CHILDREN'S CRUSADE

We were returning from a day trip to Guanajuato, on that final stretch of two-lane blacktop into San Miguel, when a haggard ghost appeared in the road ahead.

"Who's that?" I asked Gary, the driver of the Ford Expedition.
  
Now we could see him. 

He was a 16-year-old kid in hobo rags--old clothes that had been turned black by the soot of railroads and the dirt of boxcars and sleeping on the ground. Slung over his shoulder was a filthy nylon sports bag. 

He put his hand out as we drew alongside.  Gary tossed him a few pesos through the window, and then we passed on. I saw dark eyebrows, a vacant stare. That evening I kept remembering that kid's blank, dead look.

Here was the face of America's child migration problem.


The number of unaccompanied children crossing the U.S.-Mexico border spiked 90 percent in the past year, with dire predictions of future increases.

Over the last nine months alone, more than 52,000 unaccompanied children have entered the U.S. illegally. They come mostly from the Central American countries of Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador, where drugs, gangs, poverty, persecution, unemployment, and violence prevail. 

During their months-long migration north, they pass along the spine of Mexico, riding the rails, hitching rides, stowing away on trucks and buses, walking.   

Meanwhile, the governors and many residents of American border states have reacted none too hospitably. President Obama and the U.S. Congress have put on hold all actions to address the crisis until after the midterm elections.

But I can’t wait until then to make up my mind. Since seeing that bedraggled kid on the road that day, I’ve been thinking about the issue of child migration, and I’ve been trying to decide which side I’m on. 

Do we enforce American immigration laws, stop the kids at the U.S. border, and send them packing? Or do we recognize their basic human rights and provide asylum and perhaps even a pathway to eventual integration into American society if not to citizenship?

Ultimately, only improved economic and security conditions in the children’s countries of origin can stem the flow. But given the chaotic trends in those regions, such improvements are no more than pipe dreams. The kids will continue to have few options.

So, that only leaves us—we Americans who understand that all children have basic human rights, and particularly should always be safeguarded from harm. And if no one else is willing to protect them, then why can’t it be us? 

Yes, I know to some of my countrymen we'd be playing right into "their" hands (the lawbreakers, the unaccompanied minors, the parents who in desperation keep sending their kids north for a better life). And we'd only be encouraging more kids to make the dangerous trek for hope of asylum. Suckers, we'd be called. I get it.

But I keep seeing that kid's face, and wondering if he realized what lay ahead for him on the long road. A better life, or anonymous death in a ditch somewhere? Or maybe just a ticket back home? What were the odds of anything good coming out of all his risks and efforts? Was figuring the odds even part of his thinking process? Or was it solely a matter of doing anything to escape from the bloody awful conditions back home, at any cost--and the odds be damned?

Now I want to tell him something reassuring. I want to tell him we are here to help.

We can do this. No one else has our history of doing so much good for the world's dispossessed. Every new wave of immigrants has helped to improve our country’s diversity, resilience, and strength.
  
So, why not us?  Why not now? Let’s be the heroes one more time.

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta                         

Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

CULTURE WARS

A fight broke out at the Angel Peralta Friday night.

I don't mean the Angel Peralta Cantina (if it even exists), but San Miguel's Teatro Angela Peralta, beloved venue for "the top echelon performing artists who come here year after year" to "love our little city and its people," according to Dirk Bakker, board of directors' president.

Dirk is probably right, but you might not have felt the love on the second-storey balcony at the 7 p.m. performance of chamber music by the Claremont Trio. The female musicians played minor works by Beethoven and Brahms and a haunting, plaintive piece by contemporary composer Judd Greenstein, and they played everything beautifully.

The trouble started as they struck the final chord of the second movement of Beethoven's Piano Trio en E-flat Major, Op. 1, No. 1.  

After the first movement, about half of the audience had applauded--with the best of intentions, of course,  but completely inappropriately. As any true music aesthete knows deep in his marrow, one only applauds at the end of the composition, which in this case is a four-movement piece.  Shucks.

But I couldn't help hearing a slight sigh of uneasiness, an irritable stirring, from a couple of patrons seated directly behind me. I didn't think much of it. After all, tiny lapses like "premature applause" happen all the time in my native Philadelphia, where citizens consistently vote the theme from "Rocky" as their favorite musical composition of all time. Most of us in the "city of brotherly love" lack the sophistication to care one way or another.

