Contents: Short story, artwork, mentoring, travel writing = call for, and more. Enjoy!
1. Short story:
LOST BOYS
Scooting out the bedroom window, I grabbed a branch of the nearest apricot tree and clambered down. Junior was still screaming and pounding on my bedroom door, I could hear him. What is it? What is it? Look it’s going to cry! I hoped he wouldn’t look outside ‘cos he’d see me clambering down the old tree with my teddy, the one Granny gave me when I was six, John Bear, my one friend. I was terrified of my brother and his fists. I pushed my bike down the drive, onto Del Norte, crossing Sandoval, along Anaya and onto Smith. I peddled like fury, like mom’s fury or my brother’s or those kids at school when I didn’t answer their stupid questions, and yes, my legs pumped and pushed and peddled. I cried, big deep can’t quite breathe right kind of crying, the noises messy and loud but I was on a big highway, and no one could hear me, but they could see me.
I think about that now. Why didn’t anyone stop? Ask me? An almost ten-year-old skinny tomboy with a teddy bear tied to the handlebars of a bike not made for long distances but there I was, red hair, blue dungarees, yellow tee and little else. Alone.
I biked and biked and biked those eleven miles and my teddy, John, he stared at me from the front, tied on with a skipping rope, he had no words for me, it wasn’t night-time, quiet time, our time. Silent. John knew me though. I knew him. Safe.
“Oh, Frannie dear. Does your mother know?”
Gran shook her head at me, as I held my bike on her front stoop, clutching my teddy. It was late afternoon that Saturday. She was a farmer, teacher, solid in a rosy-cheeked hearty way. I liked her. We’d usually visited Gran on Sundays after she got back from church. We didn’t go to church then. They didn’t accept people like me not that I knew it at the time, not consciously. Well, there we both stood, me and Gran, not sure what to do or say. It’s not like she could have sent me home on my bike and she didn’t like driving her car in the twilight and it was getting to be that time. A crow, or was it a raven, perched on the barn door watching us. My tummy rumbled. Her dog, Jesse, stood next to me. He was a big golden retriever with almond eyes and about my weight. His tail was wagging hopefully, it must have been almost his dinner time too.
“Please don’t tell.”
Gran smiled, pulled me into the kitchen, and closed the door on Jesse. She offered me a glass of her fresh milk. She had a farm with lots of dairy cows and goats and chickens and even pigs. A garden full of fruit and veggies too. “Hungry?” she asked.
I nodded and settled John Bear into his usual seat, next to me. A few years before, Gran had made him his own ceramic plate and so I set up the table for the three of us. Outside was starting to get a bit dark and I was glad I’d made it in time. I remember thinking, she’ll have to keep me. She did. Gran made me a cheese quesadilla and she ate three, all with green chile. She was a small compact and sturdy woman who ate like a horse, old of course, to me, but probably in her fifties. Like me now. She knew kids, had three of her own, ten-plus grandkids. Being with her, the dog and all those trees full of birds, I relaxed.
At summer camp that week, Rowena, a big squishy brown eyed and broad-faced kid had cornered me in the changing rooms. What are you? What are you? Over and over the chant went, until everyone caught on. I was the shy kid with my wobbling chin trying not to cry, stuck with shorts half on. My white tee shirt was stained after playing softball, and I only had one sneaker on. I’d not said anything, sweaty and sick and wanting to run away. Then an older dark-eyed chubby boy joined her in pushing me around and I’d wanted to slap them, trip them up or something but didn’t and that taunt kept going, louder and louder until the other girls and boys joined in, more kids coming in, shoulder to shoulder, waiting to see what I’d do. What is it? What is it? Look it’s going to cry! Tears were the goal. Always. Easy prey I was. Every day. And that day was no different. Friday sports at two o’clock. Socks falling down, skirts messed up, shorts underneath, black sneakers, white-ish socks, no bra, not me, not then, no; I was such a kid.
