Today is Mothers Day in the U.S. I’m far away from my mother on this day, but I'm thinking about her, and I want to take a minute here to tell you about her.

My mother, Lois Orstad King, was born in North Dakota. Her parents, both of whose parents were Norwegian immigrants, farmed a beautiful little farm in the Red River Valley of the North less than 100 miles from the Canadian border. She learned to speak Norwegian before she learned English. She was 5 when the Great Depression blighted the country, but she told me that her family of seven—her parents and five children—never went hungry because they had a garden, chickens and thus eggs, seven cows, and crops of wheat and potatoes that fed them. They didn’t have much cash money, but at least, she said, they had plenty to eat unlike many others during that time.

My mom graduated from high school (here's her graduation picture) when she was 16 (it was 1940 or thereabouts) and then went to work in a bank and later in a government office during the war years. She quit her job when she married my dad, Murray King, in 1945 at 21. It was a marriage of opposites, an oil-and-water combination. Culturally and temperamentally and in practically every other way, they were very different. He was the descendent of Irish forbears (with a dash of German), a very different culture from the Norwegian heritage of my mother. He was Catholic, and she was Lutheran, but she agreed to raise their children as Catholics, and she kept her word, helping us learn our catechism and prayers, making sure we made our first communions and were confirmed. He, the son of an attorney, had gone to college for two years. She was the daughter of farmers, and her father had finished high school but her mother had not.

My parents had six kids between 1945 and 1960: Guy O’Gorman, David Murray, Katherine Ann, Kevin Michael, Jason Harold Elmer (the lucky boy got both grandfathers’ names tacked onto his first name), and me. My dad supported us through a variety of jobs over the years, from preparating taxes to selling quonset huts and insurance, running a tavern, managing a potato processing plant, and finally, working for the Soil Conservation Service. Like many fathers of the '50s in the U.S., he shared in his children's conception and left the raising of them to their mother.

Thanks to her, our house was always clean, our clothes always pressed and mended, our bellies always filled, our birthdays always celebrated, Sunday mass always attended, green worn on St. Patrick's Day, stories read to us as children, nursery rhymes taught to us, songs sung to us--in short, despite the many moves and insecurities brought on by our dad's job changes, our mother gave us loving care and stability. (But don't get me wrong: our dad had many fine qualities, and he shaped us in ways for which we're grateful. We loved him dearly and still miss him since his death in 1974 at age 54.)

But I'm writing about my mother today. I could write a book about her cooking and baking alone. In fact, some of my best memories from childhood center around the food she would make for us, not just on holidays but everyday. I grew up knowing that we were poor, but I had no idea until later that there were times when there wasn’t much food in the house. I realized later that my mother often had to call upon her gift for turning a few simple ingredients—flour, sugar, potatoes, a bit of bacon or beef, a can of tomatoes or peas, noodles, cheese, and especially leftovers—into smacking-good, rib-sticking meals, and we kids had no idea how bare the pantry really was. On Fridays, true to her word to raise us as Catholics, she would make some of our very favorite meatless dishes: macaroni and cheese, creamed peas on toast, fish sticks and potato patties, salmon patties, grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade tomato soup…oy vey! I could go for any of it right this minute.

Odes should be written about her cinnamon rolls, chocolate-chip-nut cake, snickerdoodles, fudge, puddings from scratch, and especially her pies. I recall most fondly the pleasure of eating her lemon meringue pies and her chocolate pies with sesame seeds in the crust and whipped cream on top. Oh, lordy, that woman could bake! How can I forget coming home from school on a snowy North Dakota day to the sight of my mother pulling a pan of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven that warmed and scented the the whole house?

My mother suffered a stroke several years ago that paralyzed her left side and put her in a wheelchair. Since then, she hasn’t been able to cook or bake—her favorite means of creative expression and of giving to others—that she misses still. But the stroke didn’t take away her enjoyment of eating, sweets especially.

My mother loves music, too, especially the music of her day, the crooners and Big Band sounds of the 40s and 50s. I remember coming home to find my mother washing the kitchen floor on hands and knees (“The only way to get floors really clean”) as she sang along to the music on the radio. She sang a lot, and we learned the songs from her. The best birthday gift I ever gave her was to take her to see the revived Glenn Miller Band when it played in Albuquerque a few years ago. She hardly took her eyes off the performers the whole time, and she sang along softly to many of the songs.

