Rebecca Moll's Blog, page 19

Famous First Lines...

"It was a bright, cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen." George Orwell, 1984.

A Book Review by Rebecca Moll, The Dim Sum of All Things by Kim Wong Keltner

I love stories with young adult protagonists. Their actions, inner thoughts, their blunders and observations, as they figure out their life, resolve their conflicts, offers an unseen light, a different perspective than those older adults, who should have figured it all out.

There is no end to learning. Wisdom is not time dependent.

A few years back I completed a creative writing course at a local community college, purposely choosing community college instead of graduate level, for the sole reason I wanted to be among young minds, different lives. It was a wonderful and rewarding experience. I learned so much by just listening.

So, for me, Lindsey Owyang and her grandmother, Pau Pau, are The Dim Sum of All Things, the spectrum of all things in life, one end to the other, each casting their own light. And just like color, just like life, it is in the mix, the good and bad, happy and sad, that you find your place in life, your true hue.
A refreshingly lovely book that is good for the soul, sweet for the heart, and a story worth sharing.

Thoughts for a New Year:

A blank page before us
Fresh feeling of forgiveness
Deep pains of loss
Warm currents of love
A 2nd, 3rd, or 100th chance
With the gift of wisdom
and the beauty of grace
We remember.....
Then, like the babe, we begin again
Searching, dreaming, mindful, hopeful

-Rebecca Moll (Jan. 2016)

Happy New Year

UNA POSADA PARA MONA, Part IV of IV

Dear Friends and Family:

Here is the conclusion of my Christmas Short Story Series, Part IV. Thank you for joining me in following Mona's journey of faith. May your holiday be bright, deep, and wide and may Love, Peace, and Hope fill you throughout.

Rebecca

UNA POSADA PARA MONA
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved

Part IV of IV

The weeks before Christmas came and went and suddenly, it was Christmas Eve. Mona tried to get her Mom to go to the Posada, but she refused. She was tired. There was unpacking to do, bills to pay. Reaching into her dresser, Mona pulled out a box from the back of the drawer. It took a long time to get her price, several days and a lot of Spanglish. A silver plated mirror, the glass beveled, Mona knew it was the perfect gift. Lost in the move, her grandmother's mirror was just like this, but smaller. Her mother had wept when they couldn't find it. Her night off from work, she was taking a long bath. Mona quietly placed the box under the tree. Store bought and pre-lit it paled in comparison to the aspen beauties they had in Colorado. Wal-Mart instead of woods, cash registers instead of hacksaws, it seemed a little off. But her mother was trying. Mona came home to Christmas carols and hot chocolate one afternoon. The tree perilously leaning way too far to the right, boxes of ornaments open on the floor.

Smiling at the sight, Mona dropped her backpack to the floor and hugged her mother. Hot chocolate spilled and they laughed. Hot chocolate in San Diego? Her mom promised ice cream next year. Decorating the tree, Mona had mixed feelings. It was all so different, sunlight streaming in the windows, they hung balls with snowmen and reindeer, a large blue I Love the Rockies ball, and a snowflake that said Let it Snow. Yet, strangely enough, it was beginning to feel familiar.

After placing her mother's gift under the tree, Mona stood up and reached into her pocket. Pulling out a small plastic ornament, she grabbed a hook and placed it next to the Let it Snow snowflake. Red, orange, and yellow, Feliz Navidad spun this way and that, glitter and gloss catching in the lights on the tree.

At 9:50 pm Mona walked up to the church. She stopped to look at her stable, not sure what to do about the baby Jesus. She was running out of time. Passing homes decorated with moss, evergreens, and paper lanterns, she was soon at the church and lost in the crowd of those lining up. Many were dressed the part and baskets were passed around with small ring shaped loaves. Mona heard the word "rosca" and "niño Jesús" as they carefully chose a loaf. The children were carrying small boards with candles and painted figures of Mary on a donkey and Joseph. Mona looked to the front of the line and saw a life-size, real Mary sitting on a donkey, Joseph close by. Carmelita came up behind her and touched her on the shoulder.

"Comé tu rosca," she said, taking a bite out of her own.

Mona did likewise and bit down hard, wincing, "Oh my."

