MORE WITH TOMMY LEE JONES

Tommy Lee Jones seems to show up here quite a bit. No surprise. He's a mainstay of Trans Pecos Texas, my Texas as I like to say.

I bought the DVD of Jones' movie, "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada," filmed in the Big Bend area. It's the first DVD I've ever purchased, and I've already watched it twice. I have several viewings scheduled for friends and family who may or may not share my enthusiasm for it.

The film is a masterpiece, influenced by Kabuki, Greek Tragedy, Sam Peckinpaw, and Renaissance art more than John Wayne. See it.

But that's not the real reason Tommy Lee is back in my blog. He's appearing in the movie "No Country For Old Men," based on Cormac McCarthy's latest book. It also takes place in West Texas. The Cohen brothers, Ethan and Joel, famous for "Fargo", are directing. They filmed on location on The Pinto Canyon Road.

The Pinto Canyon Road. That's where I have been stopped twice by the Border Patrol. I have a witness, my friend Edgy. The BP pursued me with lights flashing and tires spinning. At least as much as possible on a treacherous, one lane road with hairpin turns and sudden dropoffs.

The first time, the officer approached with his hand on his gun which was in his holster which he unsnapped. I shut the engine, and put my hands on the dashboard where he could see them. Seemed the wise thing to do.

I've gathered that the Migra doesn't much like me. First, there's the New York plates on a dusty four wheel drive vehicle on a road that's barely a road. Then there's my name. Way too Latin for them.

Last, there's my looks. Obviously not Anglo.

"They don't like how you look," explained Edgy after the second incident. "They think you're a Mexican."

"Why?" I asked.

"'Cause you look like one." There was an exasperated tone to his voice.

I may still look like a Mexican. But I hope now I can travel the Pinto Canyon Road without being accosted by our National Police Force (aka the INS). The presence of Hollywood may have given it some panache, if such a thing is possible in West Texas. At least, it should have discouraged the narcotraficantes and wetbacks from traveling it, which in turn, should discourage the Border Patrol as well.

We can only hope.

I doubt that the Border Patrol stops Tommy Lee Jones on back roads. Or Cormac McCarthy. Or the Cohen Brothers.

Next year, I'll head up the Pinto Canyon Road again. With my New York plates. And my Latin name. And my non-Anglo face.

We'll see what happens. I'll keep you posted.

ACCENT OVER THE "U"

I can't get used to the name "Jesus".with an accent over the "u",so popular among Mexicans. Even as a Sicilian/American/Catholic, I find it strange. Now, we've managed to resurrect every obscure saint, male or female, that ever existed and baptize our babies in their names.
Sometimes,the girls have some form of Mary; Mary Jo, Mary Anne, Maria Theresa. The boys are often Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John with Joseph and Anthony thrown in for good measure. But no matter how many kids you have, depending on the efficiency of the Church's birth control method (the ultimate oxymoron, resulting in families with kids born nine months and ten minutes apart)we've never run so short of names as to use the Lord's.
But the Mexicans (perhaps they're more Catholic than the Italians?) use it even in the feminine form, Jesusa, and the diminutive, Jesusito. A very dedicated priest I know, from Sonora, Mexico, is Padre Jesus. Was his vocation predestined by his name, or just a serendipitous coincident? Quien sabe?
At the Dollar Store in a small Texas border town, a young employee wore a tag that read "Always Here to Serve You--Jesus". (no accent over the "u") It was startling to say the least. This kid looked like he'd be hard-pressed to direct us to the laundry soap aisle, let alone our divine reward. But he most likely had more job security than employees named Cody or Travis. After all, how do you fire someone named Jesus?
Last year, a relative sent me a postcard from her Florida vacation. "Outside Orlando we visited Jesus..." A tent revival, I wondered? Nope. It went on to say ..."and Berta and Diana." Friends of ours. She forgot the accent over the "u".
When I inherited a company cell phone from a seasonal employee, the display read "a message for Jesus"--no accent. Had lots of fun with that phone. Jesus received messages like:
The spare tire is fixed, come pick it up,
Do you want to see the new movie at the Regal? It's a steamy one,
And my personal favorite,
Can you bring the wine for dinner on Sunday?
Perhaps the best way to handle this dilemma of the accent over the "u" is to change the spelling altogether. In the old TV series "Rawhide," starring a very young Clint Eastwood, the wrangler of the remuda was a Mexican fellow named Hay Soos.
No "u".
No accent.
No problema.

