Santa Maria Bullring on a January Sunday Afternoon

Bloodless bullfighting is a performing art in which the Toro Bravo, the brave bull, does not die. The matador instead reaches over the horns to grasp a bouquet of roses. This act is symbolic of having placed a sword in the bull for the kill. This matador shows the bouquet to the crowd at Santa Marie Bullring.

January 27, 2008

Haven't They Heard of Bridges?

Imagine a floating platform long enough to carry three vehicles with only a finger width between the bumpers.

Imagine a metal cable no thicker than a Sharpie highlighter wound around 100 year old tree on the USA river bank of the Rio Grande River, spanning the width of the river, and then wrapped around the thick trunk of another aged tree on the Mexican river bank.

Imagine marine rope strung parallel to the cable and attached to it with more rope looped through a pulley.

Then, imagine five sturdy men pulling the rope, hand-over-hand, inching the floating platform loaded with three cars across the Rio Grande River.

This unique attraction is Los Ebanos Ferry, the last hand-pulled ferry across the Rio Grande River.

When I told my son Christopher about this distinct place, he laughed, “Mom, haven’t they heard of bridges?” In Road Trip USA, a book about cross-country adventures on America’s two lane highways, the author Jamie Jensen hints that the ferry is slated for replacement by a motorboat or maybe a bridge. I would hate to see that happen. It’s unique and intriguing!

We're Celebrating an Anniversary

“When people hear about what I do for a living, many respond enviously. They wish they could live their dream like I do every day,” said Ed as we celebrate the ninth anniversary of operating Private Motor Coach, Inc.

Ed has been sharing his passion for wanderlust every day since January 25, 1999 when at age 51 he left a 26-year corporate career and became the first to offer the unique experience of freedom on the road in a luxury motorhome/bus conversion. He welcomes travelers aboard his “house-on-wheels” and takes them anywhere roads lead. In the past nine years, Ed has completed more than 50 trips and drove over 165,000 miles throughout the US and Canada.

“This is safe, reliable and comfortable escorted, private travel,” he explains. “I pick people up at their door, then we hit the road. Sometimes I have as many as eight people on board, other times it’s just been me and one other passenger. I’ve taken people in the coach for just one day while others have traveled for up to six weeks.”

Over the nine years, trips have been as unique as Ed’s business model. “I enjoy the trips as much as the customers.” He recalled one special trip that focused on AAA baseball, Civil War battlefields, barbeque, and blues. The trip followed the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Natchez Trace, made a visit to the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville and finished up in Graceland for the for 25^th anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death; see http://www.privatemotorcoach.com/elvistrip1.htm , http://www.privatemotorcoach.com/photoalbum-CT2002-2.htm .

Ed escorted The Preservation Jazz Band of New Orleans to a performance in The Hamptons. He gave terminally ill people their last ride to their summer homes. He reunited families for special events. He has helped to show off the splendor of Alaskan glaciers, the wilderness areas of the Canadian Yukon and wonders of national parks. Once, he even caravanned a team of drivers to pick-up a fleet of used garbage trucks. Trips have been for business, vacations and special medical needs.

One key service of Private Motor Coach, Inc. is that it provides a travel option for persons with manageable disabilities, who cannot travel via air or car. Ed says, “These folks can get off the couch at home and go anywhere because the coach becomes their temporary home while on the road and an escort is always with them.”

In 2007, Ed replaced his original coach, a MCI-9 called “Patty’s Charm” with an upgraded Prevost XL motorcoach/bus conversion called “Dolly’s Pride.” As with the original coach, the Prevost has all the amenities of a house-on-wheels: living room, kitchen, dinette, full bathroom with shower, queen-sized bedroom, and a large storage bay for bicycles, luggage, sports equipment or whatever needs to go along on a trip, including wheelchairs. Ed also tows a Toyota Corolla behind the coach for side trips.

Private Motor Coach, Inc. began operations in 1991 in the basement of Canadian-born Ed’s North Park home in Gibsonia just north of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In 2001, he moved the operation to Whitehouse near Dallas, Texas. Now, he’s given up the physical address and lives in the coach fulltime. “Nearly all of the people who travel with Private Motor Coach find my services on the Internet by going to the website www.privatemotorcoach.com. Over time, I found that I did not need a physical office. I use emails, talk on the phone about where and when people want to travel, and then I take the coach to them. Without roots to a home or office, I can position myself to better serve my customers.”

“After only two years in business, the United Motorcoach Association awarded PMC the 2001Vision Award for innovative travel, but there are no copy cats. Many people have aspired to run a coach like I have. I give them counsel regularly but no one has yet to take the leap. As far as I know, Private Motor Coach, Inc. is the only company providing this type of custom, private travel,” says Lonsbary.

Ed plans to continue offering trips as he moves forward in the ninth year of operation with the geographic expansion of trips and the goal to make the tenth anniversary, a real milestone. He explained, “Private Motor Coach will expand the current offering of trips in our luxury motor coach/bus conversion to include more than just North America. Next on the horizon are trips to Central American and South America.”

Meet the Bullfighters

“What did you think of the bulls,” asked the man as I descended the unstable stairs.

I had just walked across the wooden planks above the fenced corrals where the fours bulls munched hay. Each bull would take a turn in the Santa Marie Bull Ring in La Gloria, Texas later that day. I had been given this privileged walk above the bulls by the Fred Renk, promoter and owner of the Bull Ring. To take a look at the bulls from the catwalk above their holding area is not part of a typical admission ticket.