Carmelita laughed and cheered and soon everyone was crowding around Mona. A little boy reached up and tugged at her sleeve. "Niño Jesús," he said with a smile.

Mona looked in her hand and there in the middle of her rosca, was a tiny baby Jesus. Quick to understand her situation at home, Carmelita hugged Mona and announced to the crowd, "La Posada va a mi casa." Mona looked at the doll and Carmelita. She wasn't sure what just happened, but she was pretty sure Carmelita had just spared her something. Mona knew "mi casa" was Spanish for "my house". Hugging her back, Mona said softly, "Gracias."

Carmelita raised her index finger and cautioned, "Un momento." A few moments later she was back with a life size baby doll, placing it in Mona's hands. "Para tu n-a-t-i-v-i-t-y."

Mona looked at the empty manger in front of the church and back at the baby doll. She pointed to the stable. A young man next to her leaned in and said, "They have many baby dolls in the church."

"Why?" Mona asked.

"Sometimes, when you have no money for your children, you steal," he replied, pointing to the empty manger and shrugging his shoulders.

Later that night, after knocking on many doors and singing for lodging, only to be refused and then finally arriving at Carmelita's house, they were welcomed in. After praying in thanks they celebrated with food, piñatas, and fireworks. Mona made a few friends. The young man who explained about the dolls kept close and offered to walk her home. Carmelita introduced him as her son, "Mi hijito Elijah", and gave her consent. It had been a clear and cool evening and now on their walk home the clouds began to gather, the humidity rise.

Saying goodbye, and promising to visit, Elijah left running into the dark and wet streets. Mona looked into her house and saw the tree was still lit. Well after midnight, she found her mother fast asleep in a chair, the TV playing carols, an empty microwave tray on her lap. Touching her gently on the shoulder, Mona whispered in her ear, "Come."

They stood outside side by side staring at the stable. Mona had rigged a few extension cords and some Christmas lights. The baby Jesus was fast asleep in the manger. The wind blew and her mother hugged herself, the chill so unfamiliar now. Mona reached for her mother's hand and squeezing too hard, she felt the wedding rings that refused to come off.

"Merry Christmas, Mom."

A moment or two passed. Mona's mother sighed and made a funny sound. "I love you, Mona."

"I love you too, Mom."

A fine midst began to cover them, rising from the ground it shrouded the stable and the holy family. The lights twinkled in the wet grass. "It's beautiful, Mona."

It was just past sunrise when they crawled into bed. They had exchanged gifts. A scrapbook and a new camera, small enough to fit in her pocket. You can make memories here, her mom said. Holding the mirror, her Mom looked up and said softly, Oh Mona, you remembered. She told her mom all about the Posada and how she won the baby Jesus, her house to be the Posada or the inn with a room and how Carmelita saved her. Her mom smiled and said they sound nice. Maybe we can go to church sometime, she said, her voice nervous, her hands shaking. A letter lay on the table unopened. Mona picked it up. Her mother left the room.
Reading the letter, tears fell, blanching the paper. It was from her father's friend. They buried him in the Colorado Mountains. He said he would miss her father, that he loved him. That's all he said. No words for her, no words from him.

Under the letter was another envelope. Bio Laboratories. The seal was broken, the letter half out. Mona opened the letter and read the results. Negative. Both of them, HIV negative.

Mona cried for her father. She cried for her mother and for herself. Sitting at the kitchen table, she closed her eyes and prayed. She prayed for what was left of her family, for her new friends and neighbors, Carmelita and Elijah. Feeling her mother's embrace from behind, she laid her head back against her arms. She thought of all the loss and sorrow, the doors now forever closed. Her mother's breath against her cheek, warm and soothing, Mona felt her sobs subside, her heart rate relax. Rain began to fall, a heavy downpour. She thought about the stable and how little shelter it gave and she realized there were no doors. No doors, she thought, that's why it matters, that's why God matters. With God there are no doors. Through the kitchen window, she watched the rain ebb, the first rays of sunshine color the sky, a beautiful Christmas sunrise. Reaching in her pocket, she pulled out the baby Jesus, the one baked in her rosca. Brushing away the last clinging crumbs, she smiled. I found you, she thought. Reaching across the table and making room, she placed him in the old red and green Christmas card basket. Her mother hugged her hard and she hugged back. So this was their life, their home, their Posada. Plenty of room, she thought, oh, yes we have plenty of room in our Posada.

