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| Our red house - 984 So. California Ave. |
My folks had met in the East Bay area in the thirties. Geraldine Irons was from Oakland, Leonard Jasper from the Portuguese haunts of San Leandro. Pop had met Mom through a friend his, Mom’s first husband in fact. Mom had a son with first hubby also. The folks married in 1940. Pop had received a medical discharge from the army. I would guess Mom was glad about this as she had become pregnant with her second child. He secured a job in Palo Alto so they moved across the bay to Palo Alto on “the Peninsula”. They were glad to get away from the city Oakland was fast growing to be due to the war. Mom wanted quiet, smaller town life and to be closer to some country. They both had secured work at the Veteran’s hospital. Mom as an LVN and Pop as a guard.
Palo Alto was a special town. It was founded in part by the nearby university campus founder, Leland Stanford, one of the “big railroad four” and one-time governor of California who helped build the first transcontinental railways. Mostly quiet, old oak tree shaded streets, bungalow and craftsman-type houses, some victorians here and there, and a few Spanish Mission sorts. Ours was a tall, wooden ranch house, made of local redwood common for the area, built sometime in the 1890’s. It was white when my folks bought it as was the norm. Eventually Mom painted it red.
The folks had 3 more children after that for a total of five. I was the last, the baby. We lived
literally on the edge of town. Across the street was an ample expanse of field that belonged to the university. It was our playground. One of them anyway. We chased rabbits, threw dirt clods, flew our kites, shot our B B guns in that field. There were cows too when I was real small. I think they belonged to a white farmhouse up at the top of the hill. I can still hear the squeaky wheels of the hay bailer that passed back and forth each year. I can recall foxtails in my socks. We occasionally climbed the old oak trees out there too.
I first attended school at a considerably old, but prominent, Mission style elementary school, called Mayfield. My oldest brother, at least 12 years my senior, had gone to the same school. When a new school was built nearby on Stanford property in ’62, the city decided those in our hood would go there instead. I started my 4th grade in the new Escondido school on the Stanford University property.
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So, 5 kids and about twenty years later, takes us to the early sixties. Pop’s gone from being a letter carrier to the Maintenance Supervisor at the post office downtown. My mother’s been working for IT&T, making semi-conductors for a few years. Some friends at work who drove every year to Mexico for a couple of weeks in their VW van, invited her and Pop to join them one summer. Pop wasn’t interested in going and stayed home. (A break from Mom!). My brother Stephen, also working at IT&T at the time in fact, went instead. Mom and Stephen loved Mexico. The following year, she was invited again and talked Pop into it this time. Turns out, he also loved it. I guess they did some serious talking thereafter and decided that they would “semi-retire,” sell the house and move to Mexico -- a very bold move. They must have been quite impressed!
Being the baby, I had become the last of 5 kids to still be living with the folks by then. Both of my sisters had each had a kid by now and were living somewhere on their own down San Jose way. My oldest brother was married living in Oakland, and my other brother I mentioned was hanging out who-knows-where with the likes of the local Beats and future flower children.
The folks had been considering for a time to leave Palo Alto. They didn't care for the changes coming about. Sadly, the quiet, country-fringed neighborhood street where they had bought their home back in ‘42, had become a busy thoroughfare in the mornings and evenings with people going to and from their jobs at the electronic plants that had been built amongst what was once cow pasture as mentioned. What was once an expansive field with dairies and small farms had become Stanford Industrial Park. What would be referred to eventually as Silicon Valley.
Our house sat on a corner, and people from the plants would occasionally sit in their cars on the side street at lunch time, and sometimes toss their trash in the gutters. This did not make my mother happy. California Avenue, the street we lived on, got busier and noisier with the traffic with each new factory that was built. Meanwhile the family dog got hit by a car, then again a year or so later. The dog survived both. Then one day someone almost drove their car onto our lawn and would have had it not been for the hedge around the property. That was too much for her.