“I would not want to have to face those bulls any closer than I was up there,” I gestured to the planked walkway safe above the bulls.

As I hurried to catch up with Ed, I thought that perhaps this man speaking to me was a worker at the ranch or another spectator who had come to watch the bulls envious of my preferred treatment. Later in the cantina, I learned he was a matador.

Longinos Mendoza gives an outward appearance of calm at 2 o’clock in the cantina. He tells me that inside he is nervous. Maybe that is why he stands and doesn’t sit. “Will you go to the chapel before you enter the ring?” I ask. He admits that yes, he will ask Jesus and the Virgin Mary to watch over him this afternoon.

Mendoza began his matador career in Mexico City as a young man of the 1970s. “Bull fighting gets in your blood. You just can’t stop,” he says in prefect English.

Mendoza told me he came to Houston, Texas to perform in bull fights many years ago. “A couple photographed me during my first bull fight,” he said. “The second time they came to photograph me, they brought their daughter. I courted her in the traditional way and we married. There wasn’t much opportunity in the US for a bull fighter, so I worked to perfect my English and studied and eventually became a banker who fight bulls on the side.”

Another matador scheduled to fight, Enrique Delgado, “The Monterrey Cyclone,” spoke no English. He sat calmly at the cantina bar engrossed in the Sunday afternoon football game on the TV screen.

Fred Renk built and opened the Santa Maria Bull Ring in 2000 to preserve the art of bull fighting. According to Renk, it is the only bull ring in the USA open to the public. He became enchanted with bull fighting back in the 1950s when as a seminarian studying for the priesthood he saw his first bull fight in Mexico. Renk never did become an ordained Catholic priest, but he did become an amateur fighter or novillero. Fred passed his legacy to his stepson David.

David is the lanky man selling admission tickets. He is the legendary “El Texano” – one of less than a dozen American professional bull fighters and at the time, the youngest American in history to turn professional in the world of bullfighting. As child, he watched bull fighting at Fred’s side and learned the art of bull fighting from some of the best teachers of this ancient tradition. David’s story is told in a book authored by his stepfather called Two Hearts, One Sword. The book explains how David overcame physical challenges – club feet which were eventually surgically repaired and his height - to fight the bulls. His debut, his first formal novillada, happened on February 22, 1977 in Reynosa’s Plaza Santa Fe. David went on to become the first North American matador in history to be chosen to receive the honor of completing his doctorate in La Plaza Mexico, the largest bull ring in the world. That was back in 1983. Now, David is retired from the ring. Goring by a bull has left him scared and now unable to stand in the ring anymore.

Lyn Sherwood had gone to Spain as a young man. Grey stubble now covers his unshaven face, a leather hat shades his eyes and a beer stays cool in a foam sleeve. “I fought bulls until one day a bull nearly made me as soprano. Then, I gave it up.” Lyn traded his cape for a camera and pen. He is author of a book on bullfighting Yankees in the Afternoon. He showed me the mock up of his new coffee table book. These matador photos and bull fighting history will be published when Lyn finds sponsors to cover the cost of printing and promotion. Today, Lyn is Master of Ceremonies and judge. He leads the crowd in shouts of “Olé” and judges whether the matador is awarded one mock ear from a bull, two ears, or two ears and a tail.

These are the men of the Santa Maria Bull Ring, those who still fight and those who are legendary.

January 13, 2008

Behind the Scenes of the Bullfight

Fred Renk’s home, ranch and life demonstrate his dedication to the art of bull fighting. He met with Ed and me in an expansive but dimly lit room of his LaGloria, Texas home. My first thought was this could be a mini-museum dedicated to bull fighting.

Posters advertising bull fights in Mexico and LaGloria wallpapered the room. The fine work of taxidermists – a bull’s head and hoofs – preserved the kill from an event in Mexico years ago. The suit of lights worn by El Texano, Fred’s stepson David Renk – an American bull fighter, rests against a lone chair positioned as ready for a matador to wear it once more. A glass case with focused bulb draws attention to the shimmer of gold –the lights -other capes and coats worn by matadors. As I wandered through the room, Fred frequently narrated a memory associated with the memento.

Fred is a fit man in his 70s now. He told me that he became an aficionado of bull fighting when he went to Mexico as a seminarian and saw his first bull fight. He gave up the notion of entering the Catholic priesthood but never gave up the love of bull fighting. In his book Two Hearts, One
Sword, Fred tells his story and that of son David who lived his Dad’s dream.

There are some months when Fred teaches and trains young people to enter the ring. He doesn't
call this a “sport,” he says it is more like a “ballet of death” in which the matador must always know where his legs are positioned and give a half step toward the animal to encourage its attack.

“There are two things important in bull fighting.” He said, “The matador must stand still when the bull charges with brute force and must have a strong wrist and arm to hold the cape and heavy sword.” He reminded me that matadors risk their lives if they make a simple mistake. “Only men of valor and great stamina enter the ring,” he commented.

I walked with Fred to the field where his cattle grazed. He is a USA breeder of the “bravo bull” – bulls of special blood from the mother’s genetic line and breed to attack without provocation, to kill what is in their path. “A fighting bull can outrun a quarter
horse,” Fred claims. “They have been measured to cover 850 yards in 90 seconds.”

