Some people said I was trying too hard to win the girl. Carol’s parents, who encouraged the match, told me they approved of the way I would send them a thank-you note each time they invited me to spend the weekend at their house.

What’s unusual about a thank-you note? Not much — unless it’s mailed from the town of the hosts before I even left town. Back in the ‘60s, here’s what happened often:

Carol lived in a resort area called Lake in the Hills, a suburb of Algonquin, Ill. I lived in a then-small town called Naperville, about 40 miles away. But those 40 miles are not quite like the distance from here to Wagon Mound. At the time, there were probably 40 Chicago suburbs along my path, with the requisite 1,400 traffic lights to navigate.

The cards I’d send usually arrived at Carol’s folks’ house the day after I mailed them (once, because I was delayed in Algonquin, the card arrived the same day.) Friends I’ve discussed this with often laughed at me for two reasons. Some thought it was unnecessary to mail the cards the day I left; others questioned my mailing anything at all. So eager to win Carol’s heart was I that (only) once I mailed the thank-you card before I even arrived at the Kucias’ house. Continue reading →

SALT LAKE CITY — All the way along the route to what locals call Mormon Central, I thought about my friend Vince Distasio, who was a colleague back in the late ‘60s, when we taught at Cuba High School.

Back then, there were a lot of Highlands University alumni: Rosalie and Neil Niebes, Jack Bradley, Marcella Fuentes, Tomas Salazar, Elias Garcia, Joe Ray Atencio, Peter Arguello, Ruben Cordova, Robert Romero and me.

What about the Mormon Tabernacle reminded me of my friend Vince? In brief, it was my wondering about ancestors and how much information the Church of Latter Day Saints had gathered about all the Trujillos and Medinas (and others) in my family tree. We’ve been vacationing near Salt Lake City and thought of checking out the repository we’d heard much about.

We never set foot inside the church itself. More than a city block of downtown Salt Lake City consists of ancillary buildings for the church; there are a couple of welcome centers, places inside and out for children to play, rooms where members of the world-famous Mormon Tabernacle Choir practice and perform, and — one of the reasons we were there — the vast amount of genealogical research the church has conducted. It’s free, and at no time did any of us Trujillos feel disloyalty to our own congregation or pressured to donate to the Mormon cause, or join their congregation. Continue reading →

There was a bit of relief when I read a review of a new book that declares that “Go Set a Watchman,” is not a sequel to the 1960s blockbuster novel that became a great movie, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

But before proceeding, let me release the long-standing pun regarding the Mexican mixed drink called “Tequila Mockingbird.” There might be some mixicologists who will prepare you a Bloody Mary, or Gin and Tonic or a Hot Toddy, but a Tequila concoction? I don’t think so.

Harper Lee wrote “To Kill a Mockingbird” back in 1960. It became an instant hit, spawning a movie by the same name, starring Gregory Peck. I’ve read it several times and love the give-and-take between Peck, qua Atticus Finch, and his daughter, Scout, who many readers assume represents the author herself. I wondered why the pre-teen daughter had the temerity to call her dad by his given name instead of simply “Dad.” How many offspring call their parents by their given name? Continue reading →

Don’t be surprised to discover that I’ve used this statement in several past columns: It’s a miracle that anyone learns English. I’m instantly reminded of the song Professor Henry Higgins blurts out early in the movie and play, “My Fair Lady.”

The professor, a dialectician and grammarian, sings “Why Can’t the English Teach Their Children How to Speak?” as he laments Eliza Doolittle’s use of “aawww” and “gawwn,” a form of Cockney-speak people of that time and place had grown accustomed to.

English is unpredictable. The schwa, for example, that phonetic symbol that looks like an upside-down “e,” and is called a neutral sound, can represent any vowel sound. There are only five vowels in the language (six if you count “y”), but 14 or 15 vowel sounds, depending on which part of the country you live in.

Yes, English is a strange tongue. It’s a language that renders the vowel combination of “ou” a half dozen ways, representing a host of vowels. Continue reading →

I find it irksome for people to define something only on the basis of what it’s not. Sound confusing? Let me explain.

I remember way back in fourth or fifth grade at Immaculate Conception School when Sister Mary Espantosa ran us through the reading curriculum by telling us that books were generally divided into two classes: fiction and non-fiction.