Very soon, the Claremont Trio was ripping into the second movement called "Adagio cantable." And it was at the end of this movement that--once again--some patrons spontaneously decided to show their appreciation of the fine playing by putting their hands together. Mama mia! Admittedly, the number of clappers was much smaller this time, but they were still numerous enough to disturb the sensitivity of the patrons behind me.

"SSSHHHH!" came a hissing rebuke that combined the reprimanding tone of a primary school teacher and the menacing edge of a prison guard. Ah, a true music aesthete.

I was tempted to turn in my seat to see who was doing the shushing, but through 27 years of marriage my wife has valiantly tried to train me to behave myself in public.  It's been a thankless job. So, I didn't budge.

The band--um, trio--played on, finishing up the Beethoven. After a short break, they proceeded with Greenstein's rhapsodic piece, composed as an homage to a deceased loved one. It was very moving. 

Fortunately the composition was contained in a single movement, so there were no opportunities for any unnecessary interruptions by certain patrons unable to hold back their appreciation until the appropriate juncture.

Instead, the second-floor balcony was startled by the sudden loud chiming sound of--you guessed it--an incoming cell phone call.  What the...! The first rule of concert going, as even a rube from Philadelphia knows, is that cell phones must be switched off before the musicians strike the first chord.  

Shock and awe! This was, indeed, an infamy worthy of crucifixion.

As the high-pitched chiming continued, there were definite rustling sounds coming from directly behind me as a woman's hushed voice entreated her companion to disarm the wailing electronic monster. He--and it was a he--did so, but only after a full 30 seconds of earsplitting chiming that completely broke the mood of the very moody Greenstein piece.

No matter. We balcony dwellers struggled to recapture the movement, as the Claremont Trio continued their immaculate playing.  Yes, yes, this truly was a magnificent--

CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEE.......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEE......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMM......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEE......

Impossible!

For a second time, the same cell phone pealed impertinently. 

"Are you crazy?" an American gentleman in the vicinity growled at the cell phone's owner, who turned out to be, of course, the music aesthete himself.

I thought this would surely mean war.  Remember, I'm from Philly and we learn very quickly not to talk to strangers, even if we have moral righteousness on our side, because by saying anything we run a high risk of getting bum-rushed, sucker punched, head butted, or even worse. 

Luckily this is San Miguel, so nothing untoward happened. The errant cell phone finally silenced for good, we all got back to appreciating the music that swirled through the great hall. What a thrilling performance!

And later, I found myself feeling some sympathy for the poor patron sitting behind me. Yes it's true, music aesthetes are easy to disparage, demean, decry, and deride. But the guy's cell phone going off like that, not just once but twice, well, well, well--that could've happened to any idiot.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

BIENVENIDOS, SEŇOR ASSANGE

You've probably heard the news: Julian Assange, the Wikileaks superstar, is looking for a new mailing address.


Mi amigo Julian, let me be the first to invite you to join us other refugees in San Miguel de Allende.

We all know you've been holed up in the Ecuadoran embassy in London for the past two years because of your fear of government prosecution. Feeling a little peaked due to your confinement, you just announced you're looking for a new place to call political asylum.

So far, you haven't indicated any preference. I certainly hope you don't make the same mistake as your fellow global scoundrel, Edward Snowdon, who reportedly has been swallowed by a Russian brown bear.

Listen up, hermano! San Miguel's a much better choice for these reasons:

Bargain Housing. The way the city is being oversold and overdeveloped, housing prices are bound to continue plunging. Just think of it: A four-bedroom house in Balcones or El Paraiso for what you'd pay for a good dinner on Canary Wharf--SOOOOOOOLD! And you can be sure of getting a maid, cook, and gardener at that rock-bottom price.


The Food. Don't know if it's like Ecuadoran food, but it can't be any better.
No cuy (guinea pig), though.

Get in Shape.  Crave a little exercise? San Miguel's running of the bulls is history. But some tony fitness centers have popped up in San Antonio. And there's always the 2-kilometer ascent from La Parroquia to Soriana to get your heart pumping. Just watch out for the broken paving stones, caballero.