The animals looked gentle in the distance of the dusty range as they clustered under the shade of the sparsely spaced trees. They didn’t look so gentle when corralled in the narrow wooden pen
waiting to enter the bull ring later in the day. These were “clean bulls” – never touched, never before in a ring, never having seen a matador’s cape. Fred ordered a ranch hand to take me on the cat walk above the corral to see these bulls. The confined bull aggressively banged their horns on the walled area and sent shudders through me. I could feel the vibration of their banging in the planks beneath my feet.

I welcomed the solid ground beneath my feet in the matador’s chapel. This private space is tucked under the stands of the arena. Here matadors will offer prayers to Jesus and the Virgin Mary to keep them safe while in the ring.

In the cantina - bar, Matador Longinos Mendoza told me that meditation prepares him to face the bull.

“The first second in the ring with the bull will divulge how it will act,” Mendoza explained. “The first pass of the bull is critical.” Mendoza trained in Mexico to be a matador where he fought for 10 years. “Were you ever gored?” I asked. His answer was three times, each time he finished the fight.

“Stop?” replies a shocked Mendoza when I ask why he continues after being injured. “No, I don’t want to stop. I love it!” Mendoza smiled. “Let me tell you…once you fight, you want to do it all the time.”

And, Mendoza has fought often since beginning this career in the 1970s. When he married an American and came to the US however he found he was in “another world” where he did not know the language and bull fighting was not a lucrative career. He eventually mastered English and became a banker in Houston. We would see him in the ring that afternoon.

At four o’clock, the trumpet sounded and the gates opened. The bull fight began! Olé!

I want to gratefully acknowledge the hospitality extended by

Fred Renk for this behind the scenes introduction to bull fighting on January 13, 2008.

What Happens When a Bull Won't Fight?

We bought tickets for seats ground level with the arena where we would be shaded by the bleachers above. We had a clear view of the ring where the matadors would fight the bulls. To our right, the press reporters sat poised with cameras and pens to record the event for the small town Rio Grande newspapers. Behind us, fajitas sizzled as they were served. The people eating them washed down the spicy food with cold beer from the cantina. To our left, a wall nearly six-feet high made of wooden two-by-fours separated us from the bull.

The bull stood very still, not moving or protesting. He stood in the narrow pen with no room to turn. He faced toward the arena. Quiet, he made no sounds. When I stood on tippy toes, I could see the tips of his pointed horns, his black hide, and the red rose attached by Velcro to his neck, the matador’s quest in the bloodless bullfight. This would be the first bull to fight today at Fred Renk’s Santa Maria Bullring in LaGloria, Texas.

When the bullfight music began playing, the wooden door to the bull pen swung open. The crowd hushed, waiting but no bull emerged. Where was the thunderous charge, the angry snort, the bull looking to fight? Nothing happened. Again, the music trumpeted and still no bull.

We heard commotion from the pen. Handlers of the bull stood on the catwalk above the bull made sounds like the cowboys in old Western movies moving cattle across the open range. “Yah, yah,” they shouted and kicked the sides of the wooded pen with their boots. The bull slowly walked into the ring, the center of the ring and that’s where he stayed.

The matador tried to entice the bull into a fight. He circled the bull and waved his cape daring the bull to charge. He walked close to the bull then stroked the dirt with his right as if he too were a hoofed bull ready for a fight. The bull simply took a few steps left of center and turned away.

Lyn Sherwood, the Master of Ceremonies and one time bullfighter, reminded us that bull brought into the ring have never been exposed to bullfighting. Bulls fight one time because they learn too quickly that they are to go after the man with the cape. When the gate opens, that is the moment they are expected to fight. “This bull,” he told us, “doesn’t know he’s supposed to fight.”

A second matador stepped into the arena waving his cape and still the bull stood firm. Now, Lyn’s voiced expressed the tension, “This bull is dangerous. He is unpredictable. We need to get him out of the ring.”

The matadors found small stones and tossed them at the bull. He was not agitated. Fred Renk gave an order to send a second bull into the arena, as an attempt to rile the sedentary one. This bull had little effect. Finally, the main gates to the arena flew open and closed rapidly behind the fast moving tractor. Fred Renk, with a stern look of determination on his face, was driving the tractor straight toward the bull which refused to fight. Now, the bull moved. Fred’s grandson tried to lasso the bull. He missed. He once more, and missed its neck again.

Bull and tractor circled the arena. The young cowboy tried again with his lasso and roped the bull. A tug of war ensued as the bull was inched toward an open gate. Don nudged the bull with the tractor until it finally was pushed into the pen next to our seats. Now, the bull snorted and kicked. It had lost its domain in the center of the arena. It had lost its one and only opportunity to star in the ring.

La Gloria, TX Bloodless Bullfight

My cousins and I took turns on Grandma’s wash day running at the white sheets hanging from her sagging clothes line in the back yard. We held mock horns – our stubby index fingers along the side of our heads – pretending we were bulls charging the giant matador’s cape – a full size flat sheet still wet from the wringer washer. “Toro, Toro! Olé! Olé!” we’d yell then go off finding some other six-year-old style of amusement.

