Have Faith in FEMA

You won't hear anything bad about FEMA from me, no siree.  This was Ruff Life following Hurricane Georges in Puerto Rico, 1998, here's that story.

At the time I didn't know much about FEMA and assumed, because I lived on a boat, that they wouldn't help me with repairs; but au contraire!  Everyone was encouraged to apply - the worst they could say was NO.  Almost immediately I received a check for $500 to help survive the early days.  After that, maybe a couple weeks, I received another check for around $5,000, I almost fell on the dock.  For real?  YES.

FEMA never asked what I was doing down there, living on such an old boat; or whether I was properly anchored (I had 5 anchors out).  It was a simple process...so simple that I tried it again years later with another hurricane, Harvey, maybe.  I didn't have quite the same payout but I didn't have as much damage; and again, following their smaller, initial check for several hundred or whatever, I did receive a second, larger check a bit later.

I do understand how it is to be in shock after such an experience, and it's easy not to fully understand the FEMA rep's information.  So don't believe the former President when he's claiming you'll only get $750; or the Government is trying to take your house.

POPPYCOCK!  That's just fearmongering; but like most of the lies which continually spew from Trump's lips, loads of people believe him.  In a sense you can't blame them - they're desperate for a change in their lives and are grasping at Trump's straws.

DON'T, please, when it comes to FEMA.  They are truly trying to help, and aren't using disaster funds for illegal immigrants.

But go ahead - spread false rumors and put your fellow citizens in danger.  Can you believe there are people out there too frightened now of losing their homes that they'll remain in place in the face of upcoming Hurricane Milton?  Doesn't that bother you?

I don't do social media, so how about sharing some positive insight instead of the latest shelter adoption?  For those in real need, thank you.

El Muelle, Parguera, Then and Now

I felt invisible after a 14 year absense - a ghost wandering through La Parguera, the once-sleepy little fishing village along the southwest coast of Puerto Rico. I didn't see many familiar faces, for businesses are now owned, or run, by younger people.  I left the Plaza and walked towards El Muelle (the Dock), a strip mall where I worked shortly after arriving in 1998.

Back then, following countless open-door 'grocery' shops with dusty shelves in coastal Caribbean towns, El Muelle left me breathless.  Anchored by the most beautiful supermarket I'd seen in months, the shopping center included a Chinese restaurant, Post Office, pharmacy, surf shop, bar/cafe, video store and laundromat.  It was the proverbial Oasis in the Desert and, drenched in sweat by 8am, I declared to my then-partner, aka 'the Captain:

"That's it!  I'm done.  We live here."

The original plan was to cruise to Venezuela, but by Puerto Rico my nerves were shot; the boat was a wreck; and our cruising kitty was seriously low.  We needed money, and contemplated selling the boat once we fixed her up.  Dependable electricity was a necessity. 

Puttering along the canal in the dinghy, admiring the colorful casetas, we unrealistically dreamt of renting one for a couple months, working on Ruff Life at our leisure.  We stopped to speak to a man our age, lounging on the back deck of his cabin cruiser, Miss Kimlee.  

Juan spoke perfect English and was most congenial.  Casetas, if available, were quite expensive to rent, he told us; but when he heard we were looking to rent a place with power, he spoke to the owner of the dock where Miss Kimlee was moored (Ruff Life, the farthest right of the three).

During weekends Juan lived on Miss Kimlee, but during the week he had a plumbing business to run in San Juan, where he lived with his wife and daughters.  We'd jump back and forth between boats, and I enjoyed learning about Puerto Rico, look at this hunk, ladies!  His easy manner and sense of humor was an enjoyable interruption in our stressful days of co-habitation.  Admiring my needlepoint-in-progress, I teased, "Like Rosy Grier," and vowed to share this photo one day.

Juan hired the Captain to clean his boat for some extra cash; and when he learned of my business background, referred me to his good friend, who owned El Muelle.

"David needs office help - grab your resume and head for Supermercado El Muelle, pronto!"  I'll admit I wasn't estatic about the prospect, but at least it was something.

Preparing for Hurricane Georges

David Benevent and his father Carl built El Muelle up from virtually nothing.  Carl is a retired doctor whose practice was in the mid-West, but he dreamt of returning to the island and building a strip mall on part of his family's land.  Younger son David left his corporate job in Georgia to help him.

"You need to hire this Gringa," Juan told David.

"What am I gonna do with a Gringa?"