Hide in Plain Sight. It's easy to disappear in San Miguel.  Just slap on a Panama hat, a pair of Oakleys, cream-colored linen pants, and a blue chambray shirt and you'll look like every gringo tourist on the Jardin.

Familiar Language. After two years living with the Ecuadorans, you must be pretty fluent in Spanish. No? Anyway, it doesn't really matter. Here, English is as accepted as bad street music.

Great Entertainment.  While we have the worst street musicians in the civilized world, the town boasts some great clubs, museums, galleries, dance venues, music halls, and symphonies. Not to mention the off-license cantinas.


Historical Sites. Ecuador has the Galapagos and Incan ruins. London has Westminster Abbey and the Globe Theater. And San Miguel has the Toy Museum and loose cobblestones as old as Moses.

World-Class Sports.  While the British love to crow about Manchester United and champion cricketeer Alastair Cook, only the Mexicans can claim the Campeche Pirates and Luchador Rey Mysterio as their own.

First-Rate Television.  I bet you've been watching loads of British telly while you're cooped up. Just to reassure you, Megacable provides a wide range of classy telenovelas and comedy shows featuring busty ladies and hairy men wearing lipstick and silly hats. Loads of club-level soccer, too.

Great Professional Opportunities. Internet speeds suck, but computer hackers like you are desperately needed to spearhead a rejuvenated effort to shine a light on any clandestine deal-making or other corruptive practices, if such things actually ever existed.


A Quick Exit. Finally, San Miguel offers easy access to at least four international airports. Call Baijogo for the best shuttle rates. Hey, just in case you wear out your welcome, cabron....



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

WATER WORLD

I bought my first household water filter today.

The ceramic filter (inlaid with colloidal silver) costs 400 pesos ($35) and is retro-fitted into the mouth of a 19-liter (5-gallon) polycarbonate water jug that rests upside-down on a water crock dispenser base, to which a plastic spigot is attached.

We've been using this simple type of water dispensing system--minus the filtration unit--for nearly all our home drinking needs since moving to Mexico. When empty, each jug is replaced with a fresh hygienically-sealed prefilled one.

A fresh jug costs about 27 pesos ($2) at the local Mega Supermercado, plus a one-time deposit fee. Responding to consumer demand, home-delivery services abound, just like in the States. My wife, two dogs, three cats, and I go through about one jug of water a week. Of course, larger families require more jugs.

Like many expatriate households here in Mexico, we're willing to pay a "premium" for branded jugs that are refilled by companies owned by multinational corporations like PepsiCo, Coca-Cola, and Danone. But in working-class neighborhoods, local entrepreneurs meet residents' demands with jugs at a fraction of the price, but filled with water of dubious provenance.

Two dollars a week isn't a lot to spend to avoid a possibly incapacitating gastrointestinal illness or an even worse malady. But since arriving in Mexico ten months ago I have been trying to find a more sustainable, eco-friendly solution for our drinking water needs. Hence, my excitement at discovering the jug-and-ceramic filter combination available from a local nonprofit organization at our town's weekly organic market.

Dylan, a rural development expert who sold me the jug-and-filter contrivance, promised that it would remove all bacterial, viral, and fungal contaminants found in the water coming from our city taps (some of these culprits cause what we gringos call "Montezuma's revenge").

In fact, we're lucky to have only these particular contaminants to contend with. In some outlying campos (rural villages), the ground water also comes laced with heavy metals such as arsenic and fluoride.

These elements occur naturally in the earth's lower stratum where wells have to be drilled nowadays due to depleted aquifers. Even trace amounts rot teeth, bones, and brains, and we're talking about the teeth, bones, and brains of adults and children living in countless rural locations. Polluted rivers are another popular source of drinking water for the country's poor.

Plastic jugs filled with fresh, clean water are unavailable in these isolated locations. And although there may be tanker truck deliveries of what's considered acceptable water, these occur on an erratic schedule.

It's not a great situation. While the Mexican government has been taking baby steps trying to provide safe, potable drinking water to the public, NGOs and numerous nonprofits--largely funded by generous norteamericanos--appear to be making important advances in addressing the crisis.