There were no bull fights in Indiana, Pennsylvania – the Christmas tree growing capital of the USA and home to the teachers’ college Indiana University. I suspect we learned about bull fighting from our main source of cultural exposure TV. It was probably from a Three Stooges slapstick comedy. In “Snappy Bullfighters” Moe and Larry are costumed like a bull and Curly is the matador. When a real toro bull entered the ring Curly let loose his “Woo Woo Woo Woo” and the Stooges all ran from the snorting, charging bull. I remember that my cartoon favorite Bugs Bunny confronted a toro bull too with a carrot in on hand and a cape in the other. That was how I and other kids growing up in the 60s learned about bull fighting.

I never gave bull fighting much thought in my lifetime until I read headlines in Mc Allen, Texas newspaper The Monitor – “Bloodless Bullfight Sunday.” I decided Ed and I would go to the Corridas, the bull fights.

The Santa Maria Bull Ring is located in LaGloria, Texas. According to the owner/operator and former bull fighter Fred Renk, this is the only authentic ring built strictly for the purpose of bull fighting. There would be three bloodless bull fights here during the 2008 season and Ed and I would attend two of these events. My childhood exposure would be dismissed during these afternoons with Renk, his bulls, and the matadors. This is art and cultural heritage struggling to fit into a contemporary world.

Men of Valor: The Bull Fighters of Santa Maria

South Padre Island, Texas Just for Fun

“I can no longer take care of the women, so I take care of the beach,” said Ricardo.His skin was the color of a chestnut shell and his jeans hung as if he had once been a bigger man.

He stood with his arms dangling over the bed of his weathered pick-up truck where rope and chains lay in a tangle dusted by sand. The truck’s right front tire looked soft, under-inflated or perhaps going flat. Ricardo holds a license to rescue vehicles trapped by the sands of South Padre Island. He waits at Access #6. For $3, you can buy a beach permit allowing you to drive on the sand from Access #5 north some 15 or so miles until the beach turns to private land. For $40, Ricardo pulls you out of the sand.

“At mile 14, there is a nude beach,” Ricardo smiles. “But at this time of year, the Winter Texas women sunbathing there have holes between their tits.” He laughs, “That hole is a navel between their sagging breasts. Wait ‘til spring break, then go there,” he advises.

Ed and I were on South Padre Island on January 12^th. Without a tide schedule, we resisted the temptation to drive the beach with our pearl white Sonata convertible – a rental while the conservative Corolla is being repaired. And, it was too far to walk to mile 14.

We watched a jeep and SUV make a running start to plow through the deep sand at Access #6. They fared better than I. They gunned their engines and roared through the troughs of sand sliding side to side as if on an icy road. I made a run to catch up to Ed and fell on all fours into the soft mounds of sand.

The Gulf water was cold when I rinsed the sand off my legs and hands. The sand was hard packed near the water and that’s where people actually drive. I walked in the surf holding my shorts up to my thighs. Ed strolled an inch shy of the foaming surf wearing his jeans and tennis shoes. Vehicles passed us by.

PS: This is one place in Texas where you can go barefoot, and perhaps bare breasted too at mile 14.

We're at Albertson Gardens RV Park in Pharr, Texas

Winter Texans come from Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas, and Michigan to live at Albertson’s Garden RV Park. Most arrive in November and stay until March when the last snowflake melts in their home state. Some have been coming to Albertson’s in Pharr, Texas for as many as eight years. Even thought they like it here, they still own homes up north. They are not full time RVers like Ed and I.

Monday nights, a group goes to Ticos Restaurant for 99-cent margaritas. Tuesday nights, everyone fills the clubhouse for a 5:30PM social and a 6 PM potluck meal. Wednesdays, musicians and singers jam in the clubhouse. And, that’s about it for group activities.

This park is appropriately named “garden”. There are many brightly colored flowering bushes and aloe plants two feet high. I’m told the land had historically been a citrus grove. The evidence is clear. The branches of the remaining grapefruit and orange trees hang heavy with fruits. A few mango trees skirt the property. There is also a tree here native to Guatemala. The trunk is spiked with growths that look like mini-rhinoceros horns. Delicate white flowers bloom on the branches of this tree. The blossoms are too high up to pick and protected by the spikes below. I am told that in Guatemala, ranchers plant these trees close together as a natural fence for animals.

Not trees, but a regular wire and wooden fence to the rear of the park serves as a pen for goats. Some residents debate the claim and say they’re a special kind of sheep. Regardless of whether they’re goats or sheep, every one of them likes a handout of grass or leaves from the nearby orange trees. The male, distinguished by his curling horns, butts the females out of his way to take a nibble. He butts the fence too if he thinks you’re being stingy with the handout.

We are in the only Prevost here. There is one other bus conversion, but I’ve never seen anyone go in to out. It could be abandoned and may have been a church mission bus, but it adds to the eclectic charm of the place.

If you’ve never heard of Pharr, Texas, I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s just a small town in the Rio Grande Valley some nine miles from the Mexican border. McAllen, Texas is the well-known city nearby. We expect to be here into the month of February enjoying the warm weather, slipping into Mexico from time to time, and working to polish our company Private Motor Coach, Inc. now that I am onboard.

Sunday Evening in Progresso, Mexico

We paid a quarter each to pass through the turnstile on the international bridge and pass into Progresso, Mexico – a border town along the Rio Grande. Our decision to cross the border was impulsive. We had spent time at the Basilica of San Juan and didn’t feel like heading back to the coach. I said, “Let’s go to Mexico.” Ed said “Why not” at least until he found out that it cost $2 to park our car on the US side of the international bridge. I persisted. We went to Mexico.

