A comment by Stan Raines

Surprisingly, at right around six-thirty or so, the lights went out. This was cause of some pertubation for Kathy who had just gotten back from a truncated dog walk in the new morning cold and, I believe, had penciled in a hair wash before returning to school. Lights out, no hair dryer, no hair wash. Furthermore, crank up the flashlight (it runs on a magneto-charged battery) and find the tiny lanterns we brought in after the hurricane, the lovely Dolly, left us with lamp oil and candle light for a couple of days. They’re small, plastic, and burn a set of LCDs which produces a light cone of about three feet in diameter. We’ve got three. Three people in the house, three lights, we’re good, we reasoned, although now I want to find a larger lamp more suited to general lighting.

Kathy finished dressing and packing for the first day of school in two weeks, moving her light cone from kitchen to bathroom to closet to dining-workroom room/study storage and finally is out the door just at seven-thirty, her self-designated time limit for getting the eight miles to Los Fresnos High through the creeping traffic trying to get safely through that famous speed trap. I’ve finished reading the Herald–not a challenge most Monday mornings– and, with the lights out and no way to check email and the NY Times and run a loop through the bloggers I keep an eye on, I took a nap, odd to do having just been up at quarter to six, but good to do in the dark of a chilling day.

I dream I’m teaching. There’s been much discussion of schools and instruction over the holiday. We have a surplus of teachers in our local family branches–seven of eight adults teach or taught– and all except one of our children are still students. So, for reasons maybe connected to teaching I dream that I am in a classroom and in charge, yet I have my head down on a table as do, as I looked up and about, several of the others, students it seems; there is a certain energy in the atmosphere as if an idea has clearly emerged in a discussion and all are surprised in their own ways, enervated and talking it out among themselves or contemplating actively, scribbling notes. The principal was there, too, and I feel that I really ought to assert myself in some way, but she smiles, a pleasant blonde woman of early middle age, young to me, and it seems fine to drift on. But then someone reminds me that I had to pay the bill and I pulled out my wallet and saw how empty it was, dollars, cards, identification, all gone, and I wail at the loss. And the wail wakes me.

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An essay by Mary Katherine (Kathy) Raines

Sunshine sifting through the faded greens and reds in our yard inspired Stan and me to take off for the beach, a long overdue trip, to see soft pastels dappling the sand-tinged ocean during the early December “golden hour,” a joy to behold.

After a snack at Subway, and a viewing of an in town designated bird clearing, where we saw about two little gray flitters, we drove to the jetties, where a bevy of identical, unmarked white trucks was parked, seeming to have something to do with sand to be funneled through a bright orange tube on the beach. Stepping over the cylinder, we walked to the familiar boulders, the site of many a happy and interesting stroll.

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An essay by Mary Katherine (Kathy) Raines

Ah, Christmas gifts! One says, “She doesn’t know me at all! All these intimate chats we’ve had, and she thinks I want this?!” which was my reaction to my best friend’s giving me Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil when my spirit was coughing and smothering from the dust of such. Another gift more comfortably says, “Hmm, this isn’t my usual style, but this could work,” my thoughts one year upon unwrapping an attractive, decorated black Tee with pants, black not being my usual color. Still another loudly declares, “What?! I’m not worth the effort and cash bestowed upon my sister (or any convenient, happier gift recipient)?” Then there’s the gift of fantasy and lore. Somewhere out there, in whispery soft focus, a woman breathlessly exclaims, “Oh, Honey! I never imagined!” as she peers under a black velvet lid, red ribbon drifting to the floor. And background voices sing harmoniously as the commercial fades.

The most suitable gifts, in my experience, are those picked out by the recipient, and, yes, I know some who do this, notably my son and his girlfriend, having inherited the idea from my practical mother-in-law. One year they happily exchanged suede coats, the gift-giving “magic” being in the camaraderie of shopping for one other. When we’re available, my mother-in-law takes us shopping, and we try on what we like. She wraps the gifts and enjoys our contented smiles as we tear open the paper, knowing we got our heart’s desire. There’s no delighted surprise…nor feigned pleasure.