La Parguera, Then and Now

The next part of my recent vacation to Puerto Rico was revisting La Parguera, the town where I lived from 1998-2009. Named for the local Pargo, or Snapper, this sleepy little town came to life in a big way on weekends.

(Photo: Over the years, Ruff Life's hull became a coral reef which, supplemented by table scraps, fed a variety of sea life.  This fellow lived under the boat for a time - the Snapper; and no, this isn't the Captain but a friend who came over to fish.)

Ruff Life (originally named King Tut) hit the shores of Puerto Rico in early 1998, following a grueling winter cruise down from Florida.  There she is - the little trawler in the far distance, with Johnny's fleet of rental boats.

Each morning I'd dinghy Czar to shore for his walk, since most times I was the first one up.  In the beginning we'd have to tie the dinghy to the mangroves or some out-of-the-way spot, hoping it wouldn't disappear or make anyone mad.  I didn't know it at the time, but that sort of thing rarely happened in Parguera.

Advenures in Guanica

THIS is the way I like to vacation:  with hardly a soul around.  Meet Gayle, a dear friend from my early days in la Parguera, c. 1999.  Her husband, Joey, used to come in to el Muelle on behalf of his ice cream distributor, cajoling a check (through me) from my boss.  An earlier story documents our friendship,  Tormented by Ice Cream.  Unfortunately, Joey suddenly passed away 3 years ago, and this was the first time Gayle and I spent time face-to-face in 14 years.  Lots to go over.

Many moons ago...

I hadn't really planned out my 2 week trip, and didn't let anyone know I was coming until the last minute. I wanted to feel-out Miguel and Nellie's schedules, since they were the reason I returned to the island (read the beginning of this story here).  Gayle was enthusiastic when she returned my email, delighted I'd be coming to the island and hoping to get together.  (She didn't beat me up about not giving more notice until I was within reach.)  

"Don't Get Off the Bus!"

The other day I received a phone call from my dear friend and 'art mentor', Miguel Rosario. We have several lengthy calls each year since he, like I, don't scroll phones or text. I love him dearly, along with his wife, Nelida, who has enbraced me like a sister and included me in their family.

The first time I met Miguel was outside supermarket El Muelle in la Parguera several years after arriving in Puerto Rico.  A newly minted Artesana, I'd set up a table with my artwork during a swealtering summer parking lot party, sponsored by the liquor companies.  We became friends and later partners in an art gallery, I won't repeat the story, but you can read an earlier story: Cayo Caribe.

Tourism, the lifeblood of Artists, dried up following 9/11; after which I usually went home from shows with 95% of the pieces I brought.  During one depressing weekend fest Miguel, a painter and Santos carver, said, "Come with me."  What, leave my table unattended?  "Don't worry about it," since artists always covered one another; plus there weren't exactly throngs.  "Come with me."

As we walked through the streets of Old San Juan I kept asking, "Where are we going?"  Miguel refused to say more than, "You'll see," while imparting words of wisdom like, "If something doesn't sell, RAISE the price!"   Huh?  "People will stop and look harder to understand why the price is high."  But I was starving.  Week after week was the same, taking its toll on my psyche, but I kept showing up.

We finally stopped at an old church.  I assumed he was going to show me some artwork inside, but we walked into a full Mass.  I went to plenty of Masses as a kid (marriages and funerals), a few as an adult, and always got tired of Stand Up, Kneel, Sit Down, Kneel, over and over; plus I can't stand the incense.  This was no different, except it was in Spanish.  I kept mouthing, "Can we go now?"  No, he'd shake his head.  So I sat on the hard bench and decided to make the best of it.

Miguel wasn't trying to convert me, but he did want me to be easier on myself and have a little Faith.  Stop and smell the roses, as it were. Sounds nice now, but at the time I didn't appreciate the lesson.  Anyway, since Miguel's first recommendation he's been my mentor, always offering suggestions, encouragement and advice.  "Paint the cat's eyes like a football, then curve the edges for the eyeball."  I can paint but I can't draw worth a darn, which is why my figures and murals take at least four times as long as most other artists. 

So during our phone call, when Miguel asked whether I was still writing and painting, I had to admit, "Very little."  I choked up describing the grief I still experienced over BC's passing, causing me to feel almost paralyzed.

"Don't do that, you'll depress yourself.  Don't get off the bus!"

What the hell does that mean?  I can't repeat his words verbatim but I'll try:

"We all are on a bus, heading towards our (destination/future/goals).  The bus may stop every once and awhile, BUT DON'T GET OFF - Stay on the bus.