MICHAEL'S FRISBEE

I found the frisbee out in the yard where the kids had been playing with it. It's back indoors now, where it can't get lost or chewed up by a dog or lawnmower.

The Open Door Mission in Rochester sent it years ago as a thank you gift for a donation I had made at Christmas. It's quite sturdy for a promotional item--white with blue graphics, including the words "restoring hope."

It was brand new and clean when my nephew Michael first started visiting me, his Tia. Since I didn't have any kiddy-character dinnerware around, this frisbee became the perfect dish. It was smooth plastic with a rim deep enough to keep food from escaping.

In those days I improvised everything. I sat Michael on the floor on a Mexican blanket and covered a small footstool with a towel as a tablecloth. I have pictures of him, big smile on his face, as he sat there and ate from his frisbee dish.

When he finished eating, and it was play time, I washed the frisbee and put some small toys and books in it. Many of his "toys" were improvs also. An empty Quaker Oats canister became a hat, a telescope, or a horn. Plastic measuring cups could be stacked like blocks, or nested by size. Even my bookmarks had pictures of animals and flowers on them, and we worked on words and colors as we sorted through them.

But there was always the frisbee. Early games of peek-a-boo, as Michael hid behind it and giggled when he peeked out at me. The frisbee as a hat, balancing on his dark hair until he slowly tipped his head and let it fall in his lap. Then he learned to roll it to me. I rolled it back across my not quite level farmhouse floor so he could learn to catch it too.

In the summer, we used the frisbee as a scoop when we played in the green turtle sandbox under the silver maple tree, along with empty yogurt containers and plastic spoons (more improv toys). We discovered it would float in the swimming pool, circling around with the flow of water from the filter. With Michael in my arms, I would swim with it, or toward it.We made a whirlpool and tried to catch the frisbee as it whooshed past.

As he grew and learned to swim, he threw the frisbee and paddled on his own, trying to catch up with it to throw it again. He still plays that game in my pool, either on his own or with his sister, Maria, his cousins, or his Tia.

And Michael plays frisbee. As in, throwing it and catching it. Today, the white Open Door Mission frisbee gets used like a frisbee. Not a plastic dish, or a peek-a-boo toy.

Michael plays golf now, "like Tiger," he says. And he plays T-ball in his back yard, and kicks the soccer ball here in my driveway. He goes to school on the bus, carries his backpack, and calls me on the phone to tell me what's new. "Maria threw up today," he reported recently. "She ate fruit, then she threw up. But she's okay now."

I don't know if he remembers eating off the frisbee when he first came to Tia's house. He had arrived from Guatemala just a short while before, at the age of ten months. I mentioned it to him once, when we were playing frisbee outside, how he had used it as a dish when he was little. He laughed, and said, "that's a funny thing, Tia."

The frisbee is in the house with me now. I'm not usually sentimental about anything other than photographs. After all, it's just a plastic disk, grass-stained and scraped a little after all these years. The blue lettering has faded a bit, but I can still read the words. "Restoring Hope".

ANOTHER ROTUNDA TALE

I get a lot of requests for another story about Paul Rotunda, especially from folks who knew him. There's no exaggerating a Rotunda tale. Fact trumps fiction every time. My earlier entry, WATERLOO, had me bailing him out of jail.

This one took place in the wilds of Wayne County, and involves a horse of questionable ownership. It was a Monday Morning Story. The sort of answer you'd get if you were careless enough to ask, "Paul, how'd your weekend go?"

"Rotten!"

I should have known better than to continue, but what the heck.
"Why? What happened?"

An aside: Paul had a talent for nicknaming people that was Dickensian. Walking Jesus (a guy who paced); Jack Benny (a cheapskate); Turkey Legs (she shouldn't have worn shorts) Banjo Eyes (round wire-rimmed glasses); Possum Face (hard to describe, but it fit); Dirty Charlie (hygiene not a priority).