I hit Rowena. In the face. Left-handed. She fell down in surprise, amazed that the mouse had punched her! I ran. Ran home with only the one sneaker and the other forgotten. I’d hid in my room, told Mom I had a tummy ache and for once she didn’t make me join them in front of the tv. That next morning, Saturday, Junior cornered me. He was bigger than me, younger than me, and he was not a nice brother. No, that had been Timmy. Timmy had been my friend but then he had died in hospital one summer when he was about ten years old. I was too young to understand and so they didn’t tell me what had happened. Anyway, that morning, Junior had heard the story from a few of the other local kids. He knew the girl I’d hit, friends with her brothers of course–you know how it is in small towns and New Mexico is no different and I thought he’d be proud of me. He’s the one who taught me to punch with my left hand, the one they don’t expect to lash out, and I had done just what he’d shown me, but no, he wasn’t happy. He said that I’d made him the joke of his friends, the kid brother of a he-girl in denims, with fuzzy hair that no brush could tame. The ginger freak with dimples and no boobies and scuffed knees. Me. That’s why he pounded on the bedroom door when Mom and Dad went out for a lunchtime drink with their friends. Because he didn’t have any. And it was my fault.
Gran poured out hot chocolate, settled me in front of the fireplace, and handed me a book on birds. “We’ll go looking in the morning. Along the Rio Grande. It’s time to check on the Canadian Geese, see if they are still here,” she said and shuffled into the hallway. I heard her pick up the phone and talk quietly to someone, but I didn’t think about it. I read about ravens and crows instead and sipped my cocoa. A coyote howled down the canyon but no one answered her. A few minutes later, Gran called for me from the hallway. “Francesca! Can you come here a moment?”
I did. Carrying John Bear, I went to her. She put down the phone, nodding and full of betrayal. She’d told.
“Your mother says I have to teach you a lesson. You’ll be staying the night and tomorrow we’re going to church. Then we’ll see. Now off to bed.”
Well, there was no arguing with Gran, so I rinsed out the now-cold hot chocolate dregs, left the mug to drain and with a kiss on her cheek, went back to Mom’s old bedroom, the one in the far corner facing the mountains. The Rockies. I dreamed of hiking the Continental Divide, just me, maybe with John Bear, maybe with a dog. I fell asleep figuring out how I could do it and when. Good dreams. Goals. For after. Older.
The next morning, Gran, hands on hips, gave out a big dramatic sigh to match my own. “You will wear a dress. You will not embarrass me, young lady. Now. Go to your room and put on your church clothes. Brush that hair of yours too. NOW.”
I stomped back down the hall in my bare feet and denim dungarees, hands deep in the pockets to stop me from hitting the walls closing in on either side. John sat on the bed, half under the covers, a twinkle in his eyes, saying I told you so, or that’s what I imagined. I poked him, cuddled him, and tucked him back under the blanket, facing the window and the peaks beyond. With no-one looking at me, I dropped out of my clothes to change. I stared at the horrible dress Mom had left there months before; ‘Just in case,’ she’d said at the time, ‘you might need it.’ Great. Me in a yellow cotton summer smock. Really? Yes. Gran wasn’t messing. Church and looking good in front of all those republican christians was for some reason important to her. Not to me. But at nine, that didn’t count.
“Oh, don’t you look normal now?”
“But if I could be happy?” I threw back, half under my breath.
“Because you have to learn how to get along in this world,” said Gran and tapped me on the forehead. “We’ll talk about that later. Now scoot. And don’t pout. You look nice. Your mom would be proud.” She muttered something else, but I didn’t catch it.
