This little milkman freaks me out every time I see him. Where’s his other eye? The “he’s winking thing” just doesn’t work for me.
Cindylu over at Lotería Chicana posted recently on her relationship to the nopal. I don’t have a nopal story of my own, but I have a favorite nopal. It takes up all of a hillside on the road home, near Rose Hills. Every time I drive by I am reminded of what it is to be big, bad, and prickly.
For over thirty years, my mother hasn’t been able to watch CBS. This means she’s missed the likes of “Murder She Wrote,” most of “Dallas,” and most recently “CSI.” The main reason for this void in her life is that the wood-console, big box, Zenith, 26-inch, that she got on layaway at Kmart, didn’t have a television antenna with a good enough signal to allow her to watch those shows without developing a headache from the poor picture quality. That and the cable company in her neighborhood won’t bring cable into her apartment complex without charging more than the television itself is worth.
In any event, the switchover from analog to digital transmission of television signals scared her. She wasn’t sure if that meant no more television and she didn’t want to spend the money to get a new one. No more television meant even more lonely afternoons. At least before, “la O-pe-rah” was on a channel she could watch.
Because my mom is daring when she’s with me, while out running errands this weekend, I convinced her to use her coupons for a digital converter box. She was hesitant, “pero si no trabaja, que hago” she asked. The fear of the future was overwhelming and it didn’t matter that I’d promised to buy her a new tv if the old one stopped working.
We hooked the converter up midday on Sunday. All told, it took about half an hour for all the signals to take hold.
The first thing my mother watched on CBS was Lorena Ochoa win this weekend’s LPGA golf tournament. The blue skies hanging over the golf course were bluer than anything my mom had ever seen on this television.
She marveled at the brightness of the colors, the greenness of the greens, the fluffiness of the clouds, and giggled nervously at the prospect of another decade with her big box console. “Parece nueva,” she laughed as she watched her first ever golf tournament. Although golf isn’t her game, and she’s never watched a tournament, it was the perfect thing to watch through a new tv.
The television wasn’t the only thing that looked and felt new.
“Te imaginas, treinta años sin el canal dos, me siento yo también como nueva.”
My favorite Facebook status update of the week was provided by a student who attended the school where I taught:
Naomi is still horrified that she went to a memorial for the wrong person.
If anything justifies reaching out to hear the rest of the story, that status update does.
I’m not here today. I’m over at laeastside.com. Photos and thoughts on my wonderfully warm Saturday there.
“I didn’t win the Pulitzer today,” I announced as I walked into my professor’s office on a spring day several years ago.
She turned from her computer, confused, and quizzically responded, “Did you expect to?”
“Yeah, well, our story was a finalist,” I explained. “I just came from the press conference over at the journalism school. The story on the crash of flight 800 won instead.”
She sat up and listened intently and laughed at how nonchalantly I told the story of trying to find out if I’d take my place in journalistic history for a breaking news story I’d worked on the year before I started law school.
My story was about a crazy, rich guy who’d shot and killed an Olympic wrestler who trained on the rich guy’s suburban estate outside of Philadelphia. Because I’d been covering news in this small town, attending every community meeting (regardless of how little happened) for almost two years, spending Monday mornings going through police reports about people who’d run stop signs, I’d gotten to know the police and neighbors in town pretty well.
This helped when I happened to be in the news room on a Friday (my normal day off) when news came of the shooting. The cops and neighbors knew me, so they gave me information on the shooter. The clerk at Blockbuster told me the types of movies he liked to rent. The police told me they were thinking of getting a military helicopter to chase him if he took off in an armored vehicle they believed he owned. It also helped when I had to spend the weekend in the bushes around the estate.
There I was, in the freezing cold, holding my binoculars, watching the police take positions around the estate, while they figured out how to remove the suspect who was now barricaded inside his mansion. Fortunately, some of the police officers offered coffee and a sweatshirt.
The whole scene came to an end two and a half days after it started, notably, just hours before Super Bowl XXX kicked off. There was no shoot out, no storming of the mansion. Yes, it was surrounded, but the scene ended with him coming out on his own.
In the following months, someone else was assigned the story of the trial. Someone else wrote the book on the story.
I went to law school.
And all that remained of my history as a journalist was that, for a few years, on the day when Pulitzers were announced, my friend Jason would send me a teasing e-mail with the simple message, “If only that bird hadn’t fallen out of the sky.”