The folks had been looking into moving, they liked the idea of living on a houseboat in North Bay of San Francisco, or England on the Thames. I went a time or two with them up Sausalito way to look at the houseboats Sausalito was famous for. That is, until they went to Mexico. We were far from being wealthy and no doubt money would go considerably farther in Mexico. So it was decided. We had a big lawn sale, something not seen often yet in our neighborhood, and sold off much of twenty or so years of stuff. Mom stored the antique furniture she wasn’t ready to part with at Gramma’s house in Oakland. I didn’t have much as some kids to begin with, but I said goodbye to a pitch-back and an electric train set and some model cars. Even an old teddy bear. I didn't complain. I’m guessing I was an adventurous sort even then: traveling to another country for the first time sounded like fun to me. The thought of moving to Mexico took precedence over any other childish thoughts I might have had, and well, it was out of my control, wasn’t it. And so we moved to Mexico in the summer of '64, on our way to a new home and truly different lifestyle!
You hear about people getting sick, “turista,” their first trip to Mexico and I was no exception. I had only been there 2 or 3 days. We were still on the road to our destination and adventurous me had turtle soup for dinner in Guaymas. And who is to say it may or may not have been the soup -- but let's just say I haven't had turtle soup ever since! When I wasn’t lying in the back seat, sick as a dog, I was sitting up and all eyes for most the 5 day road trip. And speaking of dogs, I shared the back seat with the family dog, too.
Before arriving in Mexico, there were many things I had never seen before! There was thunder and lightening in Culiacan outside our hotel. Crashing loud, with bright flashes, as it rattled the second floor windows in the hall where I stood watching. No, I couldn’t recall seeing this spectacle before in the Bay Area where I came from. There were dead dogs and dead horses in the roads or along the sides, sometimes swarming with vultures. There were packs of snarling dogs in the villages. i had never seen beggars. There were poor, raggedy clothed and sometimes crippled people, all ages, in the city streets, some with their hand extended. Some sleeping in doorways. I had never seen people living in grass shacks. I'd never seen such worn-out, dilapidated cars and trucks, some going literally a bit sideways down the road, reminding me of crabs!
Leaving Mazatlan on the coast and continuing South, one begins to notice how green and dense with vegetation it is. San Blas is our next stop. About half way, one comes to a crossroads. Trucks laden with all types of fruits are parked here I there. Buses of several sorts And sizes pickup and drop off people and their personal loads of what have you, chickens, fruits and vegetables, kids. open air, thatched roof restaurants are cooking up the good stuff, men, women, children, carry any number of small bird cages, with live, colored tropical birds for sale. They approach our car. We gaze in awe while Pop shakes his head no, and smiles. Mom oohs and ahs at the darling birds. We want to buy them all, then go down the road a ways and set them free.
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I’d never seen a herder walking his cows or goats down the middle of a road before. Or herd of cows grazing the grass by the roads and sometimes standing in right in the middle. And burros! No, I couldn’t recall ever seeing a donkey before. Only in the movies. Nor people driving creaky, wooden wagons pulled by donkeys, or by a mule. I‘d never seen papayas, mangoes, or bananas growing on trees. I’d never eaten jicama, tasted tamarindo, or drunk the red, agua de jamaica.
We stayed a couple days in Mazatlán on the way. The shrimp were huge, as long as the dinner plate was wide. Mom had made a friend there from a past trip, a well-known lady in town who owned a big gift shop called “El Burrito” on the Olas Altas. We stayed in a posada a couple blocks back from there. (This area is now considered the historic part of Mazatlan). Mom liked the market in Mazatlán, and the big plaza with purple jacaranda trees. Mom was entranced with all the colorful trees and flowers in Mexico. She was continuously snapping pictures of the trees and bugambilias everywhere we went. We bought my first pair of huaraches in the market in Mazatlán. Old style huaraches with the tire rubber soles are now getting harder to find.
Leaving Mazatlan on the coast and continuing South, one begins to notice how green and dense with vegetation it is. San Blas is our next stop. About half way, one comes to a crossroads. Trucks laden with all types of fruits are parked here I there. Buses of several sorts And sizes pickup and drop off people and their personal loads of what have you, chickens, fruits and vegetables, kids. open air, thatched roof restaurants are cooking up the good stuff, men, women, children, carry any number of small bird cages, with live, colored tropical birds for sale. They approach our car. We gaze in awe while Pop shakes his head no, and smiles. Mom oohs and ahs at the darling birds. We want to buy them all, then go down the road a ways and set them free.