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by John Goggin

Yesterday, it was 60 F and she couldn’t get enough of it. I took down the Christmas lights.

Of course, she had to check a dozen times to make sure that the kibble was still there.

In and out, out and in, in, out, in, out. Banging on the screen door; yowling out, purring in.

Today, it’s 28 F and she sniffs the air outside as if there were a wolverine out there. She won’t go out. I won’t either.

Actually, we don’t have wolverines around here, and she’s never seen, or smelled, one, anyway.

Still, that’s how she looked to me.

Now, she wraps herself around my legs and wants something.

I want something, too.  But it’s 24 F and the evening’s winding down.

I’m saving my last cigarette for tomorrow morning. I don’t know what she’s thinking.

From Gene’s Notebook

…weak back, sunken chest with greying hairs, a connection with my near-97 father, and as I turn to the wall and dresser, I know I could hit Major League-speed fastballs, steal bases, make double-play throws and leg out doubles and triples …..

Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky
January 2, 2009

A note from Stan Raines

Gentle readers! Generous contributors! May the New Year find you well and contented! And if that contentment and wellness are not with you sooner, then may they be with you later; if it is not your beginning for the year, then let it be found by the end.

I’ve had a good morning so far. This morning’s Herald did a mildly better than average job of summing up some of the tumult of the year just passed although they have taken the low road in the Juan Guerra affair in Willacy County, merely accepting the supposed Conventional Wisdom that Mr. Guerra is a vengeful nutcase without investigating his concerns, many of which, on their face, have the sheen of legitimate question. For instance: how has Eddie Lucio, Jr. gotten wealthy while his main business has been the $7200 a year senate seat? Rather than doing the gruntwork of crawling through records and finding and cultivating insiders who can tell the story with knowledge, Ms. Perez-Treviño seems satisfied merely gathering quotes from Mr. Guerra’s tormentors and putting them up as though, in the openly secretive world of South Texas politics, Esquire Michael Cowan, for instance, were anything other than Lucio’s paid shill.

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A stolen comment from John Sherffius

From Gene’s Notebook

…with the New Year here in Asia and Oceania, there are some hours before it is here in the humidity and sun ….

…Border Patrol helicopter cruises over the riverbanks in the hazy sky, and a motorcyclist on the flat ground slams on his brakes, fishtails, keeps his balance (no helmet) and does not collide with a long line of stopped cars and trucks, stopped because a huge RV towing a car is making a long-time-to-do left turn and I gasp, hoping the motorcyclist does not fall ….

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An opinion from Gene Novogrodsky

Recall ninth grade civics classes? I doubt if most schools have that subject. We learned that lawmakers, at any level, are supposed to serve all the people, not special interests. However, federal, state and county elected officials have not followed that course in three recent instances.

Federal lawmakers have visited two wars and “The Wall” on the United States, with “The Wall” of particular concern to South Texas.

State lawmakers have dropped a toll-road plan on Texas, and the Cameron County commissioners joined in, and until recently have been accepting a proposed toll road (West Loop) - after the Brownsville railroad is relocated - on thousands in the city and county who oppose that plan.

Who is being served by these actions?

The wars have not thwarted terrorists, but have enriched special interests at a huge cost to the public to say nothing of always-accumulating death, wounds and  physical destruction and neglect that affects all parties in the conflicts. And, as a nasty byproduct of the war, thousands of new terrorists have emerged.

“The Wall” will not solve thorny immigration issues, but its construction will dole out millions to private concerns, as well as insulting Mexico. a messy combination.

The West Loop is not needed, as traffic in West Brownsville moves nicely - if one leaves a minute or two early - and will only benefit speculators and road builders, especially TXDot. Its proposed route will leave an eight-mile ugly scar through West Brownsville instead of a scenic path and trail.