For example, the Rotary Club of San Miguel de Allende, of which I am a member, has focused on practical, low-cost solutions for rural areas lacking safe drinking water.

Rural Cistern Funded by San Miguel Rotary Club

Recently, the microscopic village of Pena Blanca, located 45 kilometers west of San Miguel, was the scene of a unique festivity. The villagers celebrated the construction of 19 cement rainwater catchment cisterns in their isolated locality.

Fed by rainwater collected from the roofs of local dwellings, these cisterns can provide clean drinking water for each household for as long as a year.

This project is only one of many that our local Club supports--with funding from some U.S. Rotary Clubs, our Club members' guidance and sweat equity, and most notably, of course, through the local villagers' commitment and labor. The regional water company and key Mexico-based grassroots organizations have been big supporters of the project, too.

Such highly cooperative initiatives clearly are moving things in the right direction for campos like Pena Blanca. But it's a big world out there.

According to the World Health Organization (WHO), contaminated drinking water is one of the leading causes of preventable deaths, worldwide. In fact, over 2 million deaths occur each year from water-related diarrhea alone, caused by pathogen contamination in the drinking water.

So, how much thought did I give to the world's drinking water crisis when I was living in the States, before moving to Mexico? I'll let you guess the answer.

Maybe my new home water filter is just a budgetary measure to save my wife and me a few bucks every month. Or maybe, just like the innovative projects spearheaded by expatriates and supported by local agencies to help out the Mexican people, it reflects a new way of thinking about the world.

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

STONE AGE

In America, large-scale construction is done by heavy equipment. Here, people do the work by hand. What Mexico lacks in big machinery, it easily makes up with willing hands.

The latest census figures estimate the country's population at about124 million. Although the official employment rate is less than 5 percent, it's no secret that most workers earn inadequate wages--a dollar a day or less. Some days a lot less; some days nothing at all. Still, through a kind of magical thinking by government statisticians, they're not classified as unemployed.

Thus, there are lots and lots of people these days--particularly young men--who are more than happy to tackle heavy-duty work here at home. They're the ones who used to sneak up north before the great recession hit and those particular types of U.S. jobs evaporated.

Visit any construction site here in Mexico. For an observant American of a certain age, it's a trip down memory lane.You see picks and shovels. Hand trowels and sledge hammers. Handsaws and prybars. Axes and hammers. Chisels and screwdrivers and wrenches.  You see ropes and pulleys. You see hoes and rakes and straw brooms.You see little men lugging ungainly construction materials from one place to another, a little like circus performers.

There's scant evidence of mechanized equipment, bulldozers, excavators, power shovels, backhoes, tractors, tower cranes, jack hammers, cement mixers, diesel-powered road rollers, pneumatic nail guns, gas-powered blowers, etc.

Nearly everything is done by hand--many hands, ceaselessly working. The scene resembles a manic anthill. Just yesterday, I spotted a dozen workers dismantling and lowering a gargantuan promotional billboard, using some ropes, a 6x6 wooden beam, and pure physical effort. It's a miracle nobody got creamed.

The labor may be backbreaking and the pay not great, but at least workers get to take some pesos home to the family. Stacks of tortillas and bags of beans are needed for households of six or more; maybe a little chicken or pork, as well.

Most Americans think food is cheap in Mexico, so nobody's getting hurt by workers' low pay. Food isn’t cheap. Tortillas and beans are partially subsidized by the government, but who can live on that regimen for long? Yet, many impoverished Mexicans do.

In San Miguel, the stonemasons work long hours. They're building new bus stops throughout the city. Laborers heft huge rocks down from the flatbed, chip at them for hours with hammer and chisel, set them in place, construct the support molds of wood, mix the mortar and concrete by hand, and slather stone upon stone, until foundation and wall are complete.

For the rebar to support poured concrete beams, laborers painstakingly twist bands of steel with hand pliers--one support at a time. Hundreds are needed, thousands even. It's magic to see. And I haven't spotted an industrial cement mixer yet.

Some people think Mexicans are bad workers; lazy and unreliable and dishonest. It's not true. Mexicans are some of the hardest workers anywhere. They toil long hours and you don't hear any bitching on the job.  Nobody talks about human dignity or workers’ rights.  They're all too busy making a living, the old-fashioned way.