The 22 miles more from the turnoff to San Blas has me sitting up all the way. Tiny villages, mud and thatched houses, peasant, third-world, mostly dark-skinned people wave at us as we pass. We go slow now as the road is much narrower and more alive with people and animals. Arriving at a river, we actually drive across the bottom through a couple inches deep of water. Along the banks on the rocks are women and girls washing clothes, while children splash and play in the water. As we near San Blas, lagoons, marshes and mangrove swamp make appearances on either side of the road, and exotic birdlife are abundant. At the edge of San Blas, we cross a small bridge over an estuary. A group of mostly bright colored dugout canoes are visible, some rigged with motors. A large bar-b-que is spewing smoke as fish are grilled over wood coals.
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| Main Steet View - Old Spanish Aduana Ruins |
My folks went out everyday for a while looking to rent a house. They found one not too many days later, a newly built one in fact, owned by a Dr. Hernandez. I believe the monthly rent for the 2 bedroom house was around $275. pesos, about $34 dollars then. It was on the main one-way return road from the beach, Playa Hermosa. It was typically painted light blue, and the interior was white with some pale pink. There was a bugambilia plant against the outside wall on the car port. We moved in and almost immediately met and made friends with the Mexican family next door. The señor, a real character, ran a bike repair business out of their home. My mother hunted up a local carpenter/furniture maker and had new living room furniture made, it was so incredibly inexpensive then.
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| The Folks in San Blas |
Come September, like back home, I had to go back to school. It was a bit scary. I only spoke three words of Spanish and most Mexican kids spoke about two words of English. The school building was a series of stalls around a dirt area on three sides, much like animal stalls, open aired, no glass windows, a cement floor and small blackboards hanging from nails. The roof was palm fronds and the walls were palm bark. I sat towards the back of the class and on the far side, like I always have. Frequently, during class, the other kids would turn around and look at me. Some stared, some smiled, some flirted. This was Mexico, they were just about all dark-eyed and dark-haired. I was the only blue-eyed, blonde-haired person there. And probably the tallest too. I’ll admit, they were mostly friendly and certainly curious and spoke to me in Spanish, and I struggled with understanding them. My folks had a Spanish-English dictionary and a Berlitz book of Spanish phrases I would refer to a lot in the beginning. The first Spanish phrase I taught myself was, “no entiendo “ or “I don’t understand.”
Naturally, during class, other kids would turn around and look at me with curiosity. They were just about all dark-eyed and black-haired. I was the only blue-eyed, blonde-haired person there, and probably the tallest too. They were mostly very friendly and spoke to me in Spanish, and I struggled with understanding them at first. My folks had dictionaries and a Berlitz book of Spanish phrases I would refer to a lot in the beginning when I was at home. The first Spanish phrase I taught myself was, “I'm sorry, I don't understand.”
As it turned out, I was among the last students to use the old school. A new 2 story building was being finished in a different part of town, and soon would be ready to occupy. But first they needed volunteers to put together the new desks that had arrived disassembled in boxes. They requested that us bigger kids help assemble them, so I did.
Growing up in the states, we said the allegiance to the flag each morning. In Mexico, it's a bit more military-like. Every week, we marched the streets of town with a drum and bugle corp! There's a photo or two my mother took of me doing just that. On special occasions, most everyone's dressed in white, some girls with gloves, except for me - nobody told me! Plaid shirt, blue pants, the clueless gringo.
Life in a small, tropical town was invigorating. I don't recall missing California for a minute. It was so unique, so new for me. The cobblestone streets and the thatched houses. The colors, the music. The food and the big ocean out there and all the interesting and usually tasty creatures that were extracted from it. The mangrove swamps, the jungle, the crocodiles and caimans, the diverse birdlife. The ruins of Spanish buildings here and there.