Miguel had just finished describing the stroke he lad last month, what do I have to complain about?  Like the rest of us, his body isn't what it used to be but he truly enjoys life, I envy him that. They're still living without water or electricity following Hurricane Fiona in September, but he doesn't complain.

Without realizing it I took his words to heart and am almost finished with the ornaments which have been hanging like hams in my RV since October.  I also finished three Black Lab rocks to go with the earlier one, thank goodness.  They've been sitting on my stovetop for weeks, too.  (I'm not going into the rock-painting business; only for fun.)

Some of my spunk has returned, and most thankfully I can think of BC more and more without weeping.  I even had a couple dreams in which she was a part, not memories but new situations where she behaves like usual.  The sadness is ending.  Content may not be as good as Happy but it's better than Lifeless.

So, my friends, if the past couple years have taken a toll on you to the point where you start giving up and wondering, "What difference does it make?"...put aside those thoughts and let Miguel's advice offer some hope.  You're not alone.  (Photo right:  R. Delameter)

2013 - Oregon to California

I'm waiting to receive the photo book I put together (via Shutterfly) covering the first cross-country trip BC and took in 2013.  When we're traveling I'm usually thinking about where we're stopping for the night, and by the time we do I'm not up to blogging.  Some of these stories may be familiar, but I'll be adding details I was too pooped to pop out at the time.

Our vehicle: a 1986 Ford F150, which I anticipated sleeping in the back because I was pretty much broke. I was heading to New Jersey to help organize and downsize Mom's home.  She was living with my sister following Hurricane Sandy, and was in the early stage of Dementia, which we were just beginning to comprehend.

2013 route

I've already prepared a book of our 2016 trip and liked it so I did this one; because I want snippets of things to jar my memory when I'm old and sitting around most of the time.  Wait, isn't that now?

The previous year, my next door neighbor in the RV park gave me the truck for nothing.  Fairly recent residents, Bob heard from his wife that I was looking for better transportation to tow my 16-foot travel trailer.  One morning Bob knocked on my door with his generous gift.  He was the original owner and kept it in immaculate condition; that’s when I learned about Full Synthetic oil.  Bob was a retired machinist who no longer needed a work truck, since he and his wife planned to die in the park and they already had an SUV, his words, not mine.

Wait a minute...if I'm going to tell the story right, I've got to add this part: the day before the gift, some redneck moved in a couple spaces away.  He, too, heard I was on the lookout for a truck and told me about a friend who had one for sale up in the mountains, reasonable price.  He'd take me up there the next day. After I said, "Great," he added something about watching a movie and soaking in a hot tub.  I hemmed and hawed so he quickly said, "Or not.  I can cook us dinner down here when we come back."  He had an enormous smoker on his deck.

A Decade of Homes

Most of the people I know outside of homeless encampments have inherited money.  I’m not begrudging them, it’s not their fault; but I can't help wondering what that feels like, the things you think of during the wee hours.

To have someone hand you a check full of zeros…how would I act? What’s the first thing I’d do once I picked myself up off the floor? The first thing I’d buy? After a hot chicken I'd locate a financial adviser, then start dreaming like I’m doing now…

A house of my own. Not a home, since Mom always claimed,

“You have a home; you just don’t have a house to put it in.” What she meant was a sense of home and that was fine when I was in my 30’s, but I’m not sure I still believe it now.

The first home I owned was Ruff Life (top), thanks to my 401K, read the story if you care to.  When I returned to Oregon in 2010 it made no sense renting an apartment just to fill it up with stuff, not after I'd auctioned most everything before moving on to the boat. 

Close to broke, I picked up an inexpensive 1992, 16-foot travel trailer, and my first truck: a 1990 Ford F150, inherited from an acquaintance for the repair bill; cherry red with flames and bullet holes I didn't realize were stickers.

I found a space in a nice little RV park a ways out of town, quiet, with a huge deck and small storage shed off to the side, for about $375 a month, plus electric.  I picked up a rescue dog for companionship.  I'd create during the week then peddle my wares at local shows; teach; and show in galleries.

I started out in my new community by renting space at the local Saturday Market, and on the side offered free arts and crafts for kids while their parents shopped, I had to do something with my time.  As beautiful as everyone claimed my pieces to be, people weren't spending disposable income on original art; I understood that but I was starving. Fellow marketeers bought my stuff to help me pay the weekly fee. The lemonade gal was making more money than me, so I put on my thinking cap and started a separate business.