Since I can't remember who, exactly, was his colleague in this scenario, I'll ascribe it to Cockroach. You could pick him out of a crowd just by that name, even if you'd never seen him before. It was uncanny.

"Me and Cockroach got this horse."
"Where?"
"Doesn't matter. We just got him. Brought him out to that farm off Swamp Road" (not the real address, readers)
"That's good, Paul."
"No, it's not." Pause, while he lights a Camel. "It up and died." Pause, while he puffs the Camel. "And somebody called the sheriff."

"Because a horse died?" Even in Wayne County, I can't imagine a dead horse being big news.

"No. Some bullshit about it being stolen."
"Was it?" Pause, while he smokes some more, followed by no answer.

I halfway hoped this was the end of it, but I had heard enough Monday Morning Stories to know it wasn't. And the other half of me hoped he'd go on. He did.

"Good thing we had that tractor." There's a non-sequitur for you. "We scooped out a hole between the barn and the woods, so we could bury it right quick."

Bury was pronounced Burry, but I got the point.

"We had a tow chain in the truck, wrapped it around the leg and drug it in and dumped it. Then we pushed the dirt back in over it."

"That's good, Paul, so it all worked out okay."

"No. We didn't make the hole deep enough, and the four legs was stickin' up in the air."

He demonstrated this by flinging his arms straight up as if I couldn't picture it on my own otherwise.

"But I was smart," he said, tapping his head to make sure I got the point."I grabbed my pruning saw from the back of the truck, and I went to sawing away for all I was worth on those four legs stickin' up and I threw 'em off into the woods just as we heard the sheriff's car coming down the road."

He lit another Camel, and blew out a long line of smoke.

"And I real quick kicked the dirt over the stubs just as the sheriff pulled into the yard."

"Well, Paul, then I guess it worked out okay." I figured that was the end. Wrong.

"No. Would have, except for that damned hound dog." Pause.Smoke. "It comes runnin' out of the woods, with a horse's hoof in his mouth, and drops it right at the sheriff's feet."

And without further ado, or explanation, he headed out to work, puffing on the Camel as he went.

TOMMY LEE JONES, AGAIN

I saw the movie "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada," a masterpiece for sure by that polo-playing genius, Tommy Lee Jones. I rushed to see it as soon as it opened, at only one nearby theatre, because I know it won't last long. There were no previews shown, no reviews written, and no hype for it whatsoever.

Three other people were at the screening, and this was two days after the movie opened. The film won the Palme D'Or at Cannes, but who cares back here in the states?

This is what I call a "little" movie. No big name cast or massive special effects. No earth-shattering plots twists. Just a good story about everyday people and the way life goes sometimes.

For me, the best part was just looking, seeing the locales that are so familiar to me in West Texas. I could pinpoint some settings specifically, like the hoodoos near Redford, created by wind erosion. One spot looked like Tornillo Creek, doubling as the Rio Grande, and the windmill and stocktank might be the one Edgy and I stopped at on the Pinto Canyon Road. I was home, that's for sure, watching that movie.

But beyond that, my own personal connection to the places and people, it sure deserved a lot more attention than it got. It said a lot about friendship and promises, truth and deception,law and justice, and the gray area somewhere between them.

Melissa Leo (one of my favorites), playing the waitress, had her own unusual sense of loyalty and devotion. And she stuck true to it. Dwight Yoakum, the local lawman, did his duty as far as he could, then left the rest to the Migra. Smart man.

But it's the promise Tommy Lee made to his Mexican friend, Melquiades, that carries the story. He kidnaps the Border Patrolman who shot Mel, digs up the dead body, and heads down into Mexico on horseback to bury him at the little town in Coahuila he'd talked about. It's an odyssey in the ancient and modern sense of the word, a journey beyond geography.

The ending was a surprise. Even I couldn't have guessed it. See this movie. It's very good.

You may need to rent it, since it's hardly playing anywhere and not for long at that. And that's a shame.

THE EMPTY LOT

They bulldozed it down. Completely. Nothing left but an empty lot. It isn't like I hadn't been warned. My brother told me it was going down when he drove by. So I was prepared, I thought.

Still, it seemed a shock. The empty lot. Nothing on it but a bulldozer with fresh mud on its tracks. Open space where I'd never seen space before. Where the building used to stand.