It was another monsoon July morning and so we strolled down the empty street to the building in the plaza, an old adobe church with high windows and a view of the Sangre de Cristos I’d be climbing one day. Clouds built over the mountains creating a thick wet blanket of cool afternoon storms. My sandals scuffed in the dust of the unpaved road and Gran smiled, serene, unfazed by my bad mood. She’d had kids like I told you and she’d been a schoolteacher for a while, so she could wait me out and she did. As usual. Once at her church, we all sang hymns which I kinda liked but the pastor was a boring old fart full of warnings and guilt trips and the value of family and community and blah blah blah sin blah sin blah sin. What sin? Howabout those kids hitting me because I was too pale, too awkward in my body, shy in these stupid girl clothes, and no, I did not fit in even though I was born and raised there? Sometimes it happens like that, right? Born in the wrong town, wrong era, wrong family? Not that I had the words at the time, but I had wanted to ask Pastor Sandoval to explain but I didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t. I didn’t know who I was, not then, not at nine years old, just that I didn’t fit. I nodded at him on the way out, polite, holding Gran’s hand, hungry again. What was she going to do to me later? I cringed. Mom had said Gran was a strict monster, devout about the “don’t spare the rod” teaching methods of the fifties. I worried and watched as Gran chatted to the others at church and then we walked home along the arroyo, picking a few Shasta daisies and cosmos to put in a glass vase for the lunch table. My tummy rumbled.
Gran glanced over but I looked down at the mixed bunch of orange, white and yellow flowers in my hand. They matched my dress. “Come along,” she said, “let’s pick our lunch before we talk. Your usual cheese quesadilla with some salad greens, tomatoes, a bit of cilantro, no?”
“With strawberries and ice-cream after?” I piped up.
“You’ll have to make the ice-cream though. I ran out.”
I held out the flowers, saying, “Only if it’s with bananas,” knowing that was her favorite and she couldn’t refuse me.
“Well, young lady, let’s stroll down to the river since we didn’t go this morning. I want to talk to you. First though, go change.” Gran’s eyes widened with a twinkle, and she smiled across the table. “Perhaps you should look in the bottom drawer in your room? See if there’s anything there you like?”
I popped up out my chair, gently put my dirty dish on the counter and then skipped down the hallway, touching the walls with fingertips. In the far corner was an old wooden chest of drawers and Mom had once told me not to look and so I hadn’t. Yes, I was that kid, did what I was told. Now though, Gran had given me permission and so I dropped to my knees, curious but taking my time now. I heard her footsteps heading my way. The drawer creaked as it opened, and I peeked inside. Folded tee shirts, jeans, three hoodies, a small, faded denim jacket. I pulled each one out and held it up before laying it to the side of me. Kid’s clothes. They looked loved, well-worn but not that old, so they weren’t my mother’s. The smell struck me as familiar, and I held a green sweatshirt to my nose and breathed in. Suddenly I started crying. Big heaves, just like the day before when I’d been running away, snotty messy hiccups of tears and I didn’t know why. Gran kneeled down next to me and pulled me to her, thick strong arms squashed me to her solid body and the crying didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Gran murmured words under her breath, to me, to herself, to her God perhaps. I didn’t know. I was trying to catch my breath. Where was John Bear? I needed him. I wriggled out from her grip and crawled over to the bed, grabbed my stuffed toy, and settled back near Gran and the old clothes, hiccupping slightly. Gran waited. I did too.
A raven stared at me through the bedroom window, held tilted, and then squawked at me. I copied the sound. Gran laughed softly. “Not bad, at all. Have you been practicing?”
I shook my head as the raven launched off the branch and towards the cottonwoods by the river. I held the green sweatshirt still, forgotten briefly. I remember being scared to ask Gran anything but she talked anyway, slowly and gently as we sat on the tiled floor, our backs against the single bed, staring out upon her farm.
“Do you remember Timmy much?” she started with a soft voice and her hands open on her lap. I nodded. “He died too young. A stupid accident at the summer camp they decided. No fault or blame on anyone, that’s what your mother said. What the camp’s lawyers claimed. I disagree.”
I hardly dared but blurted out, “What happened?”
Her body went rigid and then slack as she turned to me.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
She interrupted me. “You don’t know?” I shook my head and looked down, scared of that flash of rage I’d seen. “Your mother didn’t tell you?” Another shake of the head and then Gran sighed to herself, “That woman. How is she mine? I’ll never understand her…” Gran picked up a faded red tee shirt and folded it. “These are Timmy’s clothes, the few he’d leave here for each weekend. He’d stay with me when you and Junior were toddlers to give Mom and Dad a break. Timmy loved it here. And I loved having him here.” Gran stood, stretched out her back with a pop and a sad smile. “Well, get dressed. We’re going to the river. We need to talk.”