The End.

UNA POSADA PARA MONA, Part III of IV

Here is Part III

UNA POSADA PARA MONA
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved


Every day after school, Mona rushed to Freddie's Flea Market. Despite the blaring sun and oppressive California heat, the neighborhood began to feel like Christmas. All the houses were decorated with lights, red and green, blue and white. Front lawns held waiting stables, the missing family no doubt somewhere safe, waiting for the Posada. Mona's dresser held its own little flea market collection. A wooden cross with flowers, white like the mountain laurel in Colorado, a snow globe with a fat little snowman, his hat floating upside down filled with snow, and a pair of bronze baby shoes, its nameplate engraved Jesus Joseph.

On their front lawn, an assembly of sorts was taking shape. Piece by piece, Mona carried the parts from the market. Passing the church, Mona shouted in greeting to a sweeping Carmelita. Waving, friendly, yet curious, her eyebrows raised, she shouted back her well wishes.

She was getting good at haggling. The vendors recognized her. The men were friendly, the women guarded. Mona drove a hard bargain. Christmas items emerged as she made her entrance, shoulders squared, and children ran in anticipation to grab her hand, drag her to their table. She had everything she needed, but the baby Jesus. Mary and Joseph were a little faded, the shepherds half the size of the donkey, and the Angel was black, but Mona figured God didn't care. He put her here, white as snow in the land of beautiful brown people.

One morning, Mona filling her coffee mug and already late for the bus, her mother looked up and shifted her feet to the floor. "Mona, since when do you drink coffee?"

Accustomed to the lack of parental control lately, Mona shrugged her shoulders replied in monotone, "I'm late."

"I'm talking to you, young lady. What's with all the religious stuff? Your collection of junk? And that half haphazard stable out front?"

Mona looked at her mother hard. Why was she so mean? Mona thought about her father, kind and gentle. It's all her fault, she thought, why he doesn't call, why he doesn't visit. Heat rising in her, Mona threw out, "What about you, Mom. What about all your 'I'm the first to send out Christmas cards'? Why do you even send them? You don't believe in anything!" she cried, tears flooding her face, her shoulders shaking. "Sometimes I really hate you," she whispered.

Opening the door to leave, Mona heard her mother's soft reply, "Oh Mona, I'm sorry. I just don't understand. Why do you need all this stuff? What does it matter?"

Turning around, Mona dropped her shoulders and looked at the floor. "I don't know why it matters, Mom. It just does."

Part IV will be posted next week....

A Book Review by Rebecca Moll: Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson

It is fitting that I finished this book, Just Mercy, on the day another prisoner was exonerated, set free after more than 20 years of incarceration for a crime he did NOT commit.

My 17 year old daughter was required to read this book as a part of a school wide reading this year. There is hope.

I am appalled that, once, I thought the "Three Strikes" program was just. Please understand, I am a skeptical reader; I know the persuasive power of good writing. I know, I've heard, "Everyone in jail is innocent." My formal training is in research. I am not easily convinced. Yet, read the book, absorb the stories, visit EJI's website, Facebook page, understand, that is not what this book is about, what EJI is about....It is about fair justice for those who have no voice.

I find it hard to swallow such unjust cruelty, the refusal to re-exam sentences in light of new technology, glaring evidential inconsistences and proof otherwise. How easily our country has assumed the risk of condemning an innocent person to death. Especially, the children. Why? Pride? Ego?

And if proven innocent, what about the real criminal? The real murderer, rapist? What about the victim's family? What about the victims? Don't they deserve Just Mercy? Don't they deserve the real criminal to face justice?

Bryan Stevenson and EJI are relentless advocates for these margins of society. They have created real change, catalyzed our country's legal system. They have energized a static and lifeless process that should be a dynamic by equation. They are examining and exposing the attitudes and underlying physiological, socialogical, and economical currents that support and propagate injustice, discrimination, and ignorance.

Change is a hard thing, slow and stubborn.

"You are better than the worst wrong you have done. I am better than the worst wrong I have done. They are better than the worst wrong they have done."

Just Mercy. Just do it.

