Cora Kerr

There are the wounded or starving birds I've found on the beach. Gaviota was paralyzed when I found him. Following the advice of a seagull expert from Marine World, I tube fed him and perched him in the ice plant with a view of the sea until he was able to stand. Then he ate sardines from my hand, and we ran together in the surf. Gloriously, after more than a month, he took flight. Then there was Jefferson, the starving pelican, who, after flying off a week later, would return for months to be fed on our seawall. And there was broken-winged Baby, a pelican who, despite his permanent handicap, gobbled bait fish at midnight, swam with my husband, and sunned himself on the seawall for four glorious months.

Then there are the puppies rescued from the dump and the roadside after accidents. Hoppy, the fat black sausage, goes begging from neighbors having outdoor barbeques. Valiente, who spent three months at the vet getting the infection in her pulverized foot under control, can run faster than the wind. Jocqo, who lost an eye to glaucoma, is perpetual play and appetite. Nola, who suffered mange so severely that she was bloody and hairless, is endlessly grateful for her rescue. Cajita, a shepherd mix I found in a lunch pail seven years ago, will forever be a tiny puppy in the body of a huge dog.

Then there are the kittens discovered in garbage cans in Ensenada and bottle fed. Bathed and protected by our family dogs, they curl up with their adopted mothers, completely ignoring the species difference. Almejita cannot get enough cuddling; Perla, perched on a counter with a perpetual sneer on her face, swipes at passers-bye and growls. Though nearly three, she is the size of a kitten. Apparently small cats have a better survival rate in a culture where pets are less common, and wild cats vie for fewer left-over scraps.

Of course, my memory does not just dance with animals. Fascinated with Spanish, I've realized that the language--rich in the subjunctive mode, the mode of wishes and unrealized desires--reflects the cultural reality of a people who do not expect to have everything. And the Mexicans' patient encouragement and praise of anyone attempting to learn Spanish speaks of a disarming humility. A knowledge of Mexican history perhaps explains the reticence to say "No." Survival has been a matter of being able to complete any job, meet any deadline, so a Mexican worker will grin and assure you he can fix the heater despite the unavailability of parts. And, incredibly, given the ability to make-do with whatever is at hand, he often can actually succeed. If he can't, he will accept that inability with the same aplomb he accepts whatever impoverishment or tragedy life hands him. "Ni modo," he will smile. "That's just the way it is."

And, of course, as a woman, I have luxuriated in the Mexican worship of Mothers. Officials have waived import taxes when told that the heater was for my mother. Children have run after my elderly mother to return money dropping from her unzipped purse. The Border Patrol, confronted with Mother peeling a banana at a time when the threat of fruit flies made transporting fruit forbidden, simply grinned. And I have been respected and loved because I am a mother in a culture that operates far more on the values of the heart than on the value of the coin.

Living in Mexico, in a culture different than my native American culture, has been a wondrous experience. As a child, visiting Acapulco with my mother, I told a waiter who apologized for the rain that I didn't mind it and that, in fact, I was going to end my days living in Mexico. That just popped out--unpremeditated. How lucky I am that my wish became reality.

Cora Kerr

Campo San Martin del Mar

Author's Note: My daughter visited us in Punta Banda when we were living there. She also expressed a desire to retire there. I'm sure that it will not be the same as she remembered when she reaches retirement age.

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