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From Gene’s Notebook

…an ex-con, or more politely, a former convict with all his obligations served, accomplished …and I know that I’d forgotten a promise I had made four months ago, to get him registered to vote now that he was out of the penal system’s arms; he yells, “Obama!” as he had wanted to register to vote for him …and he sips his coffee, leaning over the 24-hour store’s counter, and then says, “Next a Hispanic president,” and I add, “And maybe a woman.”

…out of work, this ex-con, former convict, he tells me that he trims palm trees, using spiked boots to climb the trees; he keeps leaning, drinking the coffee; the attendant leans back on the other side of the counter, no coffee for him; pumpkin spice coffee for me; I say, “I blew it on the registration, but just go to the courthouse and fill out a card. Sorry. Really sorry.” He’s not upset, and again says, “Obama!”

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A remembrance

Hewing wood, fetching tamales mid December, getting drunk by the garage fire with the in-laws as the Norther rages at all that was and is warm. And the women cook, and talk and watch TV inside. Men by common agreement and innate concordance converge apart from the split tails free of female censoriousness and disapprobation.

And now it’s time for perhaps the Season highlight! Just as the Jews in the time of Jesus would ritually slit the throat of a lamb, so, too, the Tejanos had a tradition of La Matanza del Marrano. First it involved the selection and run down of the prize porker by mostly the younger primos. Then the selection of the largest caliber handgun. Then the obvious choice of the Matador de Puercos, i.e.the guy that was most drunk. The varoncitos were called to watch the ritual sacrifice.

The women with brains would try to herd the young ones off in another direction with some promise or distraction. It was none too safe. The pig would be shot at point blank range between the ears, but more often than not the great matador would miss. Bam!! There goes an ear. Pow!! Part of a snout. Kaboom!! That pig will never walk straight again. Bang!! There goes a primo to meet the Virgin of Guadalupe…A wise woman would get her kids out of Dodge prontisimo.

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From Gene’s Notebook

…and when the mind drifts, easily induced on a walk in drizzle and cold, walking stick striking the sidewalk and pavement ….

- The Matamoros roofer, just back from roofing in Corpus Christi, tells me that Mexico is mi tierra, and the United States mi trabajo. I joke with him and tell him to go to church to pray for hurricanes, every roofer’s dream ….

- The green-clad soldiers are all over Matamoros, rifles, black masks, vests, machine guns, armored vehicles …. I feel that I’m back in Chile more than 30 years ago, Pinochet time. One soldier has his rifle muzzle touching the floor of a convenience store. Was I told never to do that during my military years? The
soldiers … they have to know they’re targets in the drug wars …so edgy …violence far, then, near …. Would they shoot? Do they want to shoot? I’m dwarfed among the soldiers - many of Indian heritage and shorter than I am, but I’m still dwarfed ….

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From Gene’s Notebook

…and she came back from South America, journal full, ideas bursting, wanting to share and tell …and everyone was busy … …and with a late-afternoon rain sweetening Monroe City, Missouri, on the prairie that rolls, barely, to Kansas, I ask an old farmer in a pickup about where the main street is, and this man of soybeans and corn tells me, and in minute I’m there, where I meet some men and woman, mixed race, with a mixed-race baby they were all caring for, while all sorts of drugs and booze circulated before and after a slow-pitch softball tourney …and we find ground with cooked meat, dry cereal breakfast, Cardinals baseball …. So, why write this? Why tell it? Remember that woman; she might have learned just how alone we are, even with illusions of together ….

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A note from Stan

I’m saddened to note that Harold Pinter, esteemed British playwright, died yesterday at 78.

My induction into theater at the Charmichael Repertory Theater at Ball State University in the 1970’s included playing Teddy in Pinter’s “The Homecoming” and the company’s repertoire included “The Caretaker” and “The Birthday Party.” I never made it into the cast of those plays, but worked their productions and admired them greatly.

Pinter was a leading light in British theater for several decades and a man of principle who felt obliged to speak truth to power even when it was not a popular thing to do. He will be missed greatly.

Some wishes from Stan