I wasted no time and did as the natives did: swam in my underwear in the estuary, caught shrimps in a net in the shallows, dug for clams on the beach, rode horses, and even drove a mule drawn wagon. I played on a intramural basketball team. I played the futbolito machines some days for hours, and made the first skateboard, patin, in town. I played marbles, pichas, learned to use a balero and a slingshot and a sling, resorteras. I climbed trees and knocked down fruit. Papayas, mangoes, guavas. I ate many things I'd never eaten or seen before. There were seemingly frequent festivities or religious celebrations or parades and carnival-like rides that either came to town or to a different nearby village. I went to the movies some nights, they showed John Wayne movies frequently.
Though many have no knowledge of it, San Blas is a historical place. It was a main port for the Spanish who sailed north to California and to the Philippines. It was a supply depot for the founding of the missions. There are ruins of an old church, and what is referred to as a “fort” with cannons on a hill overlooking the town, actually a counting house (contaduria) and a large crumbling customs house down on the estuary. (Inconceivable to me, has since been restored to a museum).
As a young teen-ager, the hormones were maturing. I did my first real flirting in San Blas. The Mexican girls were very friendly and flirtatious. My blue eyes and blond hair were noticed. (The Mexican men noticed my mother too for the same reason.) The girls were quite forthright and genuine and sweet, not at all self-conscious. Really cute!
Eventually, nature took its course. Thinking about it now, I probably had a few choices. Consa, well she lived just down the street. She had noticed me as I had her and our maid introduced us; I was 13, Consa was 15. But I was a head taller than she. I fell right in with the whole family. One could find me at their home more than my own. My mother thought I was going to school in the mornings and evenings. I leaned more about life in this humble people's home. Consa didn't go to school much as she had many chores to do. Lupe, Consa's mom was a kick. A little crazy, who both laughed and yelled a lot. It so happens too they made tortillas and sold them out of their house. I also spent a good deal of time with her brother, Quique. We went shopping for Lupe and shot sling shots and I learned to use his Goliath-like sling too for the first time. I was pretty good with it. It's was lethal! We played marbles, and a toy called a balero, the ones that have a heavy, cylindrical, carved wooden thing with a hole at one end that hangs from a string, connected to a stick. You swing the cylinder just so, so that it flips and lands on the stick. Quique would advise me on the people in town, the one's he liked and the one's I should avoid.
Enrique Sr. was a slaughterer for the meat markets. I was invited to see just what it was he did. Nothing fancy, just a sharp knife in the right spot and it was over for that cow. As the cow lay on his side, he cut the jugular and the blood poured out. I immediately saw the cow's body sink in size. Enrique cupped his hands together and drank of the blood. Then he reached down inside the cow's neck and stabbed the heart.
I learned much about the Mexican way of life hanging out at the Toscano's house. The language, the mannerisms, the gestures. I was young and I absorbed the culture like a sponge.
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I learned much about the Mexican way of life hanging out at the Toscano's house. The language, the mannerisms, the gestures. I was young and I absorbed the culture like a sponge.
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The Huichol Indians live nearby in the Nayar Mountains, part of the Sierra Madres, and they would walk through San Blas on their way to the ocean to pray. Sometimes they walked past our house. Across the estuary, is continuation of the mainland. There’s a small lighthouse sitting on top of a bluff. The locals simply called it, el otro lado (the other side). I found many of their gifts to their gods amongst the big rocks below the light house or simply lying on the beach, those that had washed up after being deposited in the sea. Small arrows, carved boats, yarn and beeswax “paintings,” Ojo de Dioses, “God's eyes,” and bead and beeswax bowls made from gourds. My brother brought home a crudely stuffed ocelot once. Stephen eventually bought a complete Huichol outfit for himself:
San Blas is known by birding enthusiasts for its concentration of birds that migrate from the north for the winter. There are more than 300 species of migrant and resident birds within 15 miles of San Blas. Mangrove estuaries, springs, fresh water rivers and tropical jungle create a great biodiversity.
Life in San Blas was never boring. Sometimes lazy, slow going and hot, but never boring. The Mexico experience affected me deeply. All those in my family that have gone there fell in love with the place. We loved the gentle, friendly people and their beautiful language, the music, the food, the tropical climate, the warm ocean water, the colors, the big blue skies, and of course--the low cost of living there. I learned to speak fairly good Spanish, and realized that even though I’ve lived mostly in the states, much of my heart is in Mexico.
PPG 2014/2015
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