[Critique Group 2] Leonard's comments for group 2

[Tuchyner5 at aol.com]

# Abbie’s piece 
This story is so splendidly awful that I can’t find any  way I would change 
it. I love it. It draws the reader into a horrible experience  that keeps 
getting worse, and you can’t stop reading it because you figure it’s  got to 
get better, and that is the reader’s only possible salvation. Thanks be  to 
the author for bringing us home safely. What a great travel brochure. There 
 is no place like home. 

Montezuma’s Revenge 



“This is a dump,” said Dad, as I gazed around our hotel  room in Hermosio, 
 Mexico. With my  limited vision, I spied two double beds, no telephone or 
television set, and no  other furniture. I peered into the bathroom, no 
bigger than a closet, with a  sink, toilet, and shower.  
With no air conditioning in the summer heat, sweat  trickled under my 
armpits and accumulated on my brow. According to Dad’s  guidebook, this hotel had 
rooms with a view of a courtyard. Our room had a view  of nothing I could 
see. 
At twelve years old, I was too excited to care. In June  of 1973 after 
almost a year of studying Spanish, Dad and I had finally realized  our dream of 
taking a trip to Mexico. After traveling most of the  day by bus from Tucson 
to Nogales, Arizona, and then  from Nogales to  Hermosio by train, I was 
glad to be here. Although it was after midnight, I was  far from tired. “I’m 
hungry,” I said. “Let’s find a restaurant.”   
“You bet,” said Dad. He consulted his guidebook.   
We took a taxi to a restaurant where I enjoyed my first  meal in Mexico: 
cheese enchiladas with rice  and beans. Afterward, we returned to our 
sweltering room and tried to get some  sleep. A couple of hours later, after tossing 
and turning, our bodies drenched  in sweat, Dad said, “I can’t stand this 
anymore. Let’s get the hell out of  here.” 
I climbed out of bed and consulted my Braille watch. It  was four o’clock 
in the morning. “Should I get dressed?” I  asked. 
“No, just put on your thongs, and let’s go.” He wore  nothing but boxer 
shorts. 
I put on my thongs and went in the bathroom. When I came  out, I was 
relieved to find that Dad had put on a shirt. My nightgown clung to  me, as we 
carried our suitcases down the stairs to the ground floor. In the  deserted 
lobby, Dad left the room key on the counter.   
It wasn’t much cooler outside. When we found a cab, Dad  told the driver in 
English, “Too hot. Can’t  sleep.” 
I said in Spanish that we needed to go to a different  hotel because we 
were hot.  
The place where we were taken not only had air  conditioning in the rooms 
but an elevator. After we checked in, Dad, knowing I  was thirsty, said to 
the clerk, “CocaCola?” 
“No, agua,”  answered the clerk. 
Because we knew not to drink the water, Dad said,  “No.” 
I said, “No  gracias.” 
I noticed little about the room except it was cool. I  collapsed between 
the crisp bed sheets and went right to sleep. When I woke in  the morning, the 
room appeared no different from hotel rooms in the  United  States. Two 
double beds were flanked by a night  stand, and a couple of armchairs and a 
small table stood in one corner. A  television set was mounted on the wall, and 
a telephone sat on the night stand.  According to my watch, it was nine o’
clock. 
Dad was sitting in one of the chairs, studying the  guidebook. “Good 
morning, honey,” he said. “Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll  get some 
breakfast? There’s a restaurant here in the  hotel.” 
The bathroom was huge, containing a vast tub with a  shower, a toilet, and 
a sink with a long counter. I brushed my teeth, trying not  to swallow the 
water. In the restaurant, we ordered an American breakfast of  pancakes and 
sausage. Dad suggested we take the bus to Guaymas, near the sea.  “It’ll be 
cooler there,” he said. “You can swim in the  ocean.” 
“That’s great,” I said. In the hotel’s air conditioned  comfort, my 
spirits had lifted, and I was looking forward to the Mexican  experience. 
We took a taxi to the bus station. On the way, our  English speaking 
driver, upon learning we were from the United States,  took us on a scenic tour of 
the city. At the bus station, Dad bought two tickets  to Guaymas. We met a 
woman from the United States, and she and Dad  carried on a conversation in 
English until our bus was ready to  leave. 
It was about a three-hour trip from Hermosio to Guaymas.  When we arrived 
in mid-afternoon, we took another taxi to a motel overlooking  the beach. On 
the way, I spotted a hill and pointed it out to Dad in Spanish.  The driver 
chuckled as if I’d never seen a hill before. What he didn’t realize  was 
that I was thrilled at any opportunity to use the Spanish I’d learned over  
the past year. 
