But what fell, as if gifts from heaven, was a different snow. To my amazement these huge flakes, whose individual and unique patterns were easily discernible without magnification, fell. I stood one day in the middle of the descending whirling whiteness, warm tears rolling down my cold cheeks as these glories fell on my out stretched arms. Nestled in my sweater, they rested. I could see their beauty, their intricate pattern. I yearned to give them permanence. Finally the cold forced me inside. I could not hold them, except in memory.  Our desert Christmas tree was tumbleweed. I sprayed it white. Small beads of pearls left over from decorating my wedding headpiece hung delicately I from the branches, white tree, white snow, and white pearls.

Contrasted sharply with the tumbleweed tree was a spectacular Christmas tree which Mom put up the following year in 1960. Mom had remarried a few years before. Mom and her new husband had built a television repair business into a background music business with a radio station and all. Business was booming. They had just bought a big beautiful house in Flintridge, California. Like the monumental first tree carved into ny memory as an indication of my Dad's love, so this one stands out. Decorations, apped presents, food, and time all revealed clearly Mom's love and joy were being expressed. This occasion was for her two daughters and four very young grandchildren.

As my son and daughter grew, Santa Claus was never more than a representative of the idea of giving gifts in love. 
Santa was a pretend character based loosely on a historical figure. As they grew, I too set up trees. My husband did not become part of the preparations.  The children and I usually did the purchasing and decorating of the tree. Sometimes the tree was carried home on top of my little yellow Karmen Gia, sometimes inside. Once with most of the tree stretching out the car window.   Aury our son and Tawn our daughter clung to the  spiritual base of the holidays which  had escaped my attention. My paternal grandfather (was anti-Catholic, which was very unusual for a Mexican. Grandfather, was highly educated.  He felt most of the Christmas story was just that, a story.  Mother's reluctance to enter into the spirit aspects of Christmas was explained.  Trying to understand and accept Jesus for who he is, took me through a journey of introspection and investigating a series of  different churches. I even spent a  semester at the Unity School of Christianity in Lee's Summit, Missouri.

I remember feeling how unfair it was that if faith in Jesus was a gift, why I wasn't given it. I wanted to join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints because of the example of the people, but how could I if I didn't believe in Jesus Christ? Soon after that, twice within the same week, chance incidents helped me understand that I had been given the gift of faith.  I heard two people use the name of the Lord cursing their situation, and was greatly offended.  One was a child fixing a bike and the other a man standing in a long checkout line. I was indignant. Anger welled up in me. I observed my reaction, somewhat surprised at the depth of my own feelings and suddenly realized that I had come to respect and love Jesus. I had been given the gift of faith. In 1967 I joined the church and became a committed Christian. Entering into the holidays was a joy. I was celebrating the Lord's birthday.

However, just a few years later in 1970, a chance reading about the pagan base of many of the Christmas practices confused and affected me profoundly. Surely practicing the whole holiday season with trees and Santa is wrong. Research sets Jesus' birth in the spring. Early pagans were brought into the church by tying the birth of Jesus to pagan rituals. The Christmas tree was a connected to pagan worship. . The early colonizers were even fined if they greeted someone with a Merry Christmas. Santa Claus and the shopping frenzy. Newspapers carried articles about families getting into debt. Office parties and liquor  had come to be associated with celebrating the season. Was this what the Lord's birth should bring?

My non-Catholic Mexican heritage, Jewish husband, and now religious and social awareness caused me great confusion. What is the right way to celebrate Christmas?  For the forty-seven years of my marriage I've struggled to understand how my family should celebrate Christmas. How to sort out all the conflicts of cultures and beliefs? What is proper? How could I show my family I love and treasure them and be true to my spiritual understanding?

As I joyfully greeted the births of my grandchildren, I sought ways to express my position. About 20 years ago I purchase a creche, with some hesitancy because of my non-praticing-traditions Jewish husband, and also made my own statement outside. I hung a huge wooden Star of David frame, above our garage with a cross in the middle. The six-pointed star was lit with blue and green lights. In the center was the cross of white and gold lights. Our neighbor across the street thanked me for the display. "Grandma, what does it mean ?"  "Jesus was a Jew," I told my grandchildren simply. "Maybe this will remind our Christian. Jews are our cousins." I hung the decoration for about five years, then the task of setting it up and taking it down got to be too much for me.

However, I think I finally grasped the value of the symbol of the Christmas tree. The huge White House Christmas tree in Washington, D.C. did it.  It was obvious with all the furor of separation between Church and State that someone should have been objecting its display. But it occurred to me. Historically, it reflects the history of the great diversity of nationalities that built this great country. It is not a religious symbol, but a spiritual symbol of the brotherhood of man.

Christmas is the season to re-dedicate ourselves to the principles of love, concern, and motherhood. It is the time to mend families, strained relations, to show gentleness and kindness. The Christmas tree can reflect the simple and unique history of each family. his year, enjoy the traditions of your family. If you don't have any traditions, start lem. Even though my pilgrimage of understanding and accepting the place of the tradition Christmas tree has been difficult, each of my six grandchildren have a their-first-Christmas ornament. I wanted them to know their birth was special. They are special dearly loved.

The foundation of Christmas is not the tree, but the sacrifice of self, giving joy, giving t, giving peace, and giving hope. This year I will set up my creche, hang miniature balls on my Christmas tree (a poinsettia plant), and light a menorah. After 48; of marriage, that will finally be the tradition of decorating for Christmas in our house.

Christmas trees, Small ones, big ones, Dry ones, 
strange ones, Non-ones. Some brought fun, some softened pain. Symbol awareness, Spiritual gain.

Dyslexia is a term, which has been thrown around in educational and medical circles for 160 years. What is it? Many educators would like to throw it away, period. The manifestation of this learning disability varies in each child to such a degree that identifying it in a child becomes a challenge beyond the scope of most educators.