We found out in the first shop that the merchants close on Sunday at 7 PM. That left us a short hour and a half to explore. We discovered that Progresso is for shopping, eating, dental care, haircuts and manicures.

Merchandise lines the rows of shelves in traditional stores. Bright colored pottery, ornaments shaped like frogs and lady bugs, and assorted glasses for margaritas tempted me. Street vendors crowd the sidewalks with cart laden with wood carvings, bracelets, sunglasses and imitation Coach purses. One little boy with pleading brown eyes tried to entice me to by a red scarf. “Please buy it, do this for me,” he emphasized with the batting of his long eyelashes.

I caught the yummy smell of tacos and fajitas as I walked past the hot grills on each street corner. In the bakery, Ed and I satisfied our sweet-tooth with a cinnamon flavored treat. We saw corn tortillas glide down a conveyer belt, fresh baked. I accepted the warm sample offered to me, then bought a stack of tortillas wrapped in green wax paper for 99¢.

Several fellows dressed in green scrubs offered to clean my teeth. One said the price for laser whitening was $125, a fraction of the cost on the US side of the border. I found that I could also get a haircut for $5, manicure for $6, and pedicure for $8. I’ll be back another day I promised.

It cost 30¢ each to cross into the US from the Mexican side of the international bridge and we had to show ID to the disinterested border guard. By this time the sun began to fade and so were we.

“Saint Christopher, You’ll Find Him in Aisle 6”

Though I would not describe myself as religious, remnants of my Roman Catholic upbringing still draw me to places of religious significance. That’s how Ed and I came to visit The Basilica of our Lady of San Juan Del Valle - National Shrine in San Juan, Texas.

People come here to feel the presence of Mary, the mother of God, and pay for miracles just like one that occurred in nearby Mexico hundreds of years ago. The faithful believe that in 1623, through Mary’s intercession with Jesus, a young girl was brought back to life.

On our Sunday visit 2008, we saw people deep in prayer with their heads humbly bowed, eyes tightly closed, and hands folded to heaven. Some knelt on the cushioned kneelers in front of statues whispering their secret prayers asking for some personal miracle. Others had written their intensions on small bits of paper torn from a purse-sized notepad. We read a few through the side of the glass jar that held them: “Keep my son safe while he serves his country in Iraq.” “Bring health to my child.”

Prayers must be answered too. We saw evidence around the prayer room. The walls displayed military desert camouflage shirts worn by someone who returned safely from war. Wedding gowns represented the appreciation from brides for husbands who love them. Discarded crutches show evidence of healing. Infant clothes express the joy of a healthy birth.

We asked a custodian about all the stuff on the walls. He said every five to six weeks; he removes some things and places them in storage to make space for more offerings. He told us of his own personal miracle of finding work at the Basilica after an industrial accident severed the index finger of his right hand. The skeptic, Ed, had to ask, “You did have to apply for work here and be interviewed, right?” “Oh yes,” replied the man. “But my friends and I prayed that I would work here. It is a miracle that I am here,” he assured Ed and gave a joyful, convincing smile as he leaned on the tip of his push broom.

This conversation continued with our questions about the candle room. This is a room where candles lit by visitors are placed until they burn up and extinguish themselves. We learned that the candle room can hold over 5,000 candles and each candle burns approximately five days. “How hot does it get in there?” I asked only to learn that no one has ever measured the temperature. Nuns make the candles which are sold outside the Basilica and in the Gift Shop for $2.75 each. Only Basilica candles are permitted. The candle room is nearly full every day. Ed did a quick calculation and pondered at the potential million dollars plus revenue from candle sales alone.

We sat a while in the Basilica during the sermon of the Epiphany Mass listening to Father’s words about how there’s a TV in households for every member of the family unlike his youthful years when there was one family TV and only two broadcast stations. He remembered family arguments over which station to watch. Distracted, I thought based on the seating capacity, if everyone in the Basilica had a TV that would be 1,800 televisions. Wow! Lots of TVs and lots of candles…Back on track, I finally heard Father’s concluding message and it wasn’t for the congregation to head to Best Buy after Mass. His message was this: It is fine to spend time apart, but families must also find time to come together. He suggested dinner and I agree. Amen.

I squeezed Ed’s hand. “I want to go to the gift shop,” I whispered. Outside, I told Ed, “I want to buy a candle to light for a miracle and I want a St. Christopher metal.”

Separate from the Basilica in the Gift Shop, large statues of Mary and Jesus were for sale. There were framed pictures of the Pope, crucifixes of wood and silver, rosaries with beads the size of shooter marbles and as small as the tiniest pearl. We found candles for marriages and Baptism, holy cards, books, and blue-eyed baby Jesus statues half-price for the Christmas crèche, but no St. Christopher medals. In a store as big as a typical Dollar Store, it could take hours to find a little medal. Finally, Ed asked a clerk, “Do you have any St. Christopher medals?”

“St. Christopher,” she paused in thought. “You’ll find him in aisle 6.”

“Honey, St. Christopher is in aisle 6,” Ed said in a tone that caused us both to bust out with a laugh as if we were really going to meet the guy. We weren’t trying to be irreverent but it just struck us as funny in a Homer Simpson’s kind of way.