I'm getting long-winded here, so I’ll stop. My intention wasn’t to write her biography, and I fear I’ve given a very one-dimensional view of her in order to focus on some of her gifts and talents. Like many mothers and daughters, our relationship has been difficult at various times in our past. She, unlike I, is not a saint. (Just a little humor, Mom. I couldn't resist. :-) But when I look back on all she's accomplished in her life, I’m reminded of the New Testament parable of the loaves and fishes (see verses 32-39). Certainly she has taken—and continues to take—the little she has received from life and turned it into a sustaining feast for us, her multitude of children.

My Albuquerque friend Peggy Roberts came to visit me here in Xalapa on her vacation. She arrived last Wednesday, March 26, so she and I were able to do some traveling before I started back to school yesterday after a two-and-a-half-week break for spring vacation.

Today we walked around the Cerro (meaning hill—or, in this case, an extinct volcano) de Macuiltépetl that stands in the middle of the city of Xalapa. In the photo here, Peggy is standing in front of a sundial located at the top of the hill. (Click on the photo to enlarge it and see what time it was when I took the picture.)

After our walk, we went to the La Estancia de Los Tecahuetes, a restaurant, for a wonderful meal and margaritas.

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Last Sunday morning, Peggy and I took a bus to Papantla (pronounced Pah-PAHNT-lah) to see El Tajín (Tah-HEEN) , an extensive ruin with a number of pyramids, including the renowned Pirámide de Los Nichos, shown here. As its name implies, it has many niches—365 to be exact—built into its four sides.

El Tajín is hedged around by a forest of green and flowering trees. As we walked the length of this village of pyramids, we found shade under trees growing here and there along the way. For me, the green lushness of the vegetation made visiting this site especially pleasurable—added to the pleasure of marveling at the unique arquitecture and speculating about the long-ago builders and inhabitants of the place.

Peggy and I stayed two nights in the small city of Papantla, trying the local food, touring the mercados, and walking the hilly streets. One of our favorite places to eat was the Plaza Pardo Restaurant, which has wonderful fish dishes and overlooks Papantla's central plaza, as shown here. (Peggy is toasting you with her chelada).

On Monday night after dinner, we walked up a steep hill in the middle of town to see this statue of a volador at the top. Papantla is noted for its voladores and for its excellent vanilla, which comes from an orchid grown in the area.

You can read here about the voladores and the supposed origin of their ritual performed high in the air.

Of all things, I forgot my camera when I went home for Christmas, but luckily my son Shane and my (ex)daughter-in-law Carrie took some photos for me to share with others here in Xalapa and you out there in the blogosphere.

Shane and Diana, his significant other of many years, met me at the Albuquerque Sunport and took me directly to Cervantes, a nearby New Mexican restaurant, so that I could have New Mexican red chile, which is a different kind of chile from those I've eaten in México. As you can see from the photo, the restaurant was all decked out for Christmas.

While in Albuquerque, I stayed at my house. My good friend Sharon and her dog Allee are living there in my absence and taking care of my house and my cat Fred. (Sharon is trying to sell her house, but she could hardly have picked a worse time, given the housing slump in Albuquerque and the U.S. in general.)

I visited my mom everyday while I was in Albuquerque, and she and I spent Christmas Eve with my brother David and his wife Carmen, their sons Keegan and Kyle, and their wives Lyn and Elena and kids. It was so fun to watch them--Maiyah, Adan ("Boogie") and Layla open their presents, and--in the case of Adan and Layla--quickly return to playing with cups, glasses, and other simple things.

Two days after I arrived home, I drove down to Las Cruces--a 3-hour-and-15-minute trip south on I-25--to see my kids and grandkids there:

• My daughter Shelley, her husband Brooks, and their kids: Chris, Rick, Clay, and Haley. I didn't get a photo of Shelley, Brooks, or Rick, but here's a photo of me with Chris, Clay, and Haley.
• My son Sean and his kids Bryan and Caitlin.
• My former daughter-in-law Carrie and her husband Richard Rosales and their five kids, who include--besides Bryan and Caitlin--Andrew, J.D., and new baby Miguel ("Mikey").

Thanks for taking and sending me these pictures, Carrie! Click on them to enlarge them.

I flew home to Albuquerque on December 19 and returned home here in Xalapa on Friday, December 28. Since both flights—to and from—took a whole day, it was a whirlwind trip but warming because I was able to spend time with my mom, my kids, and my grandkids.

On the first leg of my return flight to Xalapa, between Albuquerque and Dallas/Ft. Worth, I met Muffet Foy Cuddy, my seatmate, who was on her way to Iowa as a volunteer to help NM Governor Bill Richardson in his bid for the Democratic presidential nomination. Muffet is chief of programs in the NM Department of Transportation and a belly dancer by avocation who will be going to Egypt soon for further study. It was fun talking with her.