What Child is This? Thoughts by Rebecca Moll

As we hurl ourselves towards the end of the year 2017 and yet, another Christmas Holiday, I wonder, once again, What child is this? What child has more than 30% of today’s 7 billion people preparing for the celebration of his birth, a celebration that has been in existence since the 4th century, thanks to good old Roman ruler, Constantine I?

What child is this?

Let’s consider His name: Jesus, Yahweh, Emmanuel, Christ, Messiah….

Jesus is the anglicized form of the Greek Name Yesous, representing the Hebrew bible name, Yeshoshua. Consider that Moses’ right-hand man, Joshua, a man of three names, was first, Hoshea, then renamed by Moses as Yehoshua, was later shortened to Yeshua during the Babylonian Exile.

Yeho is an abbreviation for God’s four-letter name, YHWH, otherwise known as Yahweh. Yahweh, in Hebrew is known as YHWH, means “I Am.”

Yehoshua is a form of the Hebrew verb, Yasha, which means to deliver, save or rescue.

So, this child is Jesus, is He, the “I AM,” the God, who saves, who rescues, who delivers. I find it interesting that in celebrating Jesus’ birth every year, his delivery, we are saving, rescuing our own faith with the hopes of being delivered, being saved, being rescued, ourselves.

Emmanuel, El means “God,” immanu means “with us.” Come, oh come, Emmanuel can be understood as Come be with us, remain with us, reside in us.

Christ comes from Christos, the Greek word for “anointed one,” or “chosen one.” Messiah comes from the Hebrew word, Mashiach, also means the “anointed one.”

It is estimated that over 107 billion people have ever lived on earth. Jesus, the I AM who delivers, saves, rescues, who is with us is the chosen one, the anointed one for all Christians.

What child is this?

And his name shall be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Let’s consider the celebration:

Unlike other “birthdays” the celebration of Christ’s birth, is almost, as if, he is born again. When was the last time you blew out your candles, surrounded by a reenactment of your own birth? It is a weird image to see ourselves swathed and lying in a bassinet, while others sing lullabies and we blow out our multitude of candles. And yet, going back to the birth of Christ, every year, is tradition.

The idea of re-birth is a common thread in many religions, practices of gratitude. “In the beginning,” is a way to start over, to wash ourselves of guilt and sin, and to begin again, to heal, to forgive. It is an opportunity to allow ourselves the possibility of change.

What better image to invoke feelings of love and understanding, forgiveness and hope than a new born baby? No greater fragility exists, no greater vulnerability exists. The very image calls for love, for action to take care, to protect. In answering that call, we go forth with open hearts, without reservation or judgement, giving of ourselves fully. It is then, and only then, that we are fully open to receive, to love unconditionally, to forgive.

It is in helping others that we see our true best selves. The image of the new born Christ is a perfect way to celebrate giving and in turn, receiving. There is no healing without giving. There is no healing without receiving.

Consider the magnitude:

Over 2.1 billion Christians will celebrate Christmas this year the birth of one new born baby, one of over 107 billion people to have ever walked this earth. Over 2.1 billion people have the chance to open their hearts, to give and to receive, to love and to forgive. The potential for good is staggering.

What Child is this?

A simple, poor, unknown, new born baby who has changed the world, who is changing the world.

So, while you hurl yourself towards another New Year, prepare for another Christmas morning, take a moment, grab your favorite drink, put up your feet and exhale, ask yourself,

What Child is this,
Who laid to rest,
On Mary’s lap, sleeping?
Whom angels greet,
With Anthems sweet,
While Shepherds watch are keeping?

Ask yourself. Consider the possibilities. And remember, With God, all things are possible. Matthew 19:26.

UNA POSADA PARA MONA, Part II of IV

Here is the 2nd Installment....