St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers. He is pictured carrying Christ Child on his shoulders across a flowing river. He is the “Christ bearer” I remembered from lessons at Blessed Sacrament Cathedral School. As a child, I was reminded of this saint each time I road in a family car. All of my Catholic uncles had a St. Christopher medal pinned to the driver’s side sun visor of their cars or a plastic replica of the saint held by a magnet to the dashboard. When going through the Catholic book of names for boys, I decided my son born in 1983 would be named for this saint. Christopher had a St. Christopher medal in his first car “Zippy” the Acura; and, when I asked him about the medal during of Sunday evening phone call, he sheepishly admitted that it must have gone with the car with he traded it for his truck four years ago. Now, living on the road, I wanted St. Christopher to be in my coach. The metal I bought is clamped on the tie-back of my dinette curtain.

Ed and I took the candle that we bought back to the Basilica after debating on a miracle to pray for. We reached agreement before knelling to light the candle. The flame flickered and I was afraid it would go out, but it didn’t! Like a birthday wish, we’re keeping our “miracle” wish a secret.

Outside on the grounds of the Basilica is a ¾ mile path where the 14 stations of the Way of the Cross are depicted by bronze statues. I was reminded that at Cathedral School beginning at 2:30 PM each Friday during Lent, the Sisters of Charity paraded us kids grade 1 – 8 into the Cathedral to pray the Stations of the Cross. We looked angelic but in reality we were waiting on dismissal at 3 o’clock and hoping the heavy cloud of incense didn’t make us puke. Though it was a Cathedral, the stations were little 12” by 18” wall plaques hung on the plaster walls, barely visible to a bunch of kids under 13. At the Basilica, the life size statues appeared real. I could see the pain on Mary’s face when she met her Son on the way to Calvary. The exhaustion seemed real when Jesus pushed up on his hands and knees when he fell for the second time. And, it felt unjust to see Jesus nailed to the cross, crucified. This was a silent walk, a reverent walk, a fitting way to end our Sunday visit of The Basilica of our Lady of San Juan Del Valle - National Shrine in San Juan, Texas.

My words cannot describe the beauty of The Basilica of our Lady of San Juan Del Valle - National Shrine, so I recommend that you take a virtual tour at www.sanjaunshrine.org and if you visit, come during the Christmas season when it is decorated with the Nativity and numerous Christmas trees.

January 6, 2008

Preparing for South America: World Expert on South America Travel Shares His Expertise with Us

Ed and I have read and researched South America since 2005. Our Private Motor Coach, Inc. brochures featured a map including South America since Ed founded the company in 1999. My International Master of Business degree focused on South America. Yet, it was not until we met with a business colleague Norm Yelland this January that we were able to truly grasp the challenges and opportunities of taking Private Motor Coach, Inc. and our new company Global Tourism Solutions, Inc. to the South American market.

Norm knows what it is truly like to live and work in Central and South America. For the past 25 years, he has created the mile-by-mile log book to travel these regions. He has to lead caravans of RVs from Mexico to Panama. Ed accompanied Norm on one Central America trip traveling through Mexico to San Salvador. Norm has shipped RVs from US coastal ports to trek RV enthusiasts down the Pan American Highway of South America. Upon reaching Ushuaia, he then points his caravan north along coastal roads eventually heading inward to the Amazon. There the RVs are ferried to the interior and later shipped back to the USA sometimes from Caracas, Venezuela. Norm knows businessmen, tribal chiefs, police officials, and whoever it takes to travel the highways of the continent.

For five January days in Pharr, Texas Norm shared his expertise with us as we fired off questions: “Will our coach work in South America?” “Do we need a Carnet or Libreta du Paso?” “What about health care and vehicle insurance?” “What are our options for ports of entry?” Norm patiently answered each inquiry and stood in the bathroom corridor where our National Geographic map of South America is mounted on the closet doors. He pointed out cities to avoid because of thievery, safe ports to ship our coach, and “must see’’ places to visit.

Norm fed us no “BS” and gave us a cold water dose to help us see what we still need to do to be effective in the South American market. Plans are changing and evolving. We will need more time and further assessment to refine the possibilities and to get ready and GO!

Don't Go Barefoot in Texas

If you were to look in my closet, you’d find an assortment of shoes. Conservative black business suit heels, neon yellow slides that make noisy clunks with each step, blue flip flops, white athletic shoes, hiking boots, rubber snow boots with fleece lining, bitchin’ brown high heels of mock snake skin – they’re all there and more. Some cost a Dillard’s $65 others as low as $8 on a clearance rack at Payless. I have a lot of shoes because at my former corporate job with a client entertainment expense account, I was packing on pounds. My dress size was going up but my shoe size never changed. I’d buy shoes when the shopping urge struck me.

Now, with our new lifestyle as fulltime RVers, I rarely eat out and have no per diem to draw when traveling. My dress size is shrinking; my shoe size is staying the same. And, although I’d love to kick off my shoes to run barefoot, I am finding you just can’t go barefoot in Texas!

We weren’t in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas but a few minutes until Ed heard me mutter a hushed “Son of a bitch” and grab my bare foot. Unsympathetically, he said, “That little thing couldn’t hurt you.” He found out I wasn’t exaggerating when a sand burr went into his sensitive foot. “Ouch!” he yelled, “Those damn things hurt.”