The first  time I heard the word was when it was applied to our son, Aury. Thirty-eight |ago it was apparent to me that something was amiss. Bright, eager to learn, Aury had carried a volume from our  encyclopedia to school on his first day of kindergarten because he was going  to learn to read." Unfortunately, it didn't happen. In first grade the teacher  commented. "He's just a little slow. That's why he's having problems keeping up." That's is what she saw. What I saw was pain and withdrawal. A little boy who came home from, |put his slippers on, closed his bedroom door, and sat rocking in his rocking chair,  open book in his lap.

I knew Something was wrong. A friend of mine, Eloise Shields, interceded. She was a psychologist with another school district. She was towards the end of her career and had tested hundreds of children.. She tested Aury using a battery of tests. His IQ was not only in the normal range, but way up high in the gifted area. In fact, she said that his intelligence was so unique and special that it would not be able to be reflected in normal tests until  he was much older. "There are no tests for the abstract thinking of which Aury is capable," she said.

It wasn't until the middle of the second grade that the principal finally agreed to have him tested.   His second teacher had begun to suspect a problem. Turning over a scrap of paper, she had concluded what I had, "Perceptual?" 

The reluctant Principal said emphatically, even if it turns out that he has a learning disability, there are a hundreds  ahead of him. He'll have to be put on the waiting list."  Aury was tested on a Friday morning.  The following Monday morning, before school, started, I received a telephone call to  take Aury  to a Special Education class at another school.

At my first parent meeting, Dr. Zike, the District psychologist, sought me out. Apologizing profusely, he said. "I don't know how we could have missed it. I can't tell you sorry I am. Most children with such an extreme problem would have been behavioral problems, throwing erasers and lighting fires.   We don't understand how we missed it.. Please accept my apology for not having seen his need. We will do everything we can to help him." At last,  finalily Aury was going to be helped. Helped before he receded further, pathologically into himself.

What  had I seen that convinced me that Aury should be capable of  keeping up with his classmates? The memory of a two-year-old who received several birthday cards for a three-year-old because the neighborhood mothers thought he was turning three, not two. His speech vocabulary and comprehension were clearly beyond his age. 

The memory of a four year  I who asked me after seeing the movie, the Music Man, "Why did he use the same music  for two songs?" It wasn't until a few years later in reading the record jacket cover.  I realized Aury was right. Seventy-six Trombones and Goodnight My Sweetheart are the same song with different timing! 

Sliding the funny papers across the floor to him as five-year-old, he would look at the paper in an upside down position. "Don't you want lit around?" I asked. "No, Mommy, it's fine this way."

When he was seven years old I observed him reading, walking around a book that was m a low table. Round and round he went, not missing a word. At about the same time, he pointed out a picture in a Popular Mechanics magazine, which had been printed upside down.  It took considerable time and concentration on my part and my husband to  conclude that indeed, Aury was right. The editor and publisher had printed the photo upside  down.

What kind of a child mind was in development? What kind of processing was going on?  Being in special classes was emotionally very difficult. Neighborhood kids would taunt him, yelling at him, calling him, "Retard.  Retard."   "Mommy, I feel like I'm in a box and it keeps getting smaller and squeezing me." Another time, he explained. "My head, it feels like it's going to
explode. 

It was most frustrating. One day Aury  would recognize a three-letter word, the next day he could not. |"Honey, what happens when you look at the letters?" "They float," he said. like vegetable  soup. They come up, moving to the surface. They don't stay still."

Dr. Zike explained that Aury had to learn to recognize each letter in whatever position it was in. "Imagine." he said, "We had to learn 27 letters, he has to learn that times 8, twenty-seven letters in 216 positions. It's no wonder ninety to ninety-five percent of these kids never graduate high school."

Imagine, I thought, the confusion. One day the teacher says, "That's right! The next day what looks like the same thing, the teacher she says, "That's wrong!" How can Aury trust himself what he sees? How can he gain confidence? On top of all this,
Dr. Zike said, "Stress makes it worse. Try to illuminate or minimize stress. A child never overcomes or outgrows his disability. He just has to learn to cope with it."

With all his reading difficulties, his native intelligence for processing and retaining infornation was not lost. During the end of the period that Aury was in the special program  he was allowed to attend a regular classroom for science. One of the mothers who  I met later told me that Aury was considered "that smart boy" who came in for science sessions. Nine  out of 10 children with a learning disability are boys, and most of them are quite bright.  Volunteering in the classroom left me with a sense of awe. "It's like being in a roomful ul of angels. No sense of calendar time, future, past. They are like the letters in alphabet soup. They are floating in time and space. In the ever present now.  Maybe I told my husband, "these are the brains of the future. Evolution is taking."

"What if?" was Aury's favorite question? The questions he posed. The solutions charmed and delighted me, creative, imaginative. Overhearing his casual conversation with an adult astonished me,  at the age of 14 . They were talking about space, distances, and time. He grasped in depth, expounding on the subject. Obviously Aury  had d thoughts which challenged my well-educated mind.  

Magnetic imaging and heat mapping of the brain is accumulating data, which some day may assist in better educating these children. Two right brains is the way some psychologist  describe the dyslexic, non-linear, gestalt, verbal, creative, and emotional. Research seems to indicate that during the formation of the brain, an abundance of male hormone causes the neurological changes resulting in future learning disabilities. It is not that the children cannot learn,, but rather that they cannot learn by the methods traditionally used. Kinesthetic, multiple modalities must be fired to engage a neurological response.  Teacher training and social understanding is needed to reduce the numbers of  non-readers being thrown into the work force. The most conservative estimate is that 10 individuals is handicapped by this processing problem.

Aury's problem stayed with him throughout the years. His junior high Spanish teacher could not understand how he could get As in oral exercises and Ds and Fs in written work. His science lab books were a mess, but he got top grades in fill-in or multiple choice tests. I helped by typing his papers and reminding him when tests were coming up. He graduated at 17 years old with credits and grades to go directly into the University of California. The first week at the university, he said, "Mom, it's coming back." "What, what's coming back?" I didn't really know what he meant. "The dyslexia. The dyslexia is coming back." "How do you know?" I responded, seeing the anxiety on his face. "Because, when I read something it doesn't make sense."