The motel was another recommended by Dad’s guide book. We  were given a 
bungalow with a cement porch and a screen door. It faced the ocean,  and the 
beach was only a few steps away. The room contained two double beds with  a 
night stand in between and a table and two armchairs. An adjoining bathroom  
contained a toilet, sink, and shower, not as grand as the bathroom I used 
that  morning in Hermosio.  
A telephone sat on the night stand. It had no dial or  buttons. “How do you 
make a call on this phone?” I  asked. 
“When you pick up the phone, an operator at the front  desk answers, and 
you give her the number,” Dad  said. 
We hit the crowded beach right away. My excitement was  soon dampened by 
the drenching ocean waves that nearly knocked me down and the  awful, salty 
taste of the water. Since I wasn’t much of a swimmer, I stayed in  the shallow 
water and tried to walk next to the shore. Rocks hurt my feet, and  waves 
slowed my progress. As Dad swam into deeper water, I longed for the  swimming 
pool in our neighbor’s back yard in Tucson. 
I spotted a dock and a stretch of calm water nearby. When  Dad returned to 
shore, I asked why we couldn’t swim  there. 
“Because that’s where ships go,” he answered. It wasn’t  fair that ships 
got calm water while swimmers got waves, but I said  nothing. 
That night, Dad suggested we eat at another restaurant  recommended by the 
guide book. When he told the cab driver in Spanish where we  wanted to go, 
he said the restaurant no longer existed. He suggested another  place that 
specialized in seafood, and we went there. I didn’t like fish, but I  said 
nothing. 
Dad ordered lobster for both of us. He removed the meat,  buttered it, and 
put it in my mouth. It was awfully rich, but I managed to get  it down. I 
wondered what Mother and my younger brother Andy were having for  dinner. I 
pictured spaghetti, lasagna, meat loaf, macaroni and cheese. I  considered 
closing my eyes, clicking my heels together three times, and saying,  “There’s 
no place like home.” That wouldn’t have worked, and Dad would have only  
gotten mad. 
The next morning, we took another obligatory swim in the  ocean before 
eating another American breakfast of pancakes and sausages.  Afterward, Dad 
found someone to take us out in a motorboat. The seats were  comfortable, and 
the trip was uneventful except for one point when seaweed got  caught in the 
engine, causing it to stall. The boat man, who spoke some English,  explained 
the situation and managed to restart the motor. The water was calm,  and I 
didn’t get sick, yet. 
When we returned to the dock, I said, “Gracias.” 
“Oh no, don’t thank him yet,” said Dad, a note of alarm  in his voice. “I 
haven’t paid him.” The man  chuckled. 
After Dad settled the score and we were walking away, I  asked, “Why shouldn
’t I have thanked him before you paid  him?” 
“If Mexicans think you’re not going to pay them, they’ll  take you to 
jail, and a Mexican prison is worse than anything you can imagine.”   
“They wouldn’t put me in jail, too, would  they?” 
“Oh yes, you’d be in there with  me.” 
“They wouldn’t just send me  home?” 
“No.” 
At that point, I decided I’d had about enough of  Mexico. “Let’s go home,”
 said Dad, as  if reading my thoughts. “We don’t have much money  left.” 
We returned to our bungalow to find that the cleaning  lady had taken our 
towels and not brought clean ones. I took a shower and dried  myself with one 
of Dad’s shirts. Dad picked up the phone and asked the operator  in Spanish 
how much it would cost to place a long distance call to Tucson. He hung up 
a  moment later saying, “It’s too expensive.” 
That night, we ate dinner at the motel. My stomach hurt,  and I made a 
couple of trips to the restroom where I succumbed to diarrhea.  After dinner, we 
checked out of the motel and took a taxi downtown to the bus  station. The 
bus for Nogales wouldn’t leave for several hours. Dad  rented a locker for 
our luggage.  
We walked around downtown Guaymas. Most of the shops were  closed, but we 
stopped so Dad could look in the windows. My stomach still hurt,  and my 
bowels threatened to disgorge more diarrhea.   
“Did you drink the water?” asked  Dad. 
“No,” I answered. 
At a drugstore, Dad found someone who spoke English to  help make a collect 
call home from a pay phone. “Can I talk to Mom?” I asked  after he spoke 
to her for a few minutes. 
He handed me the phone and whispered, “Don’t tell her  you’re sic. She’ll 
worry.” 
“Hi Mom.” 
“Hi sweetie.” 
It was so good to hear her voice. I wanted to cry but  managed to stay 
dry-eyed, as I said, “We had a good time, but I miss you, and I  can’t wait to 
come home. I love you.” 
“I love you too,  honey.” 