No, it's not a house I lived in. I have no sentiment for houses, and have never understood people who do. I could live in a tent as easily as not. Attachment to dwellings never made sense to me.

The piece of my past that was bulldozed out of existence was my Aunt Vi and Uncle Joe's garden center. My brother, my cousins, and I all worked there growing up. And we all carried on the family business tradition with florist shops, tree farms,and landscaping companies.

There was the store itself, where we displayed the hard goods like pottery, tools, and chemicals. Chemicals that smelled bad and have since been outlawed.

The three-sided counter sat in the center, with massive NCR cash registers where we had to make change with our brains, not a computer. Plants were grown in muddy clay pots that we wrapped in old newspapers. Customers seemed not to mind back then.

The little greenhouse was my favorite because that's where the cactus grew. It was hard for Aunt Vi to walk past them without stopping to soak them down with water. She knew they were supposed to be dry, but it still bothered her. So she let me take care of them when I was working, since I was the only one there who loved the spiny little buggers.

She did keep a few good-sized Aloe Vera plants in that greenhouse, nice and handy to medicate cuts and burns. She was ahead of her time, since most people had never heard of Aloe Vera and used drugstore ointments instead.

In the big greenhouse we displayed a variety of hanging plants--episcias, Boston ferns, hoyas. They were dirt cheap, but still didn't sell. The interior decorators of the day hadn't yet informed people that they were supposed to love hanging houseplants, so ours hung around longer than some of the help did.

Both greenhouses were made of glass, obsolete now, except for conservatories like Kew Garden or Lamberton. Plastic has taken its place.

When Uncle Joe and his landscape crew were out on jobs, Aunt Vi and "her girls" ran the place. He once asked her if she wanted him to leave one of the boys at the store, to help out.

"No," she snapped. "Get 'em out of here. We can get more work done without any of them in the way. Right, girls?"

Right. But this was the sixties, and some of the truckers were a bit shocked when a crew of girls started unloading heavy boxes or sacks of soil. And customers didn't expect us to haul rolls of dripping sod out to their cars. Aunt Vi had us driving trucks and running tractors. Gender was never an issue.

Aunt Vi and Uncle Joe are both gone now. We cried when they died, and mourned our loss as a family. Their funerals included spectacular plants and floral arrangements, reflecting their lives and ours.

So I didn't think the empty lot would be anything more than just that, an empty lot. It surprised me, then, the sudden, strange feeling I had when I saw it, quickly, out my car window, as I zipped by in the rush of traffic. Just a few seconds and I had passed it.

It's small, that lot is. Nothing like the large, expansive businesses my brother and cousins run now. But it's where we all started. Watering the plants. Unloading the shrubs. Ringing up the sales. Shaking the snow off the Christmas trees.

And drinking coffee with doughnuts at break time. I still don't know where Aunt Vi got those heavy diner-style cups, white with the dark green trim. You could bounce them off a concrete floor and I swear they wouldn't break.

One concrete floor near the storage room had the initials J and J scribed in it, with the year, 1963. Uncle Joe said it stood for Joe and John. Uncle John said it stood for John and Joe. I guess it stood for them both, and how brothers can work together sometimes.

I wish I'd thought to go back there and hammer out that piece of cement before it got crushed and buried by the muddy bulldozer track.

I don't look at that empty lot anymore when I drive past it. I just watch where I'm going.

MARCONI, MAY GOD FORGIVE YOU

I swear, on a stack of TV Guides, I'm not a television snob. I like TV.Not just the pompous, self-rightous, left-leaning PBS programs, either.

I'll watch Law & Order, Seinfeld, Frasier, re-runs of the Beverly Hillbillies. So I'm not on a rant about how awful TV is, and how it's ruining our society and poisoning our kids' minds. Maybe it is, but somebody else can rant about that.

My peeve is the fact that it has to be everywhere. Everywhere. Whatever happened to The TV Room? Now, every room in the house is a TV room.

Been camping lately? Instead of the warm glow of a campfire, you see the warm glow of the television, in RV's, pop-ups, even tents.