"Doesn't make sense," I thought. "At last. Twelve years. It took 12 years for him to gain what he had lost, the ability and confidence to question what he was reading." For a child whose future was predicted as a 5 percent chance of graduating high school, he had not only graduated high school, but also graduated with honors and a community Medical scholarship for medical hopefuls.

Although he graduated from UCI, he was not able to get into an American Medical School. A crash course in Spanish and two sets of medical textbooks, a Spanish and an  English translation of the same book, got him through four years of Medical school in Mexico. It was not easy, nor was an extra post-graduate year at the University of California for Americans graduates of foreign medical schools, a residency in a Veterans Hospital, and the untold stress each experience placed on him. The California State Medical license exam scores displayed the damage done to his confidence.  

"Mom, that can't be my exam. They made |mistake. It's too high. Are you sure it has my name on it? They must have mailed it to wrong house!" Laughing, I responded to his incredulous voice on the telephone. Honey, it has your name and this address. It is your exam score. You made it. flu and all you made it. First try!"

He came home that evening.  I asked hinm to show me what the exam was like.  He showed me pictures of organ tissue which had to be identified and compared.  "Hundreds  of these , Mom"  "Compare what?" I asked. "The difference between these two." They are  different?" I asked, unbelieving. "They look the same to me." I remembered the ng letters and the upside down picture in Popular Mechanics and thought to myself .  |"It is a different brain. A different way to see, to process, to assess.  In awed awareness, I concluded, "It's not a weakness, it's a strength, an ability, a gift.

Our daughter, Tawn, Aury's sister, is the typical bright child.  She graduated high school at 15 years old,  received her Bachelors at 18 and passed the California Bar exam first try at 22. She related  an interesting aspect of  Aury's ability to deal with the written page. While playing Scrabble with a group of Tawn's lawyer friends, a group of top level, highly verbal individuals whose careers and abilities were dealing with the written word, Aury had totally wiped them out. "Mom, its incredible," Tawn said, "He starts his words in any direction, from the front or back, in the middle, up or down." Julie, his wife, added laughingly, "Up in Martinez (residency) the doctors wouldn't play with him.   They were too frustrated. He kept beating them. "

As a young family physician, our son has already had many successes. His two right brains had been able to diagnosis cases, which had puzzled specialists. While doing his extra year under a special program at UCI, concerned for a friend, I called Aury.  My friend with a complicated health history, heart problems, arthritis, and other symptoms had gone through three doctors plus a battery of tests. After describing what she told me, I called my son, "Mom, find out if she is taking such and such medicine with such and such medicine. What is happening to her can result from that combination." Calling her husband, I shared what Aury had said. "Yes, he said, we just found out. Three doctors at Saint Joseph's just figured it out."

Another friend, having problems with erratic levels of potassium, ended up in the hospital also. Numerous doctors were attending and tests were being run. After visiting her, I again called my son and described the symptoms. Listening carefully he explained, "I | think, they are going to find a small tumor on the side of her pituitary." A day or so after, it was confirmed. Since then, I have enjoyed many of his own patients describe the comfort and health he has brought to them. One man, translating for his wife, a patient, who held her index finger up in the air, said in broken English, "My wife says your son is Number One doctor. Many doctors. No one else help her like he did."

Am I proud of my son? You bet, but I worry for all the young children whose talents, whose unique abilities, went unused, unobserved, unrecognized  and for those in the future who will suffer from being different.

Gratefully, research data has been collected to broaden awareness concerning the genetic, hereditary aspects of dyslexia. It appears that we are in the midst of another family  struggle with dyslexia. My grandsons. Dr. Aury Lor Holtzman's two boys, Luke, 7 years  old and Nathan, 6 years old, are showing great discrepancies between native intelligence  and performance. Confusion, anger, frustration is being diffused as the boys realize that their Dad won the same conflict they are engaged in. 
The battle to identify, to rescue, to develop, their unique abilities has begun. Perhaps this war will not leave any psychological residue, perhaps it will.

A lamb cake and an eating joke always come to mind at Easter time. I was 4 years old. We lived behind a restaurant. The owner regularly gave our dog, Scootie, bones, and sometimes us, delicious treats and surprises. The one I remember the clearest was a huge, coconut covered lamb cake. Its body looked real and the white frosting with the sprinkled coco­nut was like a magnificent work of art to my child mind. I didn't know about baking in , molds, and the artistry was beyond my ability to grasp. The restaurant owner carried the treasure in on a large serving tray. Motionless, I stood waiting, wondering. Was he really going to give that wonder to us? His whole face was a smile. He was pleased. Carefully, he set the lamb down on the kitchen table. Nodding towards us, silently he assured us that his special gift was for Tania and me.

1'imidly Tania and I moved closer to the sleeping lamb. Tenderly we both reach to pick ut a coconut flake. "No, no, deja lo. Despues de la cena. After dinner." "After dinner?" we protested. "Your Dad would like to see it too. Don't you think? You can wait. Any-ay, I'm going shopping and Uncle Oscar will be staying with you." Our complaints ipped immediately. Anticipating Uncle Oscar took our minds away from the quiet edible. Uncle Oscar was always fun to be with, late teens and full of crazy games.

When he arrived, he eyed the lamb with almost the same delight as we did. Mom left. we played some poking, pushing games, laughed, teased. Soon tired of all that. Oscar slowly walked over to the lamb and viewed it from all angles. An idea was obviously growing. Carefully, he lifted one end. I was sure it would crumble, but it didn't. He set it on its side, exposing the bottom. 

"We aren't suppose to touch," I said. "Mama is going ;to get mad."
"She said she wanted Lino to see it, didn't she?" 
Tania and I nodded.   "He will."  

Crossing the kitchen, Oscar  found a small sharp knife. Carefully, he cut and lifted a small  of cake out from the bottom. Our eager hands and happy tummy's joyfully assisted in the operation. We ate our fill and Oscar must have eaten a good deal more. The lamb was thoroughly hollowed out.  Carefully executed, the lamb held his shape perfectly

When Uncle Oscar turned the lamb back over no one could have suspected that the lamb was a shell of his former self.  He looked as calm, pure and delicious as when he was carried in. 