UNA POSADA PARA MONA

Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved

The next week passed pretty much the same. Mona went to school, holding her breath until the doors closed on the bus and she could walk up the hill to Freddie's Flea Market. The boxes were still piled in the sunroom and bedrooms. Unopened boxes were now coffee tables and nightstands. Her shift switched to nights, Mona only saw her mother a few fleeting moments before school. Resting her feet on the third of three kitchen chairs, she had little say after long hours at the hospital.
Dropping her backpack inside the back door, quiet not to wake her sleeping mother, Mona grabbed a ratty t-shirt and changed into old sneakers. Pulling her hat from her backpack, she stuffed her ponytail out sight. Mona was a quick study. Put the iPhone away, hide the Beats, wear old clothes. And for God's sake, hide the hair. Something about blonde hair said money and money meant paying too much. Left over from their life in Colorado, the few trappings she had that showed privilege were already dated, out of style. Back home, she'd be out of sync with her peers, here she was the rico gringa. Catcalled through the halls, Mona pulled her hat down over her eyes and, hurried to class. Boys oozing with Mexican charm leaning lazily against lockers, rubbed their thumb against their fingers and other places, singing "rico gringa, wanna be my Momma?" over and over until she thought her skin would crawl and fall off.

Cresting the hill, she spotted the friendly Mexican woman in front of the church. There were others there too, a pile of wood, some lighting, and a few hand tools. Mona looked up at the steeple, their voices a repeating refrain of Spanish.

"Hola, Señorita," the woman called. Mona dropped her gaze and met the woman's smile.

"B-u-e-n-o-s D-í-a-s?" Mona said softly.

The woman clapped her hands together and then opened her arms, waving her over. Mona took a few steps closer and asked what they were doing. Bundles of straw were being unloaded. Two young men, their bronze chests gleaming in the sunlight, taunt muscles too much for the task, looked in her direction and smiled. Mona was happy she remembered the hat.

"No hablo Inglés," the kind woman apologized, her smile fading.

Mona pointed to the men working before them. "Christmas?"

"Sí, Feliz Navidad." Looking up at the sky, the woman paused a moment, her hand on her hips, feet planted wide. Returning her gaze to meet Mona's, she pointed to the small frame being built and ventured, "Natividad."

"Oh," Mona cheered, "Nativity, like the baby Jesus!"

"Sí, niño Je-sús."

A few moments passed and Mona felt her smile awkward, her presence overstayed. The frame was finished, a few shepherds placed inside, a donkey, cattle, and sheep stood upright. The young men were tossing straw on the ground and filling the manger, their backs turned to her.

"What about Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus?" Mona asked.

"La Familia? No aquí," she said pointing to the stable, "Ahí." and pointed to a shed at the rear of the church.

Mona thought about what she said and it made sense. After all, it was only the second week of December. Trying to remember the story, she thought of past Christmas cards left strewn on the kitchen table, a picture of Mary on a donkey, pregnant, loyal Joseph leading them through the desert, a bright star in the sky. She thought about their long journey. How hard it must have been. The waiting, for a baby, for a home. Her mother came to mind, so proud their Christmas cards were mailed before Thanksgiving, always rushing to be first. Always missing the journey.

Last year, still in Colorado, she found her mother writing Christmas cards in the early morning hours, her faced caked with dried tears, hair a mess. The familiar old red and green basket with pens, stamps, and blank cards held its place in the middle of the table.

"Mom, what are you doing?" Mona had asked, eyes wide.

Looking up, her Mother forcing a smile, she gently said, "Sit down, Mona."

Mona wished she never sat down. That's when she found out about her father's illness. That it was terminal and that she and her mom may have it too. A lifetime of testing and worry, her mother said. Blood tests, every six months. Mona looked towards her parents’ bedroom. He's gone, it's over, her mother said, incredulously sounding relieved. Mona didn't understand. What was over? Her father? Her Parents? His life? Their life?

Over the next few months, divorce proceedings and custody investigations, Mona saw her father a few times. He moved to Las Vegas with a friend. Always showing up with a smile, they pretended nothing was wrong. No one was angry, her mother didn't cry herself to sleep, a realtor wasn't calling with information, he didn't buy last minute airport gifts, and wasn't all but gone from her life. Thinking she was asleep, they fought. Hard words, spitting out in hushed tones, in the dim light of the kitchen stove. Divorcing a dying man, he taunted. Divorcing a lying man, she corrected, slamming the door behind him. Now that they moved, Mona saw even less of her father. There was no call this week and Mona's mother was angry. Why can't he pick up the phone, she ranted. Mona wondered if he could pick up a phone.

Bringing her thoughts back to the woman before her, the church and the stable, Mona stretched out her hand in greeting, "Mona."