Recently I was in the waiting room at my doctor's office. Some idiotic talk show was blaring from a corner TV. Drove me crazy. Finally, an older man stood up, marched across the room, shut the TV, and said, "well, that's the end of that crap!" My hero.

At a local diner there are TV's perched like gargoyles in every corner. The reception is dreadful. Snow and static nearly obliterate the soap operas. Nearly, but not completely. The waitresses keep one eye on "The Bold and the Beautiful" and the other on the soup and the salad.

And so it goes. Cars. Garages. Hospitals. Nursing Homes. Gift Shops. Liquor Stores. National Park Bookstores.

When was the last time you walked into a home or office, and didn't see a television?

And just how long have Ashcroft and Rumsfeld been around?

I'M A PLAYWRIGHT

First of all, I'm not a playwright. I'm a novelist--whose book has not been published. That, my dear Reader, is like floundering in deep water. You grab at anything that can keep you afloat.

So, when GeVa Theatre in Rochester sponsored a short playwriting contest, I grabbed at the chance to bring my novel's characters to life.

In short, I became a playwright. I reworked two scenes from my book and added some stage directions. Amazingly, I got The Call from GeVa that my entry was one of the winners. The chosen plays would be read by professional actors.

As the creator of Juan and Elena, I felt a bit like God. Or Dr. Frankenstein, depending on my mood. What if the actors' portrayals didn't jive with my vision of the couple? Would I suddenly become a hysterical diva, ranting like a tyrant? Would I have a meltdown, collapsing in tears and despair? Or internalize my distress, ulcerating my innards?

Hopefully not.

I blew into Rochester on Wednesday, January 18th, in a windstorm, arriving at Writers & Books, the site of the readings. As usual, I felt like the country mouse in the city. But that didn't last long. Chuck Lyons, editor emeritus of the esteemed Palmyra Courier-Journal, was also a winner! He had e-mailed me: "I told you when I entered this that I'm not a playwright. I stand by that statement."

Not so. I read his play and it was great.To my amazement, GeVa had actually chosen plays about real people, vignettes of life that made sense.

Rehearsal time arrived. I met Amy Jensen, the director, and Marcy Savastano, who would portray Elena Garcia. They were both a size zero, maybe a one if they inhaled hard. But Marcy, like my character, was a dark-eyed brunette, pretty and perky. A lovely Elena.

I panicked for a moment when I met "Juan Rodriguez." Ken Klamm, the actor, was tall, stocky, and blond. Muy Anglo-looking to play the role of a Mexican. But my doubts about his talent disappeared as soon as he started reading.

For a half hour, I became a real playwright, collaborating with Amy, suggesting emotions and gestures for the two actors. More than once, I squelched a strong urge to jump up and fling the script (all two pages of it) to the floor, and scream, "No! That's not the way it goes!" Not because the actors were far off the mark. They were really quite good. But because I had a tiny, sweet taste of power.

I understand now why authors are banned from rehearsals and sound stages. That sense of power, and the need to control your own creations is overwhelming, intoxicating like vintage (last week) Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine.

Because Marcy and Ken quickly grasped the characters' personalities and understood the scene I'd written, the rehearsal passed smoothly. We took a dinner break.

Then, Show Time!

My play was scheduled first. Was it because it was so good, it would set the tone for excellence? Or was it so bad, they wanted to get shed of it as fast as possible? Neither, I suppose.

A hush fell o'er the crowd. Not really, but that corny phrase sure sounds swell.

The director of Writers&Books announced, "'River Out of Eden' by Camy Sorbello."

I hoped I was wearing the enigmatic Mona Lisa smile I'd perfected eons ago in college. It may have looked more like the Cheshire Cat from "Alice in Wonderland." Sort of a DaVinci/Lewis Carroll meld. Regardless, I was careful not to lip-synch the dialogue along with the actors.

The audience, including friends, family, and colleagues, seemed transported by the brilliance of my play. That is, they didn't fall asleep, they didn't boo or throw fruit, and they didn't run away screaming. At the end, they applauded the talented actors.

Then I stood to the sound of thundering applause, or so it seemed, and waved to the groundlings.

Even Shakespeare couldn't have asked for more!

(reprint courtesy of the Palmyra Courier-Journal, Ad-Net Direct, 2006)