Mom returned before Dad did. "What was she going to do when she found out," I wondered. "Were we in serious trouble?" Nothing was said. We waited for Uncle Oscar to make a move at repentance. "Aurora, the cake was good." "What do you mean?" she questioned, looking over at the cake. "How do you know?" 

Moving with the same slowness as before he gently lifted the lamb, exposing the hollowed-out interior. For a suspenseful moment, Oscar, Mimi and Tania waited, unsure of what would happen next. Just as suddenly, Mom started laughing. We all broke into contented laughter, relishing the moment. The joke was well received. Dad heard about it and viewed Oscar's handy work. It was a few days before we actually cut into the exterior. Which was nice. We got to enjoy the coconut lamb for more days that way.

Who in the US has not heard the term Macho? Everyone would agree that it real man, a he-man, and a John Wayne type. It has come to be accepted as an ; describing manliness. However the derivative of the word is a Spanish verb : to stand firm, immovable, to "macharse." This is a quality admired by the speaking. A man of character would stand firm in his convictions or word.

Mom was  a Macho-Mom. She was like a block of concrete. If one were to sculpt a symbol out of the stone, it would be a feisty little Banty hen, a skinny little hen that won't back down. You don't mess with her. At the base of  her behavior is to do what is right, no matter  the consequences. Put on top of that her uncompromising will, you have a straight forward, brave survivor, healthy, strong, and formidable.

Her appearance on the other hand was truly beautiful and glamorous. Her eyes and hair dark, body slender, shapely, strong. She knew how to walk, gracefully, regally.  Her clothes made by her own hands were fitted perfectly. With little money to accomplish her wardrobe,  she was stunning.  I wish that we had  been friends, rather than mother and daughter. Her nature and position within the family, 5th from the bottom of 12 siblings, shaped a helpful, concerned attitude, especially towards family members younger than her. 

My sister, Tania,  a year and I a half older than me, grew 6 inches taller than me and was quite athletic. I was the bitsy, little glass doll.  Tania was treated like the boy in a Mexican home and I was treated like a girl.  A certain amount of sass and belligerence is expected of a boy, not a girl. I was what was expected of me. I did not disappoint anyone. I was good. 

Mom would frequently say to me  "no sirves para nada". You are not capable of anything. How many times I was told this, I don't know. Tania said during an adult conversation, that Mom NEVER said that to her.  What it did do to me was good. Good for me, I tried hard. Whatever I did, I tried hard. I had to. I believed I wasn't capable, since Mama had told me. Another Mexican belief, which I believe affected me,  not to compliment a child. A child should not think of herself too highly. Why this attitude of non-approval exists is unclear. Perhaps the underlying motivation is that the parents are always to be superior. In some way, complementing a child could lead to a proud, haughty spirit and eventually disrespect towards the parents.

For a woman dedicated to being a homemaker, surprisingly, Mama never taught us any  home making skills. She had not been taught. In Mexico, there were servants in their home. Immigrating to the United States brought social, financial upheavals. Mom had to learn how to keep a home on her own,  and she did.   It was spotless. However, I don't think she ever enjoyed it, which is perhaps why she never shared  cooking secrets or cleaning hints. I don't remember flowers in the house, or a tablecloth on the table. Nothing added. Everything was clean. We ran the hills and slept between smooth sheets dried in the sun.  Maybe we never asked, maybe we were never home for her to show us.

Personality and  character traits developed balanced the feelings of  inadequacy at home.  If I was not capable of contributing or helping at  home, then school was to be attended to with full dedication. Reports cards and dramatic involvement gave me some feedback. My standing with classmates was another measure of success. Was I being included? 

Very early I realized that competing with other individuals was not the game I wanted to play. Competing with myself hurt no one, but still measured accomplishment.  I found ways to please myself, by work done in class, and always aiming for one hundred percent on a test.  Gratefully, strengths grew in response to unmet needs.  

My husband in describing my tenacious ability to concentrate said one day, "You could walk in the middle of  a Tartar war, while reading a book, and not even look up." A friend commenting on my tendency  to seeking out challenges said I was, "Always swimming up hill." Why?  I found out early in life, that trying new things was fun. If I knew I could do it, there is no risk and nothing was learned. Failing was not a worry. My quest was to do I what I could do. Curiously, it appears, whatever I choose to do something I can. Never as well, as I| would like, however.

I don't think my Mom was being unkind my not seeing my strengths.  My sister's abilities were more practical.   She could repair a tire,  take out a  car brake,  tile her kitchen, hung cabinet doors, design and sew a fitted suit, do stain-glass art.   Her  accomplishments were tangible.  How does one equate singing, writing a poem, directing a production, organizing a seminar. Those are ethereal, non-productive by some standards, more along the lines of busy, social activity.  

How or why I ever developed a desire to go on to college is a mystery to me. It must have been the challenge. Few  encouraged me. I would not even have known that I should be graduating with honors except for the efforts of one teacher. She looked through my transferred records and told me. There I sat in the front row wearing a different color tassel, bound for the university. Mama would have been happy if I had accepted my high school boy friend's engagement ring at 17 years old. She didn't expect too much of me. But not me, I was ready to try. Learning has become a challenge, an adventure, a creative endeavor. I like learning!

"Maybe," I remember thinking, "the slips were a gift from her soldier husband or soldier fiancée. Maybe, she just found out he was not coming home. He had been killed in the war. Maybe, she just couldn't stand him being away and his gift of  beautiful lingerie  reminded her of him." Walking home, Tania and the other girls held their satin treasures carefully over their arms. Instead, I slipped the fancy gift over my t- shirt and  wore it home. The feel of the material as my swinging arms slid over the satin surface was bliss. The sad young lady wanted someone to enjoy the gift, which she apparently could no longer enjoy, or even t bear to keep them. 