She tapped me on the head and walked down the hallway, calling for Jesse who was outside as usual. Paws slapped on the tiles, murmured voice and a wagging tail hit a table or chair or something and then came my direction. Jesse was not usually allowed in the house. I placed my teddy bear out of reach and held out a hand for him to sniff. He rolled over and stayed there belly up, thick tail wagging slow and steady. I picked through Timmy’s clothes, vague memories of my big brother in the green sweatshirt racing past me on the bike that’s now mine. His. I picked an orange tee with stripes, wore it under the dungarees and tied a hoodie around my waist.
Jesse followed close as I walked into the kitchen adjusting the sweatshirt to stop it from getting loose. Gran tugged it off me and laid it across the chair by the back door, saying not to worry, I could wear it later. She sent me outside with the dog as she had to make a phone call she said, so Jesse and I found a tennis ball and played in the mid-afternoon sunshine. The clouds lingered over the mountains with a slight smell of rain to warn of the regular afternoon’s rainstorm.
A few minutes later, Gran closed the door behind her, saying, “Your mother and I disagree on many things. We just talked though. You can stay with me this week. You’re not going back to that camp though even if it’s free. I told her you’d work on the farm instead. Learn a few useful things here, with me. Give you some new skills.”
She handed me an apple from the tree overhead, and then kept up a brisk pace through the rows of fruit trees, down a single path and towards the shade of the cottonwoods in the canyon. A slight breeze cooled my sweaty neck and I skipped to keep up. Flocks of birds squawked ahead, ravens and crows fighting over a dead rabbit was my guess. Jesse walked behind me, nose nuzzling my hands whenever he could.
Despite the drought, the Rio Grande was still flowing but it was low and warm enough that we could sit on the soft rounded boulders and soak our bare feet. I looked up the canyon and saw another raven watching us. Was it the same one from earlier? Gran caught my look I guess as she told me how there’s a family of ravens. You’d call them a murder she said, all living on her farm, keeping the rodent population down, nested in the barn with the cows. They keep coming back, raising kids, some leave, some stay. “Like ours. Some do well in this valley. Others should leave. And they do. But not always for the best reasons or by choice. I want to give you some options.”
I didn’t know what she meant so I kept quiet, picking at the grass on the riverbank. She held up a blade to her lips and blew through it. She made the funniest warbling sound with it, her eyes twinkling as I copied, badly. She showed me to hold the grass flat between my thumbs and to practice with soft but firm breaths. The raven titled his head, mimicked us.
Gran spoke. “Your brother Timmy had a hard time at school and at that camp. The other kids bullied him. Badly. I couldn’t protect him– or rather I didn’t–and I wish so hard that I’d done something for him. I have to live with that.”
I remember these words so clearly now, forty-some years later. The look in her eyes had made me want to climb onto her lap and throw my arms around her like she had done for me the day before but I didn’t. I gave her a single white daisy instead. We sat there. A murder of crows flew through the canyon with one was trailing the rest and it flapped as loud as a helicopter, cawing for them to wait, and we’d both laughed, the bird made such a fuss! Wings out of synch, flap flap, a fast dance, doing it her own way, I guess. We watched as they all dipped down to the swimming hole near us, chattering together in the juniper branches.
“The kids at that damn camp picked on Timmy. They didn’t like that he wore his hair a bit longer than boys should, or that he wore stripes, and liked sketching animals at the farm or that we played spoons and washboard and anything we could find in the yard to drum. He was a magical child.” Gran glanced at me. “You remind me of him.”
My hands wiped at the tee shirt I wore. I remembered how Dad would ask him to take it off at bedtime and when Timmy didn’t, Dad would smile, tell us to dream of sunshine and friends and music and toys and to remember the best stories to share with him over breakfast. And Timmy had always said goodnight to John Bear too. He was a good big brother.