Sand burrs track into the coach on our shoes; and even if we kick our shoes off at the door, the burrs still find their way inside. They’re invisible in the fuzzy nap of my bathroom carpet. They stick to the tread of our shoes. I even pulled one out of my bed sheet. Last night, I used tweezers to yank two burr thorns from Ed’s heel (He momentarily walked outside in socks – no shoes).

I knew Texas was hard on feet from the time when we moved to Texas in 2001. I walked barefooted in the lush green grass of out new backyard and learned the hard way about fire ants. They bit my toes, between my toes, and the tops of my feet. Burning bites turned to itchy, red pimpled bumps. I kept my shoes on in Whitehouse, Texas and now, I expect to leave my shoes on here. So, Ed, I am not giving up that collection of shoes yet. I’ll find room in the narrow space of the closet for all those shoes until I find a place where I can go barefoot.

What are We Going to Do for New Year's Eve Without You Here?

“Mrs. Lonsbary, what are we going to do for New Year’s Eve without you living in Whitehouse?” Will asked me over a Christmas reunion dinner at the Texas Roadhouse in Tyler, TX.

For the past six years, teenage friends of my daughter Suzie knew where to go on New Year’s Eve – our house. The food spread - bowls of chips and nachos, bite-sized fresh pineapple, homemade chocolate chip cookies, my famous baked “tinnie winnies” and serve-yourself liters of pop – came out a 9:30 PM. Backyard fireworks started at 10 PM and Ed’s cannon would boom at Midnight. You could count on this.

Several years ago on New Year’s Eve, Will had brought his potato gun to the party. He shot a bushel of pears through the pipe into the woods, went through my remaining 10 pound bag of potatoes, and shot handfuls of dried beans which eventually sprouted in my yard.

“Sorry, Will. I just don’t know what you’re going to do for the celebration this year,” I said in a consoling voice.

Ed and I would be alone on New Year’s Eve. Ed had driven from Livingston, Texas as far south as Victoria on December 31st. A clerk at the Valero convenience store recommended we join the party at Pecos Bill’s honkey tonk. We checked it out. Festivities started there at 9 PM and it was only 7 PM. The cover charge of $10 bucks per person paid for the dj, dancing, paper hats and noise makers. So as not to drink and drive, we’d need to boondock in the parking lot – a place sure to be noisy into the morning hours. All things considered, we opted to go beyond the city limits and forget the bar.

We boondocked in the quiet gravel lot of the 4-H Center near Victoria’s regional airport. There’s was no cover charge to dance by candlelight to Trace Adkins Greatest Hits Volume II American Man in the coach. We cranked it up for “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” and “Hot Mama” and downed ice cold Millers from the ‘fridge. Happy New Year!

The First of the Goonies Gets Married

My daughter Suzie always referred to her group of friends in Whitehouse, Texas as the “Goonies.” The “Goonies” hung together every evening. Sometimes they’d whip-up smoothies and watch movies. Once they attempted to make their own scary Blare Witch Project-type movie out in a farmer’s field. Pranks were the norm. Birthdays and holidays were celebrated with feasts and fireworks. Cell phones played personalized ringtones. They killed each other in competitive paint ball games. And, they had clung to each other in tearful good-byes as each one left for college. They rejoiced during Christmas and Spring Break and had long faces when it was time to leave for college again.

I have watched the “Goonies” grow-up. They are a fine, respectful bunch of kids who I loved to see at my door or poking around in my refrigerator. On December 30^th, I went to a wedding in Tyler, Texas– the first “Goonie” wedding. The “Goonies” filled two rows in the church. It was a special day. Carrie married Jeremy in a ceremony at the Grace Community Church. What a beautiful occasion! What a lovely couple for a couple of “Goonies!”

My daughter Suzie always referred to her group of friends in Whitehouse, Texas as the “Goonies.” The “Goonies” hung together every evening. Sometimes they’d whip-up smoothies and watch movies. Once they attempted to make their own scary Blare Witch Project-type movie out in a farmer’s field. Pranks were the norm. Birthdays and holidays were celebrated with feasts and fireworks. Cell phones played personalized ringtones. They killed each other in competitive paint ball games. And, they had clung to each other in tearful good-byes as each one left for college. They rejoiced during Christmas and Spring Break and had long faces when it was time to leave for college again.

I have watched the “Goonies” grow-up. They are a fine, respectful bunch of kids who I loved to see at my door or poking around in my refrigerator. On December 30^th, I went to a wedding in Tyler, Texas– the first “Goonie” wedding. The “Goonies” filled two rows in the church. It was a special day. Carrie married Jeremy in a ceremony at the Grace Community Church. What a beautiful occasion! What a lovely couple for a couple of “Goonies!”

We Are Escapees at Rainbow Park

Sometimes I feel like I’ve dropped into Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon or I’m in a Disney movie here at Rainbow’s End RV Park.

At Rainbow’s End RV Park, everyone smiles and says, “Hello” when walking along the streets. Because the speed limit is only 10 miles per hour, you can see folks in cars or their RVs give a friendly nod as a greeting. Some people ride in covered golf carts. I saw one cart the yesterday with a warning sign posted saying “Blind Driver.” Streets have nice names like Providence Road, Rainbow Drive, Promise Lane and Sunrise Drive.