Walking home, I  derived  joy from her gift.  I savored every swing of my arms, and 80 years later I can still feel the emotion which filled that little bungalow.  And embedded in my heart is a lasting understanding of the painful, over-whelming loneliness felt by waiting women. During WW II, newsreels, posters, movies, songs were abundant and displayed heroic men going off to the war. As a child I had witnessed, had considered and had felt the sadness of those who wait at home. However, the young lady and her gifts of satin slips greatly enlarged my debt of understanding of war itself.  

Mom, of course was very surprised when we  "She gave them to you. But they are brand new. How strange."

Pulling away, as the light changed, I thought, "We're different. We're really different than the Anglos. We ride in layers and sing loudly." But even then, as a child, I knew it was all right. We were savoring the moment. Abuelito used to say, "Qué linda es la vida." Life is wonderful. And we were experiencing it!

Pleasanton was just that, quiet, serene, with one main street through the center of town. For a big city girl, it was idyllic. The Cortez family moved into an apartment above some stores right on Main Street. Tio Manuel and Tia Adelpha became the Cab Company in town. Tia drove I the cab as often as her husband did. Financially, it worked. Bobby's health improved. Eventually they moved into a little house just off the main street.

After the hugs and cooling off a bit, towels, buckets, food and drink were packed into no cars. Tia Estella drove one car and Tia Adelpha, the other. We headed for Niles Canyon, a greenish-water river, and our destination. Our favorite activity at Niles, besides swimming, was catching crawdads. Pieces of weenies dropped by line into the water.  A quick, fearless hand was needed. Fishing under the bridge also was the best sight.  The boys were really good at catching them. They also brought their BB guns and had some good spots for shooting. 

However, this particular trip, was memorable because of  what  took place as were  leaving Niles canyon and it had to do with peaches.

I was in the second car, Tia Estella was driving..  We noticed that Tia Adelpha ahead of us was slowing down, and suddenly stopped on the side of the road, with other cars.  Everyone was getting out of their cars. As we approached, it was clear what  had happened. A huge truck bound for a cannery had not been able to clear the twist in the road. The first trailer section was tipped. Whole wooden crates of peaches had slid off.  Broken crates, one on top of the other, lay at odd angles. The second trailer completely capsized, with wheels in the air. Peaches were all over the black asphalt. It looked like a glorious treasure to me. People however, were just standing, waiting for something. Tfa Adelpha quickly found out why. A call had been made to the canning company and peach farmer. A decision was being made.

Suddenly the truck driver signaled and the crowd broke into an immediate clean-up 1.1 started gathering single peaches in my towel. Looking up, I saw people carry complete  crates to their cars. My aunts were among them. Happily, the truck driver t stopping them.

One car was filled with lugs and sped to Pleasanton, we continued gathering peaches and crates, setting them next to the remaining car. Dusk, dust, and a few squashed peaches ended the day, but it was the beginning of a business venture for us.

We; never did ask what the Cortez boys did with their peaches, but for Alba, Tania, and me,  we sold them door-to-door, pulling them in a wagon. It was the packaging and merchandising from which I gained my greatest business lesson. We washed the prized peaches, proudly displaying their firmness in wooden baskets. Starting out early, priced v, we had no problem selling. We were getting a quarter at almost every house we stopped at. The wooden baskets were used over and over. We asked for the basket back  and just refilled it with more peaches.

 

Stunned, shocked with what I had done, I stood momentarily fixed. Horror, a whole pigeon tail in my hand. Glancing at the poor creature that had wrestled out of my grip, I fully expecting to see his bloody insides spilling out on the rug, I screamed and threw the warm feathers into the air. I had been trying to help. With the long summer coming to a close, backyard pigeons had grown more bold. Two innocents had entered our kitchen and flown into our front room.

"Look what I've done. Look what I've done," I blurted out to my husband. He rushed in with a broom. He had already maneuvered one of the pigeons out by opening the doors and just shooing him. This one was stunned from bouncing into the window several times. "I was going to lift it on to the broom," he mumbled. "What did you do?" Stammering, "He was scared," I said. "I wanted to get him out as soon as possible. I lifted him with my left hand and grabbed his tail for security with my right hand.  He struggled and pulled away from me and, to my horror, his whole tail came off in my hand."

Remorse and guilt poured out of every fiber, "I didn't know that would happen." I started to cry. My husband, sensing the depth of my emotions, sighed and said, "Don't worry, he's O.K." 

 "But he won't be able to fly. We'll have to protect him from the cats." "Let's |see^what happens if we put him on a tree branch," he replied. My husband carried the pigeon outside on the straws of the broom. Anticipating the de-tailed pigeon to fall-off, I grimaced.  Instead, the little wonder flew away effortlessly, although his flight was a little irregular. With a warm hug around my shoulders, my husband laughed, "He'll be fine."

However,  I didn't know if I would be. Next morning instead of hearing the scraping of pigeon feet on our roof and lively patio breakfast seekers, there was silence. I looked at the sky and on the roofs of all the surrounding homes. Not one tender pigeon could I spot. The depth of my crime filled my being. Was the message out to all the pigeons in world, that in this house lived a cruel woman that pulled out pigeon tails? Had the incident reached the heavens? Was I marked for life? Was it safe to be outside?" I wondered..  Visions flew around into my mind, of flocks of mild mannered pigeons swooping l from the sky and viciously attacking me.

I mused the intent of my heart had been to do good, to help. As a 7-year-old child I re­member the shock when a bee stung me. He was wet, struggling to release his damp wings from sticking to the metal of a drinking fountain. "I was helping him, why had he stung me," I wondered.

A year or so later, after the bee incident, I got a deep gash on my face for trying to protect a cat from a dog. More painful, because I thought that the cat and I were friends.

When and what is interference into the life and nature of others. That knowledge and wisdom has to come to each of us, but the lessons are hard to learn.

As an adult, I remember an evening that gave me the beginnings of grasping the principle. . I saw a moth fluttering in the water of a swimming pool. I lifted him out and set him down to dry. When his wings dried, he again flew in. I again took him out and watched his wings dry a second time. This time when he flew in, I watched carefully. It |was to the same spot. He was flying into the center of a glittering moon, whose reflection was brilliant. No matter how many times I would have helped to save his short life, he would have responded to his nature. I watched until his struggle was over.