Puerto Rico in the News

If you're enjoying watching the chaos in Puerto Rico, here's an oldie but goodie you might enjoy:  A Political Stalker Comes Clean.

Corruption and rioting are nothing new on the island.  I feel for the entire population, and in particular my artesan friends who depend on tourists from cruise ships for a large portion of their income.  Hot and sweltery summertime is the slowest time of year and they need all the sales they can get.

Ricardo Rossello's father was also Governor of the island and accused of corruption; as have most other governors.  There is something endemically wrong with the system, for it doesn't matter which party is in power; corruption continues.  I must admit my sexist attitude, for I was surprised to see a photo of the two women specifically charged with corruption.  I'd naturally assumed they were men, my bad.

I worry that this will prevent the President, et al, to deny future disaster assistance, and hurricane season has just begun.  This will only worsen an already bad situation.  No, I don't have any solution; but don't you think we should fix the problems for our fellow citizens in Puerto Rico, our 51st state, and the homeless, before we worry about other things? 

Photo note:  This couple stopped by my table during one of San Juan's international artesan fairs. (Yo soy artesana de higuera.)  They loved my story about how I got to the island and became a licensed artesan, and mailed me this photo after they returned home, wasn't that sweet?

Cayo Caribe

In case I get hit by a bus and never finish my book, it’s time to talk about a gallery I co-owned in Puerto Rico, along with 5 other artesans, named Cayo Caribe.

It was 2002, and the Twin Towers disaster had dried up tourism on the island.  Artists who could afford the airfare were fleeing in droves to sell their wares in New York, Chicago and elsewhere. Kite shop Volantines was another unexpected casualty; and to top that off, I’d just become a professional artist. Timing.

Ruff Life was anchored just offshore la Parguera along the southwest coast; and the tiny Paradise contained strip-mall El Muelle:  a marvelous mix of shops anchored by a supermarket, where I’d clerked for a couple of years upon arrival. El Muelle was the heart of the community, but after 9/11 everyone was struggling.

To help drum up business several liquor companies sponsored a Friday Night parking-lot party, where free booze flowed like water, no kidding. A self-taught artist, I’d been working with the island’s calabash tree-gourds, or higueras, for about a year.

I set up a borrowed table in front of the vacant shop next to Volantines, threw a curtain panel from the Dollar Store over the top, wrapped a fanny pack around my waist for change, and tried not to drip profusely during Puerto Rico’s summer doldrums. My first art show. My one and only sale that day was a small, lemon-colored basket to hold crackers; which went to Nancy, who I now visit at her digs in Lake Tahoe.

As the evening progressed a man the size of a mountain in a white Panama hat stopped to admire my work.  Miguel, a Santeros wood carver and painter, spoke fluid English and couldn’t say enough nice things, offering encouragement and the name of a valuable contact in Old San Juan. 

“You need to speak to Siuko,” who organized artesan shows in Plaza de Armas each month, which I did. When I offered to cross the island to show her samples of my work she declared it wasn’t necessary, for if Miguel thought highly of it, then that was good enough for her.

Volantines managed to remain open for a time, while I dipped my toe into the art community.  Attending festivals was fun for a while, but sales kept declining and finding transient accommodations was always a challenge. I slept on the floor while these pot-bellied pigs had their own room, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Eventually the kite shop closed; but as luck would have it, during our final two weeks Miguel asked if (we) would like to open a gallery in la Parguera along with silk-screener Lizette, jeweler Alberto, bamboo artist Franco, painter and musician Naesche and himself, of course. The timing was certainly fortuitous and I’m a firm believer in Kismet. Invited to a spontaneous get-together to discuss the gallery’s vision, I felt honored to be included in island life in such a manner.  Who could say no?

But first we had to build it. My compadres had already located a long-closed restaurant off the beaten path in Parguera. In hindsight that should have been a tip-off, but we were all optimistic and there was nothing else on the horizon. The planning parties had gone so well we assumed everything else would as well.

Imagine half a dozen Artists agreeing on anything involving designs; and we were starting from scratch. We couldn’t even agree on what color to paint the deck. We fought, laughed, got high, and teased Lizette mercilessly, since she was the only one among us who did not smoke cigarettes. She demanded our nicotine fixes be relegated to the Top Deck, inadvertently isolating herself; then going ballistic because we needed so many smoke breaks.