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

SOUND AND FURY

Making friends in San Miguel is easy.  But losing them is even easier.  All you need do is bring up the topic of fireworks.

Religion and politics are widely considered devisive issues. But endeavor to suggest that the frequent fireworks displays in our lovely colonial town are not only annoying but also dangerous and should be better controlled by the authorities, and you’re in for a fight. You might even be told to pack your bags and go back home.

That's exactly what a number of San Miguel residents proposed during a recent debate over the mostly unregulated discharge of fireworks here.   

In an article in Atencion, a local weekly bilingual tabloid costing 15 pesos ($1.15), these residents in effect argued that fireworks are as Mexican as tamales, and if you don't like 'em (lots of 'em), well then you'd better seriously consider moving north. Far north. 

Now, I know for a fact that Americans like a good fireworks display.  Who doesn’t enjoy a spectacular sound-and-light show on the Fourth of July? And what could be a more fitting conclusion to the big game than an impressive pyrotechnic demonstration? Oooo-aaaahhh. American as the "1812 Overture," right?

But to many natives, fireworks are more than a celebratory accompaniment—they’re a national rampage. And sometimes one gets the idea that they also may serve as an indirect expression of counter-gringo sentiment.

I'm not suggesting anything sinister here. Mexicans are welcoming hosts to us expats. But one other thing's for sure: Fireworks may just become a potential flashpoint in our mutually respectful relationship.

As an example, during one particular weekend in May one of the smaller chapels in town celebrated its patron saint's feast day. (Doesn't really matter which saint, there are more than enough to go around.) The aerial bombardment started on Friday evening and continued, virtually without pause, through Sunday evening. Windows were rocked and dogs took up permanent residence under beds. No one in our area slept for longer than two hours because of the continual blastings.

Certainly this was an extreme case.  However, nearly every holy day, funeral service, wedding, graduation ceremony, or coming-of-age observance in town ends with the detonation of fireworks--sometimes until two in the morning. The month of September promises unprecedented carpet bombing because of a perfect storm of Mexican Independence celebrations and numerous holy feast days in the Catholic Church.

This is fun for no one, except perhaps for the bombers themselves (impossible to identify), and makes many Americans and Canadians and even some Mexicans mighty cranky at Sunday morning service.

The issue is control. The vast majority of these fireworks displays are criminal. Meaning, they are against the law. They are renegade operations. Many of the fireworks are homemade and therefore extra-dangerous.The people who set them off are nonprofessionals, and too often suffer the consequences of their passion by the lose of fingers and eyes. It happens every year, but no one raises the issue of public safety. And the laws go unenforced for reasons that you can probably guess.

There is nothing pretty about our local fireworks, because they are all BOOM with none of the colorful pinwheel displays high in the nightsky that we find so awe inspiring in the U.S.

Please don't talk to me about Mexican tradition. Perhaps at one time fireworks were a quaint--what my wife drearily calls "folklorical"--expression of respectful glorification or exuberant celebration.

But those days are long gone, as every neighborhood in town vies to achieve the biggest--and longest-lasting--ear-splitting, earth-cracking bangs. And the rest of us have to hide our heads under pillows, or else leave town for the weekend.  Maybe the barrio kids love it. But from my perspective it's time for the grown-ups to take charge.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta 
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

BUMP IN THE ROAD

Up north, drivers encounter speed bumps on rare occasions.  In Mexico, we confront them just about every minute we're on the roads.  The locals call them "topes" (TO-PEZ) and some of these bumps feel more like concrete barriers than reasonable speed-limiting structures. All too often, Mexican topes are car chassis-grinding, suspension-cracking, tire-deflating, tailpipe-breaking, muffler-crunching monsters that take no prisoners.

Many Mexican speed bumps are tall enough to cast a shadow in the afternoon sun. Some are spacious enough to shelter a family of four.

Now, there's one reason for speed bumps in the U.S. and Canada--they're to encourage us to slow down around schools or crowded pedestrian areas.

But in Mexico, safety concerns seem beside the point. For many towns, topes are clearly present to boost the local economy by slowing vehicles to a near standstill. This affords an army of vendors better opportunities to sell their local foods, drinks, and trinkets. Topes are highly popular with beggars, too. Also, they're a proven means for stimulating business for local muffler, tire, and body shops, which coincidentally abound in heavy topes zones.