My lesson of non-interference is still not learned. I did not see a huge daddy long leg spider in my shower until after I turned the water on. I particularity like daddy-long-legs, but as I reached down to put him above the rush of water, the water on my shoulders and arm poured over his frail person. He crunched himself together. I put him on a high rail, hoping he would dry out, but observed sadly that, instead, my help had proved fatal.

For the next few days following the de-tailing of the pigeon, I scanned the skies and ground, hoping for a return of pigeons. None.  In the afternoon of the third day,  I heard  the galloping footsteps of my husband scrambling up the steps, "You're forgiven, You're forgiven," he was shouting. "What?" "You're forgiven," he repeated. "The detailed- pigeon has forgiven you. Look out the window." I looked out, and there he was a gentle little spirit on the borders of the garden. I felt a warmth of affection for the pigeon who came back in forgiveness. The heavens had felt my remorse and had sent him  on an errand of mercy. I was forgiven

Fortunately, it is the intent of our heart which is the gage!

In June of 1991 I was invited to fly via helicopter to Catalina. All arrangements were made for me by a former puppetry student, Tanya Morse. It had been at least 12 years since I had taught, so it was a pleasant surprise to hear from her. She wanted my help as director to videotape a puppet movie with children as performers. It was a fun experi­ence, but the most meaningful part of it was a revealing conversation at the end of the day. Tanya shared with me how my contact with her had radically changed her life. She said, "When I first came to your class I didn't think I could do anything, but Mimi, you kept saying, 'You can do it Tanya. You can do it.'" "And Mimi," she said, "I found that I could do it."

She recalled how I had told her about my son's reading disability, frequently called dyslexia. That he had been taken out of regular school for two years, but had eventually succeeded in becoming a physician. After taking my puppetry class at Golden West College for a couple of semesters she signed up for an adult education class to learn how to read. She eventually passed it and enrolled for art and drama classes at Cal State Fuller-ton. The extent of her success was manifest in that, as we spoke, a showing of her water-colors was going to take place in a well known art gallery. And she said, "I owe that all to you because you believed in me."

Knowing that I had been in some way instrumental touched me deeply. One sometimes wonders if the life we have lived is of value to anyone beside ourselves. True we have cherished family, friends and even some causes, but have we affected profoundly any­one beyond the normal. Have we brought forth good? Has being us resulted in helping others to be them? Do we know our true value in the lives of others?

A few weeks after this conversation with Tanya another incident occurred which has caused me further to mull over our affect on friends. Anne Mocniak, a dear friend of thirty years, introduced me to a friend of hers. "This is Mimi," she said, "Remember she's the one I told you about, that saved my life." I listened fascinated with what was about to be said. I certainly couldn't remember having saved her life. She went on, "I was feeling suffocated, trapped. Mimi introduced me to metaphysics, dance, and even physically took me, dragged me to get my drivers' license." "That is a true friend,"

"They see the best in us and help us bring it out," her friend responded.

About fifteen years after the car license achievement, Anne broke down during a con­versation, crying in response to her husband's threats of leaving her. Weeping she said, "How will I live? How can I support myself? I can't do anything." My answer was, "Your high school daughter just got a job. You can too. Besides how much money do you need to live? You don't eat much and you've got enough clothes to last for 20 years." We laughed, broke the gloom, and got on to some positive strategies. I photo­graphed her for a "modeling portfolio" which looked great, really professional. Her husband was sufficiently impressed to stop questioning her ability to support herself.

Still married to the same man, she is balancing her interior and exterior life happily. She is a beautiful 65-year-old, energetic, enthusiastic, joyful woman. The heart and appear­ance of a woman 20 years younger, Anne has maintained her involvement in dance and theater. She conducts a weekly meditation groups. Like Tanya, she is fulfilled, confi­dant.

The well-known story of the good Samaritan questions who is the good neighbor; who is the friend? How many times have we in kindness interceded. Sometimes our efforts are not recognized or even rebuffed. Sometimes, as in the above incidents, the good that they brought were over and above what could have been imagined. Sometimes the inci­dents are so telling that one wonders what became of those that we helped.

Many years ago when my children were in elementary school I was saying goodbye to a college friend who was visiting, Elinor Capadonicco. As we stood outside, I noticed a child stumbling up the hill, careening from side to side. He passed through a group of adults, who were standing talking. They watched him as he passed, but then went back to their conversations. As he neared us, I told my friend, "Cappie, some thing is wrong." Swinging around to see him, she quickly agreed. As he attempted to pass us I put my arms around him. His legs were wobbly, his eyes blank. "I'll call the police, you hold him." I ran in the house and Cappie, who worked with handicapped children, held him in a firm embrace. The police and an ambulance arrived almost before we could wrap a blanket around him. At this point the child's older sister identified herself and I asked the police to please allow her to go along.

A few days later, the boy's mother in tears came to my home to thank me. She said that the doctor said that if her son had gone home to an empty house he would have died. She was a working mother. Her son had been playing with friends and had taken some potent pills from a neighbor's home. The neighborhood talk was that he was a trouble maker, stole, and lied, and would eventually end up in jail. I hope not. But I do wonder, whatever happened to him.

Sometimes we are in just the right place at the right time. The part we play is sometimes a surprise to us.In the early 1970s I saved a young man from an Indian attack. Sounds far fetched, but true and, even more surprising, it was while I was an adult chaperone for a coed church youth function. Our young people were taking a 5-day raft trip down the Green River, starting in Utah. The area is inhabited by a tribe of usually friendly Indi­ans. However, the Indians were becoming very angry with the increasing number of raf­ters. The men in the group were aware that food supplies were being taken. One eve­ning, they put out a box of fresh oranges. They took special care to set the sleeping ar­rangements for maximum protection of the girls. The tour guides were going to stand guard all night, over us, the small individual rafts, and the three large rafts which held our supplies.