“The camp had no anti-bullying program or consciousness of the problems at all. They still don’t, apparently.”
I gulped; I didn’t know how he’d died but caught her hatred of the place. And I definitely didn’t want to talk about the kids at camp. What is it? What is it? Look it’s going to cry! I hadn’t told anyone how bad it was. That would be worse, they’d tease me for being a pussy-girl and a tell -tale, and then who knew what they’d do? Patting the grass next to me, Jesse ambled over and flopped down with a big dramatic sigh and a thump of tail. His tongue hung out the side of his mouth and I tickled it with a bit of grass.
“One August, a handful of kids pushed Timmy into the arroyo, playing cowboys they said later. Anyway, they ran back to camp and didn’t check on him. The rains came. It took days to find his body with a cracked skull and his sketchbook soaked but safe in his back pocket.”
I bent over to pick another flower, sniffing it before handing it over. Thunder rumbled. The temperature dropped and I’d wished for Timmy’s sweatshirt.
“I don’t want the same to happen to you,” she carried on. Gran had never talked about this stuff with me before. I watched the dog instead of her. “What do they do to you?” she asked softly after few long seconds of silence.
I pretended not to understand and told her about softball and how much I loved jumping high in the air to catch a ball that the other girls ran from, and how we had art classes all morning long, that we could take music classes but I had liked drawing–still do–and so I told her about the cartoon book I was making and that it had girls in striped shorts who climbed trees to save puppies and swam across the ocean to rescue sailing boats with lonely people on board and how in real life I’m a pirate with super powers that make me invisible and how Peter Pan was my favorite person in the world and that I was one of the Lost Boys and how brilliant that it was to find them at last.
Gran said, “Yes, it would be. I’d like that too.”
“It’s almost like that being with you! We get to do anything and everything together and make stuff and you talk to me and listen and we pick food from the garden and pet the pigs and eat fresh eggs and that’s why I rode my bike all the way along the highway alone but then you made me wear a dress…” and my voice faded out. A raven croaked overhead. Or was it that slow crow? I couldn’t tell them apart. Jesse chewed on a stick he’d found floating past on the river.
“Sometimes you get to be invisible. Sometimes it’s safer that way. Like with you wearing that dress this morning, we didn’t have to ignore their judgmental looks, right?” She looked over at me and smiled, “And sometimes it’s better to stand tall and be yourself. Better not to flinch or hide. To claim the space. Come on. We have work to do.”
In the yard, Gran cleared fallen fruit from the grass under her apricot trees while I raked up Jesse’s poop. Once the chores were done, she said, “Are you ready?”
Was I? No, not really but it was Gran and Jesse and what was better than that? I nodded.
“First off, this week I’ll be teaching you some basic self-defense. You’re going to need it. But today I’m going to ask you a whole lot of questions over and over. You might not like them. I’m going to pretend to be the mean kids, okay? You know nothing bad will come of it. Words, that’s all, words you can fight with your own.”
I didn’t nod but stared at her, hands limp at my sides, her dog’s tongue licking at me.
“Let’s pretend we’re at camp. I’m the mean girl.”
“Rowena,” I blurted. “Rowena Anaya.”
Gran nodded at the name. “I know her parents. Yes. Now, are you ready?” I shook my head a big fat no but she smiled at me. “Tough love.”
I cringed, hearing my mom’s description of what that meant. Harsh words. Tears. Tantrums. Early to bed. No dinners. More harsh words. Spankings.
My mouth dried up as Gran condensed herself into a ten-year old girl. “What are you? What are you?” She got closer and louder. “You look like you’re going to cry. What are you? A boy? Are you going to cry? Boys don’t cry. Do you cry?”
I shook my head again but started to anyway. How did she know what they yelled at me?
Gran told me to answer her. “What are you?”
“A girl,” I whispered, eyes down, shoulders hunched. I wanted to get out of there fast, grab John Bear, Timmy’s stuff, and ride into the hills, alone for ever and ever. Thunder echoed from within the forest to the west.
