THE END OF A DREAM

We arrive on 1/3 and will make it a point to get to see you this coming year!

What was the answer to why she bought ripe bananas?

Hey Karen
Your mentioning the old truck and thinking about our trip to Zihuatanejo brings this to mind.Here is a story about my trip to Zihua and the truck which ended up with bullet holes in it. From my book “A Gifted Man, memoir of an artist”
"The morning of our last day of travel, we refueled the truck and headed south. We have still to
cross the Sierra Madre del Sur to reach the Pacific Coast and our destination of
Barra de Potosi that is just a few kilometers south of Zihuatanejo.
We were on pavement again and even though the highway is not in the best of
repair we laughed and joked about how it was a super-highway compared to the
previous day’s journey. We begin are assent into the heart of the rugged Sierra
Madre Del Sur Mountains. A notation on the map says, the “Espinoza del diabla”
The witch’s spine.
Traffic was non-existent, the further we rode, the more the condition of the
road deteriorated with washed out sections, mudslides, boulders strewn all over
the road.
I felt like I was maneuvering through an obstacle course. Mile after
Mile, we followed the twisting, tortured, fragmented asphalt.. My neck and shoulders
ached from driving and shifting gears. I couldn’t believe it, but it was actually
worse than the previous day and uphill all the way. The truck was not at a
loss for power but those 200 horses under the hood needed much fuel.
I watched the gas gauge steadily lower.
Shortly before we reached the summit, we stopped for lunch and to admire the
magnificent vistas of the mountains. Concerned about our fuel supplies I undid
the cables holding the aluminum skiff to the top of the camper, dug out five gallons
of gas I had in reserve and poured them into the gas tank, then re-secured
the load;we then continued, onward and upward. At the summit, the roadway leveled
out and its condition improved. About this time, a convoy of heavily armed soldiers
passed us going in the opposite direction, six Humvees loaded with machine
guns and men wearing helmets, bulletproof jackets, sunglasses, all
dressed ominously in black.
These were the first vehicles we encountered in over four hours of driving. As
They went by I had an uneasy feeling that not all was well.
Not five miles later, we are starting our descent. Suddenly, blocking the road
are several large stones on top of which have been placed pieces of steel rebar. I
stopped and said in amazement to Franca, “What the hell? Don’t tell me
this road is closed.”
We sat there for a few seconds with the engine idling. Suddenly out of the
roadside underbrush, two men wearing flower sacks over their heads with holes
cut for their eyes appeared, waving pistols and shouting, “Manos Arriba!” The
sacks and the guns were my immediate clue that not all was right with the situation.
I saw no sign of high power rifles and could tell in an instant that the pistols
were cheap 22 caliber Saturday night specials. I made a quick decision.
“Get down!” I said to Franca. I shoved the truck into gear, pushed the gas
pedal to the floor, let out the clutch. The truck leaped forward, rear tires squealing
and smoking. I tried my best to avoid hitting the oil pan and the vital parts of
the motor on the rocks as we crashed through the barrier.
Franca, whose vision was obstructed by my body, really did not know what
was going on. I heard the first bullet hit the truck inches behind my head.
Ping! Followed by several more shots in rapid succession, Ping! Ping! Ping!
“Get down!” I yell at her.
“What?” She replies.
“Get down! The son’s of bitches are shooting at us!”
Now we were through the barricade and picking up speed. Several more shots
rang out, ping, ping, ping, and we were out of range.
“What is happening? Franca is asking me excitedly.
I was too busy watching the road, oil pressure, gas gauge, water gauge, shifting
gears, checking the rear view mirror, trying to see if we are being pursued, to
answer her.
Everything looked well, no smoke or noise coming from the motor, no one
giving chase. I checked the brakes; they worked. After a few miles of speeding
dangerously down the mountainside, I said to Franca, “I want to stop and check
for damage.”
Franca replied, “You do not stop until we get into Zihuatanejo. I do not care
if I pee my pants.”