I put my large, oversized flashlight next to my sleeping bag. Things finally settled down and the camp grew quiet. I was still fully awake, however. Suddenly, one of the river guides yelled, "I've got him. I've got him." I jumped up and ran over to where the two other river guides were sleeping. I yelled, trying to rouse them. One of the guides sat up and started to put on his boots. "Forget your boots, hurry, hurry. He needs help, quickly. Come," I screamed. Thrashing, splashing water was heard. Fortunately some of the church youth leaders heard me yelling and came running. "Quick, turn your flashlight towards the water," someone yelled. As I did, I saw the young man's head go under the water beneath the last of the large rafts which were tied to the shore. "There he is," sev­eral of us yelled, as we simultaneously spotted him. A voice yelled, "Quick grab him be­fore he's carried downstream." Jumping into the water, several of the men pulled the un­conscious young man out of the dark water, fortunately, just as he was slipping passed the last raft. His eyes were closed and blood was streaming down his face. At the sight of the blood, one of the men shot several shots from a handgun into the water to scare I the attackers. By then the whole camp was awakened.

When the guide was able to talk he kept touching the back of his head and was unaware of the blood that covered his face. "Where does it hurt," I kept asking. Gingerly, I com­menced cleaning away the blood. What we pieced together was that he had been hit on the back of the head. The propellers had perhaps made what appeared to be slash marks on his forehead on the raft, cutting himself as he was dragged under the rafts by the cur­rent carrying him downstream.

I often wonder if I had not had the flashlight, nor been awake, what tragedy we all would have experienced. Not fixing the light at just the right moment, at just the right spot, his disappearing face would indeed have disappeared, a young man, victim of cul­tural conflict. We had unknowingly desecrated a burial ground.

The streets of Orange County could have ended in tragedy for a young teenage jogger, which chance allowed me to help. I was returning home late from Golden West College after teaching an evening puppetry class. As I was about to turn into my tract from a main street, my headlights picked up a teenage girl and a dog sitting on the curb. Her head was bent over and one hand was placed on her forehead. "She must be resting," I thought as I passed them, but I felt a send of urgency. "Was she was alright?" I won­dered. I put the car in reverse and rolling down my window yelled to her, "Miss, are you all right?" She looked up and with a voice of pure panic said, "I can't see! I can't see!" I asked her in as calm a voice as possible if she wanted me to take her home. She thanked me and asked if her dog could go in the car too. Opening the door, the dog jumped in and then she followed, feeling the seat and attempting to close the door herself. She was in a state of shock. I could not fully understand to what extent she could not see. She explained that she had been running and suddenly everything started to get dark. She knew approximately where she was so she was able to guide me to her home.

The memory, which still gives me chills, was that as we started to drive away from where she had been sitting we passed a car with four men who had been watching her. They were parked in a dark spot very close to her. I glanced at them, but pretended not to notice them. I got her to her house, watching all the time my rear view mirror. I wanted to make sure the men in the car were not following us. With my arm around her waist I opened the door. She yelled to her mother who was puzzled seeing me with her daughter. Trying to releave her concern, I said, "Your daughter is having some problems seeing." The girl in anguish yelled, "I can't see. Mom, I can't see anything."

I left quietly after giving them my name. A few days later, I received a beautiful bou­quet with a touching thank you. I called the florist for their telephone and called their home. They had not determined the cause of her temporary blindness, but she had taken her daughter to the hospital that same evening. I did not tell them about the four men that were stalking her, but I could not hold back the tears, as I said, I was so grateful that it was I that had passed by that late night. Never before, nor after in the five years that I taught, did I ever come home at that late hour, only that one time.

Who am I? An interesting question to me because I should be able to answer it, but I am actually in the process of trying to figure it out. I am as puzzled with me sometimes as probably my family and friends are. It isn't that I'm so complicated or intellectually complex. I think it is because I'm so simple. I set up value systems, guidelines and solu­tions to life's problems, when I was perhaps 7 years old. Unfortunately, 50 years later, I'm finding out they don't work in the real world. Doing unto others as we would have them do to us seemed simple enough, but we don't really know what other people want done unto them. That's the real problem.

Therefore you don't always get rewarded for doing what's right. People don't want to hear the truth. The good guy isn't always the hero. Bad people many times do succeed and good honest, hard-working people sometimes end up with nothing. And why does getting or being matter anyway.

Why it took me so long to separate the reality of life with the eternal fulfillment of our spirit life is the question. A code of ethics does make sense. Living righteously does matter, but only to each of us individually. Learning monumental reality is a personal awareness, and I am sure varies with each one of us.

So, who am I? I'm the second daughter in a family of two, born during the depression to a Mexican American family in San Antonio. I was born in a wooden house with a veil over me. The waxy covering referred to as a veil is considered in Mexican folk tales as a special Don, or blessing. Perhaps the fact that it took me 50 years to recognize that the world was indeed filled with some "not very nice people" was a blessing. It is easy to be filled with joy when one assumes that those who do not fulfill the standards of honesty and nobility are very few. And such was my life.

I was brought up in a somewhat typical Mexican family. We were poor, although my mother once said that since the day I was born we never lacked food in our home. Food was very simple; beans and rice were the usual dinner with corn or homemade tortillas.

Spanish was of course my first language. I realize now, too, that my uneducated drink­ing father with a third grade education had a brilliant mind. He was a self-taught every­thing and drank himself to death. The victim perhaps of being a Mexican man too bright to be satisfied with just living.

I see also that much of my behavior, which seems at odds with itself, is from being a Mexican in an English speaking country. Although to all appearances I am a very Americanized Mexican, I've come to understand what it means to be a Mexican woman and realize that is what I am. The values, morals, attributes instilled in me by my parents are highly valued in the Mexican culture. Frequently misunderstood by the American system of competitiveness, quiet acceptance is many times detrimental to success. Being creative and stepping out is viewed as dangerous to the group. Being proud is not being humble and therefore not to be expressed. In one very important way I was not raised as a Mexican. My mother was very anti-Catholic. Her father, my grandfather was an edu­cator in Mexico and believed that the Church was keeping the people from progressing. Although my father was Catholic, he never pressed the issue. My sister and I went to whichever church we wanted to, if we wanted to. It was a wonderful sense of freedom, but it also created a mysterious something which I had no part in. I felt separated from my Mexican friends in East Los Angeles where we lived.

