Ghostly Encounter: La Llorona

Hi guys. This is the introduction to a series I’m hoping to continue called “Ghostly Encounter”. Whether you believe or not, I hope you find this series enjoyable.

Growing up where I have, you can’t help but run into the paranormal or supernatural. My childhood was littered with ghost stories, light and dark energy, and warnings from my neighbors and friends that El Cucui or La Llorona would get me if I didn’t behave.

The first story I am sharing is that of La Llorona, the weeping woman.

For a little background, the story of that is a woman who murdered her children in a fit of jealous rage against her philandering husband. Realizing what she had done a moment too late, she ran up and down the riverbank trying to save them while they drowned, and died of a broken heart. She was not buried on hallowed ground, according to one version of the story. Her ghost haunts up and down the river bank. calling out, “Ayyyyy Mis Hijos? Donde esta Mis Hijos?” Abuelas and mothers alike tell their children to this day that if they don’t come inside before dark, La Llorona would mistake them for one of her dead children and take them with her forever.

I grew up in the southern part of New Mexico, in a city nestled right beside the banks of the Rio Grande. I grew up hearing stories about La Llorona both from my friends and those around the city.

One night in high school, we decided to drive out to the river where she was rumored to appear. Being young and bored after play rehearsal, this sounded like a fantastic (read: awful) idea.

My friend parked the car at the edge of the park along the riverbed. It was a cool night in March, so we kept the window’s only slightly cracked. Her parking lights gave us a vague beam of light that we scanned the edge of, hoping for a glance of something.

We sat in the car for about an hour, both of us quiet and tense. I kept thinking what I would do if I saw Her. Would I use my (very ancient now) cell phone to snap a low resolution picture? Would I freeze up?

…Would she mistake me for one of her children and drag me with her to Hell, or under the murky depths of the river (which to me, with a fear of drowning sounded like a worse fate than Hell)?

Finally my companion broke the silence. “Come on. Let’s go home – she’s not real.”

I sighed. “All right.”

Her hand moved for the ignition when suddenly, I spotted something walking down the river towards us. I grabbed her hand and pointed, hissing “look!” through gritted teeth.

We both watched, frozen in uncertainty as the figure made it’s way towards us. Maybe it was a homeless person, or a drifter. Those were a fairly common occurrence in that part of town.

The figure got closer, and closer, and I could make out that it was a woman, in a long, flowing dress that hung in tatters around her frame. My mouth went dry, and my friend squeezed my hand harder as we both stared in fascination and terror.

I saw the eyes next. Pale and cold, they looked beseechingly into my own as the figure raised it’s arms and opened it’s mouth to speak.

I screamed.

My friend yanked her hand away, turned the ignition and gave the wheel a hard jerk to the left, spraying dirt and gravel behind us and repeating curse words over and over as she sped up the hill onto the highway and hit the pavement of the road with a bounce.

I cowered in the front seat, covering my eyes and praying Hail Mary over and over, hoping to God and whatever was listening that She wasn’t following us somehow.

It was probably only 10 minutes, but it felt like forever when we finally pulled into a lit gas station parking lot. She turned off the gas and slumped back into her seat. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” I manage, uncovering my eyes and taking a deep breath.

We stared ahead at the gray cement wall, attempting to recover. After another moment, she turned the car on, glanced over at me one more time, and then drove us home in total silence.


Hello Out There!

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If there’s that many of you out there, hi. Welcome to the blog. Comfy sofa on the right, food in the kitchen, don’t eat my peanut butter. Pay no attention the mad man in the corner on his laptop surrounded by empty boxes and junk.

That also being saiiiid…

If you’re here, this (hopefully) means you like what I write. I know my blog tends to be about whatever I want to blog about, on everything from memoirs to my writing career to what I had for lunch that day. I appreciate that, but man does not live on kindness alone.

I have a Patreon, which can support me in some ways. I also added a PayPal donation button on the right sidebar. If you like what I have to say, then please donate if you like. No set amount – anything is appreciated.