"Carmelita," the woman said with a broad smile, her head bobbing up and down. "La Posada," the woman said, pointing to a large sign in front of the church and back to Mona.

Mona walked over and read the sign. Although in Spanish, she could decipher enough from a few weeks worth of listening and the pictures depicted, to see it was a celebration, a procession of some kind. It was to be held on December 24th at 10 pm, the last of the nine nights of Posadas. From December 16th to the 24th, they celebrated the birth of Jesus. Mona thought about the Mexican people. Nine nights was a long time, but somehow it seemed to fit. Everything they did was big, tons of food, loud music, so many people; but even so, Mona had a feeling it was more than just family fun. Nine nights of Posadas, nine months of pregnancy, Mona felt a complexity to this culture that ran deep and wide, an intangible grounding, a faith.

Looking back, she saw she was alone. The manger stood empty, surrounded by the few onlookers put in place. Glancing at her watch, Mona was startled at the time. Hurrying up the hill, she thought about the empty stable and the missing family. Unlike them, she didn't have until Christmas. Mona knew what she had to do and it would take everything she had to pull it off.

Part III will be posted next week...

UNA POSADA PARA MONA, Part I of IV

Dear Friends, Family, and Fellow Readers:
For some, this is a re-read, for others a new story. Posted in 4 parts, one, each week leading up to Christmas day, here is Part I. Feel free to share.

With Holiday Blessings, I share with you my short story...