My coloring also separated me from my culture. I have green eyes and light brown hair. My mother, father, and sister all have dark hair and eyes. Just the way the genes blended. I was called Hueda, meaning blondie. Looking back and understanding more, I can now explain what I felt from my Mexican friends. My lightness was suspect. It was expected of me to think myself superior because of my coloring. I of course didn't know that, but I did feel that I had to work harder at being accepted as their friend.

Another way in which I didn't fulfill the typical Mexican child was my inner desire for an education. Something was pushing me to learn and to learn more and more. The curi­osity was never satisfied at home; it was also never squelched. My father thought gradu­ating from junior high was enough education. My mother could never understand why I bothered to go to college or even why work outside the home and being married isn't be­ing content with life enough. Having home, clothing, and food just never seemed to sat­isfy my drive for doing something different, something fun, something challenging, something big, something helpful, and something that matters more than just for today, or just for me.

What I have found that my education has done is put me in contact with other Mexicans, Hispanics, Latinos, or whatever label people want to use. I have found that there are oth­ers like myself who have been struggling to understand why they didn't quite fit in to their own culture or the culture in which they find themselves. Who also have big dreams. Who have visions to fulfill. Who can recognize the strengths inherent in their genes.

So who am I? A middle age Mexican American woman brought up in a broken family who put herself through the university at a time when no one cared about minorities. Who married a first generation Russian Jew. Gave birth to a boy (now a doctor) and a girl (now a lawyer). A woman just beginning to feel any right to want anything for her­self. A woman just begins to know who she is. And I suspect its not going to be too bad.

The year spent in Weaverville was short, but monumental. Two city kids, us, survived, barely. We needed help even to make it to our cabin. August in the mountains is hot. Pulling a four-by-six trailer with all our possessions in the heat was too much for our Studebaker coupe. "Get out of the car," my husband yelled as it started to slide back­wards. "No, no," I pleaded, "You get out too." "Do what I'm telling you to, NOW!" Con­fused by the conflicting emotions of loyalty and fear, I slid out of the car. The trailer started to go over the edge and then suddenly stopped as the brakes held on the sandy shoulder.

The possibility of losing my husband of less than a year seemed imminent. Suddenly, behind me, a huge truck pulled nonchalantly into position. Leaning out the window a relaxed native yelled, "I'll have you back on the road in no time." Hook and chain in place, and he did.

Driving slowly into Weaverville, we viewed in wonder a real mountain town, county seat for some activities and crossroad for rolling lumber-carrying trucks. Wooden front buildings backed by green pines gave the two-block main street a comfortable charm. Even a colorful Chinese Josh (God) house stood to give dimension to the history. I loved it.

A few questions to the locals led us up the hill to our cabin. It had been built by locals on the north side of the mountain for a summer retreat. "It's darling." Two rooms, a front room kitchen combination and a bedroom. "Perfect, and with all the trees, it will stay cool," I said. Arriving in August, we appreciated the shaded cabin.

People were friendly. I met the Congregational Minister's wife who offered me a ride when I bought more groceries than I could carry up the hill. Two of the teachers' wives invited me to go black berry picking. I didn't notice how they were dressed until after. I wore short sleeves and pedal pushers. They each were wearing heavy weight long sleeve shirts and strips of sheets wrapped around their forearms, hands, and fingers. The berry forest was unreal. Vines hung from trees, cascading down, leaving little room between themselves. Filling several buckets of berries was fun, but painful. Arms and legs cov­ered with scratches were not the extent of my greenhorn badge.

Rama and I wandered away from the other ladies, figuring we'd have an area that had not been picked over. Bushes, which had not been picked over, would make it easier to reach and pick them. I found a lovely draping circle of tree and vines, like a green cave. I started to pick, then felt an unusual quietness and a strange feeling of being watched. I looked down and saw fresh bear tracks right where I was standing. Puppy Rama was sniffing about. "Come on Rama," I said softly. "Come on." Backing out slowly, heart pounding, we joined the other women. They didn't seem to take much notice of my bear track discovery, delivered in as controlled manner as possible. Rama and I kept very close to the car after that.

Summer ended and the weather turned, cool and then cold. Being from Southern Cali­fornia we had not considered the heating costs that ultimately ran higher than the rent when we accepted the low paying teacher's salary. One day, in a resourceful, logical manner, we decided to heat up the cabin by using dry branches, in free and plentiful supply. A discarded oil drum seemed a perfect container. Putting crushed paper down on the bottom, we put the wood on top. Lit it and waited for the warmth. Along with the flames we got black smoke. "As soon as it catches on, it will be OK" he said. "Maybe, we should open up a window," I said. More black smoke. "Maybe we better open the door," I said. More black smoke. "Maybe we better get out of here," my husband said. "Come on." Rushing outside, we stood holding hands, coughing and laughing at our­selves, two college grads that never figured out why a fireplace has a chimney. And, was the black smoke from the oil residue in the container? Fortunately, it did burn out, but the smell of smoke stayed in the small cabin for many days.

Another something which appeared and stayed on was green mold on shoes and other items in the closet. "You have to leave the bathroom window open when you shower," the owner said. "But the window is right next to the shower. I'll get a freezing draft on me." I protested. "That can't be right," I thought. Asking around, I found that the cabin had not ever been occupied over a winter. How to stay warm, dry, and mold free had not been addressed. Fortunately, we were able to rent other accommodations.

Every day seemed an event. How many city kids have football practice delayed because of curious deer? How many cities have watched porcupine needles pulled out of a hunt­ing dog's throat? How many learned to drive on lumber truck trails? Trying to under­stand the Hoopa Indians that were the earliest residents or the lumberjacks took a leftist