“Are you sure? You look like a boy to me. A girl who wants to be a boy. Are you a boy? What are you? A tomboy?”
“A tomboy,” I echoed.
“Who are you? What are you?”
I flinched as those words lashed at me hard and fast over and over: What are you? What are you? What are you? What are you? What are you? A boy or a girl? What are you?
“A GIRL!” I shouted to make it stop, fists tight, wanting to run but standing under the tree, under the raven, under the monsoon sky dark and threatening. “I’m Francesca. I’m ME! A GIRL.”
“Are you sure? You don’t look like a girl. You look like a sissy boy. Who are you? What are you? A boy? A girl?”
“I’M A GIRL! MY OWN KIND OF GIRL!”
It wasn’t enough to make it stop though, what are you, what are you. Those echoing words pushed against me just like those boys in the changing rooms and I broke down, arms flying out wanting to hit something, someone, my hair all over the place, dungarees half-undone, and the dog chased a chicken through the trees, crashing into me and my knees buckled and I staggered in place, hearing those kids at camp, over and over, pushing me with their questions, teasing me into a corner, waiting for me to cry for teacher, wanting me to fall apart under their taunts. What are you, what are you, a boy or a girl, what are you?
“I’M BOTH!” I yelled. “I AM! I’M ME AND YOU CAN’T CHANGE ME SO THERE!” A roll of thunder echoed over the mountains and we both looked at the dark sky and I said quietly, “I can be a girl just like this. I’m me. That’s all. Nothing special.”
Gran grabbed me to her, and with Jesse barking, she spoke these words that I’ll never forget. “Remember this. You are unique, even if you have your dad’s red hair and mom’s dimples but all those cartoons and stories are yours alone. And that, my dearest grandchild, is what I want from you, for you to tell the truth. Yours. Not mine, not your mom’s, not the kids’ version.”
A raven crawed in echo with her words and flew back towards the barn as the storm began to fall in earnest, a thundering downpour. Huddled under the trees together, Gran asked me again, softly this time, “Who are you?”
“I’m Francesca. Frannie. Frankie.”
“Yes, whoever you want to be. However you want to be.”
We then climbed out the arroyo as it was already puddling up, signs of a flash flood. I had another question.
“How do I know which is which with the crows and ravens, Gran?”
“We can look it up in your book when we get back,” she said just as Jesse ran up, all muddy paws, and jumped as if to lick my face. Gran pushed him off with a ‘silly-boy’ and with the flowers I’d given her. We walked home, soaking up the warm rains.
2. Photos Sleam’s Artwork with new offerings: After years of mostly doing cartoons or text, I’m getting into painting. I didn’t know that watercolors would convey the vibrant colors of Mexico so well. This winter, I focused on capturing the streets, homes, and beaches of Baja California Sur. They’re available as downloadable files to print as well as on various practical things like mugs, totes, wearables, mouse-pads and more! I’m having fun. I hope you like them.
3. Wanderlust Journal: SUBMISSIONS OPEN! We’re taking ideas through the website contact form, just give a sense of what you want to share with our international audience of over 179,000 so far! We focus on personal experiences, approx 1500 words, include a short synopsis and bio please. Thanks, Brianna and Sarah
4. Check out the travel poetry books available through Wild Dog Press
5. Writers: If you are looking for a developmental editor, check out how I can help your writing become what you aim for, building upon your skills and showing you patterns that might or might not like to continue using…I’m working with Tongass Mist Writers in Alaska. Have a look here: https://www.tongassmist.com/event-details/commit-to-the-page-a-10-month-manuscript-revision-and-publishing-quest
6. Donations really help. Wanderlust Journal is a free online resource for publishing and reading travel essays and photo-stories. Same for Substack. Pretty much for everything I do…! It’s lucky I live in a little caravan (Travel trailer to you) and enjoy nature more than shopping. Anyway, even if you can only give a little, it helps me do what I’m committed to doing, ever since a teenager, and that is documenting other lifestyles, cultures, experiences.
Think of these projects next time you are able to give a little, thank you.
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