time.  Nearly everyone in the village became involved in some way.

Raw wool, imported or local, is used for weaving the famous rugs. Women generally clean and card the raw wool, then spin it into yarn.  Years ago synthetic dyes took over the trade, decreasing the price and easing the whole process.  But eventually local weavers realized the synthetic dyes were often toxic and not as desirable for consumers.  Gradually many began switching back to natural dyes as a way to stand out in their trade.  Some do their own dyeing.  Others obtain the dyed yarn from the workshops they weave for.

The Chavez Santiago family of Fe y Lola Rugs, one of the most famous weaving families in Teotitlán, shares their land with my friend Norma Schafer.  While visiting her last July I was lucky to see their clothesline covered with miles of strands of gorgeous freshly dyed yarn hanging in the sun to dry.  We also visited the workshop of Francisco Martínez Ruiz and his wife Maria Del Lourdes (above) where they gave us a beautiful demonstration of their entire process, a process that takes many hours to complete.  I learned quickly that carding and spinning are not as easy as they look.

The rug dyes of Mexico are famous, with many stories to tell.  Probably most famous are the reds of the cochineal insect and the blues of the indigo plant from the Isthmus of Tehuantepec.  There is a wonderful book called A PERFECT RED by Amy Butler Greenfield that tracks the history of red dyes, concentrating on the use of the cochineal insect that feeds on the liquid of the nopal, or paddle, cactus.  Dried and crushed they produce an amazing deep red color.  The indigo plant produces a deep denim blue.  Other dyes come from tree bark, nuts, mosses, leaves, and flowers (such as marigolds), and a complex system of mixing and/or over-dyeing renders a variety of deep, soft colors.  (I also referenced MEXICAN TEXTILES: Spirit and Style by Mask Takahashi and TEXTILE FIESTAS OF MEXICO by Sheri Brautigam, which includes a chapter on Teotitlán Del Valle by my friend Norma.)

The patterns of Oaxacan rugs cover a wide variety of symbols, some ancient, some modern.  Rug patterns are taken from paintings, Navajo symbols, geometric shapes, and ancient symbols of Mexico.  The Greek key, mountains, snails, feathers, and candles appear, as well as symbols of the ancient Aztecs.  As younger weavers who chose to stay involved in the family business step in, more modern symbols and custom designs appear as well.  Learn more about the history, patterns, and process of rug weaving in Oaxaca from Norma Schafer’s blog Oaxaca Cultural Navigator.

I had heard about Oaxacan rugs for years so when we visited San Miguel De Allende in 2016 I knew I had to go shopping.  Our trip to the weekly organic market, geared toward the local gringo population, turned up an authentic Oaxacan rug weaver and his teenage daughter.  So many gorgeous rugs to choose from!  I picked a runner for our hallway back home and asked them to ship it.  No problema.  I couldn’t imagine how long it would take to get to North Carolina or what shape it would be in.  “Don’t worry,” another gringa told me.  “It’ll arrive packaged like you won’t believe and it won’t take that long.”  Two weeks later a package the size of a small shoebox arrived, surrounded by rows of duct tape.  There was my rug in perfect condition.

Taking my cues from Norma, I was struck by a beautiful 8′ x 10′ rug on the floor of the rental house we looked at before moving down.  Not for sale, sorry.  A month later I received a message from the previous renter: Our hearts are broken but we cannot use the rug in our small house.  Would you like to buy it?  The answer is below.  My treasure.  All natural dyes.  From the famous Porfirio Gutierrez workshop in Teotitlán.

So it is these people that I worry about.  Tourist trade has decreased dramatically with the pandemic.  I have no idea how online or gallery sales might be going.  The rug trade sustains the village of Teotitlán Del Valle.  My experience with the people there is that they know how to take care of each other, how to survive.  They are resourceful and dedicated so I hope they will figure it out.  Many are resistant to the mandates of masks and social distancing.  It is not their way.  Whatever will be, will be.  Blessings to all the hardworking people of Teotitlán.  Here’s to better times ahead.