UNA POSADA PARA MONA
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved

PART I
Mona stepped off the bus, readjusted her backpack and blew out her breath. The doors clanged shut, shouts and laughter sneaking out the windows as the gears began their slow grind up the hill. A boy yelled "Gringa" and threw a can of Coke. Hitting the sidewalk, it exploded behind her. Mona didn't turn around.
Being the only white girl in an all Hispanic neighborhood, school, hell for that matter, city, wasn't easy. Especially at fifteen, when the only thing whiter than your skin was your hair, you still can't speak Spanish, your parents are divorced, and oh by the way, your Dad is dying.
Not that anyone at school knew about the divorce or her father's illness. They only moved in six days ago. Unpacked boxes filled the sunroom and bedrooms. Bubble wrap and paper covered the floors. Mona made a joke about the cool new carpet and her Mom lost it.
"Maybe if you did more than stare at that stupid phone, you wouldn't find that so funny," her Mom yelled, throwing an empty box in her direction.
They were trying to move on. That's what her Mom said. That's what the divorce lawyer said, bright red lipstick making her perpetual sneer some halloween-ish version of a smile, all bright and shiny in her chartreuse suit and matching pumps. That's what everyone said. Move on. But Mona didn't understand. How can you move on when you're still hanging on?
It was only three short blocks from the bus stop to their new home, their new, old home. The sold sign still on the front lawn, The Real Realtor grinning like a madman more suited to selling street drugs than real estate. Mona pulled the sign out as she walked by, tossing it in the ever growing pile of trash at the end of their driveway. No more free advertising, Mr. Creepy Ponytail, now go wash your hair, she thought.
It was a decent neighborhood, but well worn at the edges. What was once neat and tidy gardens were now gnarly and sparse, dried up and neglected. Cars, a few years older than reliable, filled the driveways and a few front lawns.
Mona's house was a strange version of a Spanish ranch/California bungalow. The front looked adobe, with sandstone painted arches and a flat roof. But the rear was brick and siding, a sloping tile roof. The sunroom took up most of the back yard, leaving just enough space to pass between the house and the stockyard fence surrounding the backyard. Mr. Creepy Ponytail said the husband died before he finished converting it to a true adobe house. Mona wasn't sure. The house looked more like it was coming apart, than together, like one day it would split in half and lie open to the sky like some too big version of a dollhouse. They'd have to crawl out to get out.
Putting the key in the backdoor, Mona pushed with her hip. The door gave and she could hear her mom on the phone. Heavy footsteps paced the kitchen, coming to a sudden stop. Mona halted, placing her backpack just inside the door.
"Not again, Tom. Don't do this to her."
Her Mom was crying. Trying to hold it in, Mona could hear her heavy breath, the feeling of failure and disappointment.
"Yeah, well whose fault is that Tom? You're still her father, her only Father. Think about it, new home, new school, no friends. She needs you."
The pacing began again and Mona quietly slipped out the back door. Any day is a nice day for a walk in San Diego. That's what her father said, kissing her goodbye, holding her a little too long before they left. Taking a right at the pile of trash, Mona headed into town. A skip and a jump from downtown, the advertisement had read. The bright sunshine of late afternoon was beating down in earnest, willfully throwing all its warmth, like some last ditch effort before their section of the world turned a cold shoulder for the night. First signs of Christmas were out, a poinsettia here, a string of colored lights there. It was December 1st and hot as hell. Mona thought about Colorado and the mountains, the feeling of numb toes and cold noses. She wasn't sure about Christmas and San Diego. What about sleigh rides and snowmen? Of course, Jesus was born in the desert. But, her version of the holidays were far from religious. When Mona asked why they didn't go to church, her mother said count your blessings. We don't need religion. I have enough guilt.
There was an old church at the top of the hill, Saint María Guadalupe García Zavala. A short and stout Mexican woman stood on the front steps, a broom in her hand. She stopped and smiled at Mona. A wide and friendly smile, a few teeth missing, long grey hair pulled back neatly into a bun, she waved and greeted, "Hola, Señorita. Buenos Días."
Mona gave a little wave back. She looked up at the steeple, the sun blinding. Looking back for the woman, she was gone, the front door ajar, dirt and dust flying out in clouds on the front steps.
Something about these people, Mona thought. Busy. Always so busy. And so many of them. Hers was the only home with two people. Their neighbor next door, Juan De Vala, De Salva, De Castille or De something or other had at least ten different people in his home. Cousins, aunts, children, parents. Fighting and laughing, busy, busy. It was a little overwhelming, but they looked happy. Happy to fight, happy to laugh. Mona thought about her mother. She was never happy.
Mona walked a few blocks past the church and the hill dropped suddenly, revealing a wide and expansive parking lot filled with booths, signs, things, dogs, crying babies, and people. So many people. Freddie's Flea Market in bright red and yellow letters. Mona stopped and stared. Running her hands through her hair she pulled it back into a pony tail. Tucking it under her baseball cap, Colorado Rockies, a parting gift from her Dad, the convenience store tag still attached, she squared her shoulders and walked in.
All wonders of things were for sale. No prices, just ask. Mona watched and listened. Start lower than you wish, refuse the counter, look disgusted, walk away, and then wait, "Señorita, un momento," and you have your find. That day Mona found two coffee mugs, I Love You Dad and Happy Birthday. Holding her paper bag against her chest, Mona walked home in the fading sunset. Colored lights began to glow, a gold star on a front door, Feliz Navidad written in fake snow across a big window. Adults on the front steps, smoking, red glow from their cigarette fading in and out, children, barefoot and crazy with evening energy ran around chasing each other, calling out in a flurry of Spanish.
Her backpack was still inside the door. A note on the counter scribbled dinner instructions. Called to work last minute, night shift. Change in plans this weekend, Dad is sorry. Mona opened her bag and took out the mugs. Washed and dried, she placed the mugs on the empty dresser in her room. Turning the I Love Dad mug to hide the chip on the rim and the Happy Birthday mug, to show a little Hispanic girl, long dark ponytails, dark eyes, a big smile, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake, Mona threw herself on her bed. There has to be something I can do, she thought, but what?

(Part II will be posted next week)

A book review by Rebecca Moll:The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

Mary Ann Shaffer has created a small world in The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society that readers not only love, but want to visit, to stay a while, perhaps, even move in.
Only half way through this book and I was already regretting its impending end, wishing for more.
Oh, the idyllic island of Guernsey, where the land meets the sea, the very edges of life.
Juliette is the young woman we all want to be, wish we were, in good times and bad. Dawsey is kind, quiet, and good. Kit is precocious, Isola is hilarious.
Yet, in the midst of all this ecclectic wonder, is the horror of war. The Holocaust. The unthinkable.
Escape is a great vehicle in times of the unthinkable. So, is the love and acceptance of others.
The challenge, I think, is to create our own island, our own world, just like Guernsey, to rely on our friends and to love them, defend them fiercely, regardless.
An absolutely wonderful story. Thank you, Annie Barrows for completing the tale, bringing us Aunt Mary's story.