Then as I was waiting in the Mexico City airport for my flight to Veracruz, a woman came up to me and said something like, “We meet again.” I recognized her as my seatmate during my first flight from Mexico City to Veracruz back in August. Teresa—Doctora Teresa Morales Guzmán—a researcher in neurobiology, lives in Querétero and travels to Veracruz to visit her family several times a year.

If we believed in fate, we would surely think this second meeting was fated: After all, what are the odds of running into someone you know in a city of 23 million people? We met only because the airline rerouted my flight through Mexico City instead of Monterrey, as stated on my itinerary; and because Teresa chose the same flight after vacillating for several days over the date and time.

Teresa and I weren’t seatmates this time, but we were able to visit a bit before we had to board the plane. She told me that she has been reading my blog from time to time, so now, Teresa, if you read this entry, please let me know if I’ve gotten any of my information about you wrong here.

The Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta begn yesterday. In an email, my Fulbright Exchange partner, Isabel, told me she will be attending this weekend.

Friday night, Oct. 5. Temperature: 18 degrees Celsius/ 64 degrees Fahrenheit

I hear rain falling on the roof, a lovely sound.

I got home late, close to 9 p.m. tonight. The blogging class I’m teaching to maestras y maestros at the Centro de Idiomas from 5 to 7 on Friday evenings ended early when the internet went down. We decided to take a break and see if internet access would be restored. (The coordinator, Miguel Angel Murrieta, has thoughtfully arranged for us to have coffee and cookies during our breaks.) And sure enough, the internet came back up briefly, giving us false hope, and then went down again. So we called it a day.

After that, I took a taxi from the school to the Chedraui supermercado closest to my apartment. When I emerged from the store about an hour later, the sidewalks and streets were wet. I don’t know if it had rained or if it was due to persistent chipi-chipi, the gentle drizzle that falls here, more a sprinkle or a mist than actual rain. I tried to catch another taxi home, not because I objected to walking but because I was heavy laden with groceries—my payday splurge—and my satchel of books that I carry to and from school each day.

But could I hail a taxi? No. In this city that has somewhere between 3,000 and 3,500 of them—countless of which passed me by as I trudged home—I couldn’t get a taxi because they were all taken by others. Only when I turned down my street, Guerrero, did two taxis appear with backseats empty. But it was too late by then. Ah, well. “All part of life’s rich pageantry,” as Inspector Clouseau would say.
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At noon today, there was a meeting of faculty and staff on the topics calidad and mejorar continuo—quality and continuous improvement. (Déjà vu all over again. CNM is using a similar quality perspective for its accreditation process.) I dropped into the meeting late and left early because I was preparing for my blogging class, but while I was there, I took these pictures.



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I was sick with a cold for three days this past week. I taught my classes, but on Tuesday and Wednesday, I left immediately afterward. I slept a lot, and today I feel cured.

Margarita—and other Mexicans—call this the season of contagion, la estación de contagio. The phrase has an ominous but somewhat romantic tone, bringing echoes of the winter of my discontent and one hundred years of solitude and love in the time of cholera.

Here in Xalapa, Margarita explained, September brings cooler weather—although the change has been barely perceptible to me so far—and sickness. And it's true: I counted five out of 16 students in my first class who were coughing and sneezing and blowing their noses along with me on Wednesday.
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Yesterday afternoon around 1:30 as I left the Centro de Idiomas for home, I saw a man sleeping on the street, stretched out full length close to the curb and adjacent to a portable stand where produce, herbs, and tortillas are sold. I assume he was one of the people who worked at the stand. I was amazed by the sight of him. I had to wonder(1) how could he sleep on the hard surface of the street? He didn’t seem drunk; his repose seemed deliberate, and the people sitting next to the stand seemed unperturbed by his presence or his slumber. (2) How did he dare fall asleep on the street knowing that pedestrians—let alone sleepers—are the targets of many taxistas and other drivers who seem hell-bent on scourging the streets of them? And (3) how could he rest while people walked past, beside, and around him?

I am always grateful to people like him whose behavior or appearance is so very different, in a harmless way, from what is normal, accepted, customary. I appreciate that they jerk me out of life's "terrible dailiness," and I admire their bravery, or bravado. I fondly remember the first time I saw a young punk-rocker sporting a pink 6-inch spiked mohawk and the time I saw an overweight middle-aged balding man waiting outside the Albuquerque Airport who was wearing Little Bo Peep garb, minus the bonnet and staff, lifting a hammy leg in white tights to rest his foot on a bench while he puffed on a cigar.

Maybe I like these people for the same reason I like mimes: they ask us to look at them. And they enterain us.