At Rainbow’s End RV Park all the men are handy at repairs, installations, and RV maintenance. All the women can make pot luck dishes from whatever’s in their RV pantry. Ice cream is served on Sunday nights at the Activity Center and lunch at the Club House on Tuesdays is an affordable $3.

There are no children at Rainbow Park, but all the grandchildren spoken of are beautiful, taking advance placement classes, and looking forward to Grandma’s & Grandpa’s next visit.

There are a lot of dogs at the park. Every hour of the day people are outside with dogs on a leash. One lady drives her motorized cart while her poodles strut ahead as if they were pulling her along. Some dogs are yippy and others are shy. Some are protective like the one dog who grabbed Ed’s pant leg to keep him from entering an RV even though he was invited inside.

There are dogs on the roads surrounding the Park too. When I ride my bike on these roads, they begin to bark just like the yipping in Disney’s 101 Dalmatians. One dog begins the cry and soon every dog down the road is barking, “Here comes Patty on her bicycle!” Many of these dogs are confined in fenced yards. I keep waiting and watching for one in a frantic run to someday skid into the metal mesh, but to date and to my amusement, they always stop an inch shy of crashing. One dog is particularly ferocious. I keep trying to outsmart this growling white dog. There’s no fence around his yard so he lunges at the wheels of my bike. He hasn’t learned to stay off the road and keep his nose out of the spokes. He’s chased me every time I pass his way and once he lost some of that white hair in the bicycle spokes.

Rainbow’s End RV Park is a special place for members of the RV Club Escapees. Most people who park here are fulltime RVers. They’ve mostly all given up a house and possessions to live on the road. Conversations here center on places they have been or places where they dream to go. There are a few who are like me, experiencing the detoxification of the corporate treadmill. Most are well into retirement and have lived as fulltime RVers for more than 7 years. They’re eager to offer advice and encouragement when the space gets too tight in the RV.

Ed and I arrived here on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and will stay until New Years Eve in this friendly, near-to-fiction place.

Enjoying the Piney Woods of Livingston, Texas

Our First Christmas in the RV: Still Keeping Holiday Stories Alive

The most striking difference between Christmas in an RV versus Christmas in a house comes down to simplicity of decorations.

In a house, my decorating began on Thanksgiving Day. After everybody settled into that “full belly lull” and the mountain of dishes and leftovers were put away, I would start. The easy to spot red plastic containers with overlapping, interlocking green lids came down the attic pull stairs first. Next, I’d slide the boxed evergreen Christmas tree down the incline stairs damning it when the corner would catch on the slat of a step and need to be wiggled free before descending the full stairs to the garage floor. Finally, I’d scout for those assorted bags and boxes of stuff that either would not fit in the easily distinguishable red and green boxes or had been overlooked in the previous year’s clean-up of Christmas stuff and I had just set the stuff loosely about the attic.

My daughter Suzie would just groan and roll her eyes when I’d tell her visiting friends how much fun they would have helping to put up the tree. Ed would get up from laying on the living room couch and exit to the bedroom to watch TV saying, “Call me when you want me to take pictures.”

Hours later, the tree would be up decorated with the assorted ornaments. The tree always took hours because we’d reminisce about the story behind each ornament…the brass Cathedral of Learning symbolic of my favorite building at PITT, Suzie’s baby picture with her hair standing up like grass on Hallmark’s Baby’s First Christmas picture frame ornament, pearl beaded bells and stars handmade by Grandma Edith’s arthritic fingers, Pope John Paul II aka “Pope on a Rope”, and Christopher’s Oscar the Grouch peaking out of the garbage can, a happy meal souvenir.

Angels on the mantle, wreaths on the door, lights on the porch, holiday towels in the bathrooms, and my assorted collection of snowmen everywhere, Christmas music playing, and Santa hats on our heads… “Suzie, call Dad. We are ready for the camera.”

This year, the house belongs to someone else and the red and green boxes are stored in my Mom’s basement. We donated the Christmas tree to Goodwill because at our June garage sale, no one wanted to buy it. And, we are in our RV, just Ed and me.

My box of Christmas ornaments is now the size of a compressed one pound bag of coffee. It fits in the drawer with my hair brushes, gloves, and other assorted personal stuff.

This year, Ed helped me decorate. We hung three tree ornaments on the living room valances over each window – a red faced Santa, doves in a heart-shaped wreath from a trip to Mayberry, and the angel I painted for Ed when I went to Prescott, Arizona last year. There are only two snowmen – one waving “hi” from a Texas boot and another appearing to ski downhill. One of Grandma’s stars is velcroed to the coach wall above the wooded tree that bends at a 45-degree angle. The artesian who designed the tree intended the evergreen to look like a winter wind was blowing the tree over, but our family knows better. It is a representation of the dog-legged tree we cut one Christmas and anchored it to the wall so it would stand straight. My decorating was complete this year in 15 minutes but the stories remain a Christmas tradition unchanged.

Merry Christmas!

In Case You Were Wondering

Ed and I are enjoying the blue, sometimes rainy, skies and piney woods of East Texas. We parked our Prevost motor coach at Escapee’s Rainbow RV Park in Livingston, Texas a day before Thanksgiving after making a full circle from Texas to the tip of Canada’s Gaspè Peninsula in the province of Québec. Our trip covered 7,443 miles mixed with sightseeing, visits with family and friends, planned repairs and upgrades to the coach, and time to adapt to our new lifestyle as full-time RVers.