Also, if you’re here, leave a comment. I would love to hear from you! And how you found me in this corner of the interwebs. That’d be cool too.

The Dogs in My Life

This article originally started as part of a separate project. I was inspired to move it to here and to update it. Please enjoy. WARNING: YOU MAY NEED TISSUES.

Our first dog was a dachshund named Strudel. She was my mom’s dog, so she was already very old when we were born. My first memory of her is her huffing as she walked down the hallway to my mother’s bedroom. I would follow her in there and lay next to her bed to watch her sleep (which she probably only allowed because she knew I was curious). I recall also how bad her breath smelled, probably because she was so old.

After she died, I wanted a dog so badly. We would ask our mother and father if we could get a new dog, but they would usually tell us that right then, we couldn’t. I imagine there was probably more at play behind the scenes than I knew, but I choose to remain ignorant regarding that.

Then, one Easter, I contracted bronchitis. My chest hurt so I couldn’t really do much. I recall that we tried an outing, and after the first hour I hurt so bad I started crying. So suffice to say, I was a rather un-happy six-year-old (which is also why I still have problems with my chest, and probably didn’t help my asthma later on).

Easter morning, I was curled up on our couch, tired, grumpy and uncomfortable. Mom told us that the Easter Bunny had brought us something special and that my father had gone to fetch it. I wasn’t interested mostly because of how sick and miserable I was.

Then the door to the garage from the kitchen opened, and our father walked in cradling something to his chest. It was our new puppy, Jamoka Almond Fudge (yeah, Mom named her). He set her down on the floor, and Alyssa and Gabriella immediately ran over to see her. I couldn’t get up, but I asked Mom anxiously if the new puppy could sit with me on the couch. Mom brought her over, and I scooped her up to hold her.

To this day, sitting here, I can still recall how soft her fur was, and that her breath was the typical puppy breath, warm and wet on my nose. She had hetero-chromia so one eye was green (sometimes blue) and the other was brown. Both of those eyes stared up into mine, and she immediately got comfortable in my arms and went to sleep. Mom still has a picture somewhere of the both of us sound asleep that Easter on the couch.

Jamoka remained a constant in our lives for the next several years – the move to Cruces, the divorce, the move to the new house, high school, friends coming over, etc. All through it she was the most loyal and loving dog I have ever had in my life. She traveled all over the country with us when she could, and in her old age loved to sit on Alyssa’s lap in the car enjoying the air conditioning or heater. She would often sleep in our bedroom, and when she couldn’t hop up on my bed anymore would sleep on the floor on a special blanket.

When she was about 11, we inherited another dog – a Bichon Frisee/Maltese mix by the name of Danny Boy. He had belonged to our former neighbor, and his daughter could not take care of the dog after his death. He attached himself to Alyssa, but from that moment on he and Jamoka were inseparable. I like to think he kept her young.

Then in December 2009, Jamoka gave us all quite a scare. She had contracted diabetes by this point, which meant she got daily insulin injections and was on a certain diet. This also meant 4am bathroom breaks outside, rain or shine. That night, she wasn’t breathing or eating very well, and we all feared the worst. The next morning, she was fine. I often think she knew Mom needed one more Christmas with her.

February 2010. One morning, Jamoka woke up and was disoriented. She kept running into things and wasn’t eating or drinking. As I took her outside to try and coax her to go to the restroom, Mom was on the phone with the vet weighing options. I remember hearing her breath hitch and the sobs start. I knew what that meant.

My poor old girl was standing in the yard she called her home, unsure of what was going on. Tears in my eyes, I knelt down and hugged her, crying into her soft fur. For a moment, she came back to herself and licked my face, telling me it would be all right. I cried, and cried, and cried.

That night, I had a tutoring session with my best friend. I was sitting on the floor of our friend’s dorm room, trying to make idle chatter. I knew the deed had already been done, and that Boo-Boo (yeah, I came up with that nickname) was gone. I casually mentioned to Tamera that Mom could at least get more sleep now without having to let Jamoka outside at 4am.

And then it hit me.

