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Chametla


I hate that place. Every time I go to La Paz, to Chametla to see my mama, Delia, I come away feeling lost and ashamed and useless. This last time was worse because my brother, Augustine, who said he would go, cancelled at the last minute, said he had to work. Who doesn’t have to work? It’s a long day. A long hot drive to El Centenario to the hospital where she stays. I leave Santiago when it’s still dark so I can get back the same day.

When I say “I hate that place” I mean I hate going there. They are good people there. They take good care of her; better than I could. They make her walk and exercise a little. I know she would never do that for me and I would probably never think of trying it. They explained to us that the food sometimes can’t taste as good as people want but because of the high diabetes rate for Mexicans, they have to balance the good for you food with the food that tastes good. I’ve seen some of the food and it doesn’t look bad. They keep her clean and quiet – she wears my new robe when I come. I have to call to let them know I’m coming so I don’t know if she puts on the robe or if they put it on before I show up. I brought her my old radio and they turn it on for her, find a station with old, old music. I keep forgetting to stop at El Segundo to replace it – I miss it sometimes in the dark on the patio and Flora and the kids like to listen all day.

Sometimes she knows me. I can feel it, the way she pats my hand, smiles at me. I know there’s some kind of connection there. They say her silence might be because she has forgotten parts of language, of speech. It is impossible to tell what she has forgotten, what she still remembers. After the old man died, Augustine and I seemed to be even more wrapped up in our own worlds, our own problems, families, jobs. We didn’t do much. We could have done a lot more. Maybe for mama this is a good time to be forgetting how things were. I try to forget. But I can’t. Now I think of the things we should have done for her.

At Chametla, when I last signed in, the book showed my sobrina, Carla, had come down from Loreto a month ago to visit with mama. I wonder if mama remembers her nieces. I will drag Augustin’s butt up here on my next trip no matter what he says. Maybe, maybe with both of us here again it might make a little spark of memory for her – to see us together again, side by side. Just a little spark. Just a little glimpse. It might mean the world to her. I’ll get some flowers. Maybe they’ll allow her a little candy from San Bartolo.

It’s her own fault. All of this. She should have had girls like her sister.

Sad, realistic, fact of life....but well-written as always!

I'm curious Osprey, where do you come up with your subject matter? You're all over the board when it comes to your topics, which is good & keeps things interesting, but I've often wondered if you lay awake at night dredging up ideas for what to write next....or do things in daily life trigger your subject matter? Where ever it comes from, it works!

And hey! Next time you're visiting Mom in Chametla, give me a holler...I'm in the neighborhood!

Legs, I do not know where all that stuff comes from. When I write in first person, fiction, I try to get inside the character which can be a challenge. I've been a lesbian, a bum, a teacher, a con man, etc. etc. If I'm writing in narrator I research the story subject and settin on the internet and elsewhere, ask friends with different backrounds about their knowledge -- it's my goal to have the stories be plausible so I google earth almost everyplace there's a setting, look up street names, restaurants, hotels to give the stories local flavor. If I came to visit you I would undoubtably pick your brain about how you built all those beautiful homes, not the info about materials but about the unseen politics and the human mechanics you needed to learn and use.

Originally Posted by Osprey

Legs, I do not know where all that stuff comes from. When I write in first person, fiction, I try to get inside the character which can be a challenge. I've been a lesbian, a bum, a teacher, a con man, etc. etc. If I'm writing in narrator I research the story subject and settin on the internet and elsewhere, ask friends with different backrounds about their knowledge -- it's my goal to have the stories be plausible so I google earth almost everyplace there's a setting, look up street names, restaurants, hotels to give the stories local flavor. If I came to visit you I would undoubtably pick your brain about how you built all those beautiful homes, not the info about materials but about the unseen politics and the human mechanics you needed to learn and use.

Post more, por favor!! I wanna read how you pulled off being a lesbian!

You do succeed in plausibility! Occasionally, I have to take a few steps back & figure out if you're relating actual events or writing fiction!

OMG!!! You wouldn't really want to do a sequel titled "Nightmare on Calle de Playa!" Despite the fact I actually have built 3 homes here, sometimes I feel like the tools I'm using are metric....but I'm speaking in feet & inches! You said "needed to learn" in past tense....trust me on this one, it's definitely a never-ending learning process!! Just when I'm starting to think I'm getting the techniques, players & personalities almost sorted out, some SOB comes along & changes the rules!! I'm getting a headache just thinking about it!

You are so very talented Osprey and I really enjoying reading your posted stories. Thanks for sharing them...