Well, literature in the form of short stories, usually in prose and consisting of “made-up” stuff, constitutes a mammoth genre. And what is the counterpart of fiction? Well, it’s non-fiction. How many geniuses sat around a table coming up with a label that covers just about everything else?

There’s biography, historic literature, drama, poetry and much more to the literary canon. And all we can come up with is non-fiction? How far can we carry that game in which we categorize things on the basis of what they are not?

Continue reading →

The class of students that made perhaps the biggest impression on me was an eighth-grade language arts group I taught in a rural town in northwestern New Mexico.

Because of a scheduling mixup on the first day, the 24 students I would have had became separated: Ms. Virginia Vigil takes all the girls; I keep the boys.

That error became a brilliant move, not because of the unisex nature of the class but because of the personalities of the 12 boys.

These eighth-graders were tough. Some of them later became starters on the football team as freshmen. Yes, they were rough and rowdy, but they still had the old-fashioned respect a teacher appreciates; they knew how to say “yes, sir” and “no, sir.”

Happily, I can say that during my tenure as a teacher at Highlands, I had three of the tough boys’ sons in some of my classes, possibly 25 years later. Continue reading →

A few decades ago, when the late broadcaster Paul Harvey used to provide “The Rest of the Story,” he told about a well-to-do couple who’d given each other expensive wedding rings, engraved, with names and dates, before taking a trans-Atlantic cruise on a luxury liner.

Not accustomed to wearing a ring at all, the new husband must have let it slip off his finger, falling into the deep blue sea. As Paul Harvey explained, the couple, then years older, took the same voyage, and on their return trip sat down to a seafood dinner. Suddenly, Harvey related, the husband bit into something hard, almost chipping a tooth.

The man discovered he’d bitten into a . . . into a . . . fishbone!

Surprised? What are the chances that a tiny object in millions of cubic miles of ocean would end up in the owner’s bicuspid? Continue reading →

There’s nothing like the tactility (is there such a word?) of skin-to-paper contact with coffee as a chaser. It’s been my passion for decades.

Let me explain:

Few people will disagree about the benefits of having a morning newspaper with their morning coffee. It’s a natural. And those lacking a morning paper — well, what do we do? Do we save last evening’s newspaper and treat it as if it where a morning paper?

I’m referring to recent changes at the Albuquerque Journal that somehow made my neighborhood, the Camp Luna area, off-limits for home delivery. The policy change came up suddenly, so today I write this column without the benefit of having seen the metropolitan daily this morning while in PJ’s.

Saturday, I received a recorded phone message from the Journal circulation department, announcing that the next day, Sunday, I was to receive no paper. Instead, a rebate check for my paid-up subscription would arrive soon. Well, that was small comfort. How do the Albuquerque Journal-ists expect subscribers to swallow their coffee without a newspaper in hand? Continue reading →

For as long as people have existed, many have cultivated the Art of Exaggeration. Strange, but when it comes to minimizing things, we aren’t as skillful.

Let me explain:

Watch any childhood scuffle on the school playground, and the loser will tell Mommy that “Jimmy almost suffocated me and practically knocked all my teeth out.” Instead of the playground, the brutal assault is said to have taken place “right in the middle of the street, in heavy traffic.” If Mommy reports the assault to the school principal, the kid is likely to effect a limp, struggle with breathing and fail to show all his teeth. A red badge of courage might also help.

Now is MY account a bit of an exaggeration? Perhaps. But nevertheless, I’m sure we’re all aware of the syndrome called “Hyper Inflammation of the Imagination.” As a child, the youngest, I used that tack as well, especially when an older sibling roughed me up, making me hope Mom or Dad would “really give it to” one sibling or the other. Continue reading →

It’s interesting when people consistently use the incorrect word and can’t tolerate any correction, even when it’s offered politely.

Let me explain:

A friend with whom I once took classes at Highlands had been hobbling around on crutches a couple of weeks ago. I saw her this week, sans crutches and asked how she was doing. “Much better! I’m just glad I’m not ambulatory anymore!”

Now w-a-i-t a second. Maria had fractured a bone in March and needed crutches to help her get around. She was able to walk on her own this week. Obviously, at some point her doctor used the term “ambulatory,” which my friend must have taken to mean “laid-up,” “unable to walk” or “gettable aroundable only with a wheelchair.”

But that’s just the opposite! I hope to remain ambulatory the rest of my life. Apparently, the sense of “ambulance” entered her mind and she pictured herself being wheeled around on a gurney. Continue reading →