I bawled in her and my friend’s arms for an hour – reliving every memory that I could of her. I cried until I was so exhausted I started hiccupping.

Danny Boy was confused and solemn for the next few days. He knew Jamoka was gone, and knew we were all sad. In time, we all healed, and Danny reveled in being the top dog of the house.

April 2013. I had moved out by this point and was dating Mysti. It was a month before my first summer in Yellowstone, and Danny Boy had been feeling sick. My phone rang, and I reached over to answer it, my voice rough from sleep. It was Gabs on the other end. Danny Boy had passed on sometime in the night, curled up on his favorite pillow near the fireplace. Mom was taking his body to the vet’s to have it cremated, and she was wondering if I would come over later just to make sure everyone was ok. I agreed and hung up.

“Stupid dog,” I bawled, hanging on to Mysti with everything I had. “Stupid, stupid dog, always eating stuff he wasn’t supposed to and stuff!”

Wishbone and Luna were a blessing in disguise, and probably kept my mom from sinking into a deeper depression. I adore them, and I know that though I’m not one of their people, they still consider me family.

Which then leads me to Barrington. Six years to the day Jamoka died, Beth told me we could finally go adopt a dog who would become my emotional support animal. I was ecstatic, and eagerly awaited the end of my shift so we could go to the shelter a few blocks from our house.

Three other families had seen him that day. and no one wanted him. There was another family after us who wanted to see him, but we had seen his picture on the adoption website and wanted to meet him.

He came in the door, wary of the two of use for a moment. And then, he picked up his ball (which we still have; it’s his favorite) and dropped it into my lap. We knew in that instant he was ours.

And now, we have Vanya. She’s a sweet puppy who just needs to work on being socialized, but has already proven to be a sweet and lovable pup.

It’s probably a cliche to say dog’s are man’s best friend, but, given the experiences I’ve had in my life regarding these wonderful creatures, I couldn’t agree more.

The Really, Really Free Market

This entry was started on 4/2/17.

Having moved several times in my life (once at 10, the next at 13, then 22, and all the ones following, including to Yellowstone twice for seasonal work and from Las Cruces to Albuquerque), I have managed to shave down a few of my worldly possessions (although there’s still a storage unit worth of stuff back in Cruces that will most likely end up in another storage unit up in ‘Burque).

That being said, in the process of starting to pack in earnest, we’re selling some of our stuff, donating what we can, and throwing out some junk.

Today we were going to head out to run some errands before I went and met with an SCA friend. I had started piling some random junk into a re-usable shopping bag when a notification from Facebook popped up on my phone: The Really, Really Free Market starts in 59 minutes.

I had rsvped to the event about a month ago because the concept intrigued me. I’m all about barter, but this wasn’t a barter/trade market. You literally brought stuff or offered a service, for free, and that was it. No money exchanged, no nada.

So we went.

The park was crowded, but there was a sense of joy in the air. We parked the car, grabbed our bag of junk and headed into he fray.

First of all, it made me pleased as punch to see that I am not the only one that hoards random junk with the intention of “just in case” or “I can use this for a project” and then it just sits in your closet until you find it after two months of finding it. There was all kinds of stuff: books, clothes, free bike repair, computer consultations, massages, cake, guitar lessons and more.

It reawakened my sense of community that I’ve been missing since we left Las Cruces. Growing up in the second largest city in NM, the city still has a small town feel that I miss. The Farmer’s Market there is absolutely one of the best ones I have ever been to, and it’s a really awesome place even for someone who has lived there most of their life.

Albuquerque, while I love it, sometimes gets lost in the hugeness of the city. I have my circles, I have my friends – but the city is so large and I miss being able to walk through a market and look around.

I was really impressed by a lot of stuff that they had, and I saw some things that reminded me of my childhood (oh Rainbow Brite!). I also got to see my friends Dharma and Kate, and Kate’s cat Loiosh (you can follow them both on Twitter @VagabondTabby).

It was a really nice event, and I think after things settle down from the move, we’re going to try and attend more community events outside of the SCA and other stuff.