I drove Lizette around while she navigated the endless government departments requiring paperwork to open our little dream; while the fellows installed new wiring, removed tree roots growing out of the toilets and poured a new concrete floor. 

The Captain had remodeling experience and confidently assumed responsibility for construction projects; while I remained silent about all the leftover hardware after he reassembled things on the boat.  At least the gallery wouldn’t sink.

We made plans while we worked: poetry readings, free art classes for children; Friday night musical performances.  We didn’t have to worry about things like liquor laws, but we did need two bathrooms, being a public establishment. Lizzie and I would brawl with our partners after they’d sneak into ours (ladies, you can relate); but despite these differences we remained close friends and confidants.

We opened to great success.  We were featured in a newspaper article (read the Spanish language article here), and people seemed to like our mix of eclectic art.

Miguel’s fascinating paintings and sculptures are based on triangles; Naeche loves symbolism both in his art and music. Lizette is a master silk screen artist.

Alberto’s silver jewelry includes seeds, semi-precious stones and anything else he has lying about.

Franco was in the same boat as me, since harvesting, cleaning and carving bamboo was just as difficult and time consuming as my work with higueras. He made all sorts of touristy- items, and I collaborated with him by painting his incense holders, which we couldn't give away. Unfortunately, not just for us but the majority of artesans, the economy stunk and the public just wasn’t buying.

We all agreed to volunteer our time to the success of the gallery; but the quantity and frequency of time, well, that’s where our biggest thorn of contention emerged.  It highlighted the main difference between two cultures:  those who truly live, not just believe in, Island Time; and the rest of us.  Suffice it to say that my partners did not agree with my idea of regular hours.

"Local businesses, like hotels, need to know when the gallery is open, in order to direct tourists." I didn’t have any other source of income at the time, instigating my frantic pleas; and yet to a person my partners disagreed.

“Cayo Caribe is more of an artist’s cooperative than a gallery. We’ll probably stay open late, working on new pieces while people shop.”  Well, it was their concept, after all.

But the fact that they all felt the opposite caused me to question myself: I still hadn’t incorporated Island Time despite years on the boat.  What was wrong with me? They all tried so hard to help me relax; Miguel even dragged me to church during one festival when I was crying because, again, I hadn’t had any sales, but that's another story.

Eventually I left the gallery because I wasn’t earning enough to even cover the gallery rent. We had hoped that more artists would join the cooperative, thus reducing everyone's payment, but in those dark times it was a pipe dream. My partners, Miguel in particular, helped pay my share; but I just didn’t see things getting any better. Add to that, menopause.  Still, to this day they all love me as I do them.  We’ve shared an exceptional experience.  We support one another in times of trouble. Four of us are Librans.

Cayo Caribe eventually closed, along with so many other businesses. No one was really surprised but everyone was sorry.  Parguera was turning into a ghost town. My partners went back to their studios and continued with the show-route, as I did; but in addition to organized shows, which yielded little income for me, I painted murals, gave art lessons, and set up dog-and-pony shows for ladies’ groups. THOSE were profitable; and where I learned that no matter how lousy the economy, there will always be people with money. It also helps for an artist to have a benefactor-or-tress, and fortunately I had a couple of those, too.

   

You know how rosy memories become over time?  Back then we couldn’t get away from one another even if we tried.  We were all on the carny-route, coming and going, yanking stock out for shows and rearranging the gallery to look full.  During lengthy, common shows far away from our little county of Lajas, we’d all bunk in the house Miguel's wife, Nellie, rented while she worked in San Juan.

My Cayo Caribe family is still in Puerto Rico but fortunately they did not suffer too terribly following hurricane Maria; other than lost water and electricity like the rest of the island.   I was thrilled to learn that the little compound Miguel's building in the 'bush' near Cabo Rojo survived, except for the bamboo.  What will Franco do for material?  Now that we’re heading into the particularly troublesome time for hurricanes (Sept/Oct), I’m keeping fingers crossed for the island, as I know you are, too.

I am not exaggerating when I say I would not have becomethe artist I am without my partner's instruction, guidance, love and encouragement. Oh, and thanks in large part to their tenacity, enough Island Time was thrown at me for at least a little to stick.

Gracias, mi Boriquen.

Update 2024: Read Reconnecting with Puerto Rico, a trip I took 15 years after leaving the island.

P.S.  I would like to again share the following link to the GoFundMe page set up by non-profit CERF+, which helps artists around the world. This fundraising campaign is specifically for the artists of Puerto Rico needing help following devastating hurricanes. Thank you.