Some topes are plainly signposted, but most aren't. The only way to tell there's a tope is when you notice you're rapidly approaching a line of vehicles stopped dead in the middle of the road for no reasonable cause; or, it feels like your car just ran over something like a telephone pole. Or maybe four.


Of all the places that I've passed through between the U.S. border and Mexico City, a small market town about 25 kilometers southeast of San Miguel gets my vote for "Topes Capital of the World."

The locals of Los Rodriguez seem friendly enough. Numerous open-air market stalls line the sides of the road. Lively music plays day and night. Happy families gather for heart-warming rituals.  Prices are extremely reasonable for everything from fresh tamales and special drinks to fruits and vegetables and handmade wooden furniture and metalwork.

However, the topes of Los Rodriguez resemble concrete mountains. They appear to have been built by local laborers with the greatest civic pride. You cannot pass through the place, even in a Hummer, without experiencing a severe chassis-grinding, no matter how slowly you drive. Of course, muffler repair businesses abound, as do tire and body shops.

And the question I ask myself whenever I pass through Los Rodriguez is this: Are these speed bumps present for safety concerns or commercial ones?

I think you know my answer.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta 
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

A CLEAN, WELL-LIGHTED PLACE (Part II)

The official name is"Biblioteca Publica de San Miguel de Allende A.C.," and it is located in the center of town on bustling Insurgentes Street.  For many of us, it's the epicenter of expat life here. And you don't need to be a bookworm to fall in love with the place.

The building has had many guises over the centuries. Once a sanctuary for homeless women, it later served as a slaughterhouse and then a private home for one very wealthy lady. After the owner kindly donated her residence to the town, it assumed its current use as a lending library. It's gone through numerous renovations and upgrades, but a homey feeling still prevails.

Today, the Biblioteca has holdings of more than 60,000 volumes in Spanish, English, German, or French. It hosts lectures, films, and theater events, a scholarship program for young students, and numerous cultural activities. There's a computer room for kids, which is packed after the schools let out for the day.

One lady I knew took a pinata-making course upstairs, and you'll find yoga and music classes, too. Just off the central courtyard and up a ramp, there's a pleasant restaurant, named after a certain Mexican general, that is popular with foreign visitors. I don't mean the general.

Cafe Santa Ana

Of course, I didn't know any of that when I first stumbled into the open hacienda-style courtyard one especially miserable December morning last year.

A bubbling fountain with Christmas decorations stood in the center of this comfortable space, with passageways with high arches on all four side.  Metal tables and chairs were scattered about, occupied by Mexicans and a few gringos. Tentatively, I passed through the archway directly in front of me, went up another long ramp, and entered the pellucid air of the collections rooms.

I discovered an amazingly large selection of books in English (many donated by American and Canadian residents who no doubt have since passed into the great beyond): everything from philosophy to cat care, from biographies to detective fiction, from travel books to self-conscious studies of French cinema of the '60's. It's all on a grand-old scale.

There are numerous and varied reading rooms, some intimate. One sala is dedicated exclusively to South American writers, in Spanish and in translation. This place became my favorite hangout, but only when there aren't music lessons in progress there. The maestro at the piano and his pocket-sized pupils deserve a wide berth.

My entire life I've loved libraries (and bookstores, of course). Then the Amazon revolution in mail-order books and then ebooks transpired and these places lost their relevance to my life.  But all that changed after I discovered the Biblioteca. Here in the silence among the  heavy, slightly worn wooden tables and chairs and baroque stacks of hardbound books, I found a sanctuary. It's a great place to get away from it all and find yourself at the same time.

The Biblioteca also is a perfect setting for making friends among expats, visiting or permanent. Some have rather unique perpectives.  One particular lady has won my admiration. She gets around with the use of a metal walker that looks like it has seen more miles than a '63 Chevy. Lashed to the front of this contraption is a hand-lettered sign that reads: "I DON'T NEED ANY HELP; SO DON'T ASK ME!" She represents the spirit of scrappy independence I often find in people who choose to settle in these parts.

The Biblioteca celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. I know I'm not alone in wishing it many more.




© 2014 Tony DeCrosta 
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com