The drugstore had no restroom so we found a restaurant,  and the hostess 
was nice enough to let me use the bathroom. Afterward, we sat at  a corner 
table, and Dad ordered me a Coke. It wasn’t the first time I drank a  Coke in 
Mexico from a glass with ice made  from water we shouldn’t have been 
drinking. I took a few swallows and made  another trip to the bathroom, this time to 
throw  up. 
I made several more such trips. By the time we returned  to the bus station 
a few hours later, I was weak and nauseated. I collapsed on a  bench while 
Dad retrieved our luggage. The bus arrived, but it was full. There  wouldn’t 
be another bus until morning. 
I stretched lengthwise on the hard bench with no pillow.  At least I wasn’t 
in a Mexican prison, I thought, as I moaned and bent my knees  to my chest 
in an attempt to alleviate the nausea. “Do you have to throw up  again?” 
Dad asked. 
“No, I just feel  sick.” 
I dozed, woke to hear others around me, and realized they  were talking 
about me when someone said “doctor” in  Spanish. 
I rallied. “No, I don’t need a doctor,” I said in  Spanish. “I just want 
to go home.” 
“Maybe we’d better see about a train,” said Dad in  English. 
I didn’t want to move, but I hauled myself off the bench  and walked with 
Dad to a waiting taxi. At the train station, we were told that  the next 
train would leave for Nogales at dawn. Dad and I camped out on the  sidewalk 
next to the track. The cool air was refreshing, and I slept through the  rest 
of the night.  
The unmistakable ding ding ding of the approaching  train’s bell woke us. 
We stood, and I could see the sky growing light. “Is this  our train?” I 
asked Dad. 
“Yes,” he answered. I watched the train come to a  complete stop in front 
of us. I stumbled on board, fell into a seat, and went  right back to sleep. 
When I opened my eyes, it was broad daylight. According  to my watch, it 
was eleven in the morning. I was thirsty but didn’t feel sick. I  breathed air 
into my mouth and licked my parched lips. I looked around for Dad  but didn’
t see him. The seat next to me was empty. I wished he would bring me a  
Coke. I dozed for a while and woke to find him next to me. “We’re pulling into 
 Nogales,” he  said. 
“Can I have a Coke?” 
“We’ll see,” he said with a  sigh. 
My legs felt like led. Dad didn’t have enough money for a  taxi so we left 
the train station on foot and found a bus stop about half a  block away. The 
bus was full, but we got on and stood near the front, grasping a  pole, as 
it lurched down the road. It stopped several times. People got off, and  
more got on. When a couple of seats opened up, Dad pulled me to them, and I let 
 my legs come out from under me.   
We got off the bus downtown and started strolling. “Where  are we going?” 
I asked. 
“We’re going to the bus station, and we’ll take the bus  home, but first, 
I told your mother I’d get her a pot, but I don’t think I have  enough 
money.” 
My shorts and t-shirt clung to me in the sultry afternoon  heat. We stepped 
into a shop where a fan stirred the tepid air, bringing little  relief. As 
we stood in front of a row of pots, Dad said, “These are more  expensive 
than I thought they would be.” 
While he weighed his options, I shifted my weight from  one foot to the 
other, as sweat poured down my brow and leaked from under my  armpits. Finally, 
I said in Spanish, “I’m very  hot.” 
“All right!” he yelled, grabbing me by the wrist and  pulling me out of 
the shop. 
“I thought you wanted to get a pot,” I said, as he hurried me down the  
street. 
After a couple of blocks, Dad said, “Here’s the port of  entry. We’re in 
the U.S.”   
The bus station wasn’t much farther, and to my relief, a  bus for Tucson  
was getting ready to leave with room for two more people. Dad bought the  
tickets, and we got on board. I sank onto a seat and closed my eyes. The next  
thing I knew, Dad was touching my shoulder and saying, “We’re in Tucson.” 
In the bus station, he bought me a Coke from the machine.  I sipped from 
the bottle slowly, feeling the cool, refreshing taste in my mouth,  throat, 
and stomach, hoping it wouldn’t come up. Dad called Mother from a pay  phone.  
They arrived, my younger brother Andy, with his usual  four-year-old 
exuberance, and Mother, with her immediate concern when she saw  me. “Honey, don’
t you feel well?” she asked, placing a hand on my  forehead. 
“She threw up and had diarrhea last night,” said  Dad. 
“Oh sweetie,” Mother said, holding me. “You didn’t drink  the water, did 
you?” 
“No,” I said, burying my face in her chest, breathing in  her reassuring 
scent. At home, after a little of Mother’s chicken soup from a  can, I was 
glad to finally slip between the cool, clean sheets of my bed, saying  to 
myself, “There’s no place like mi  casa.” 

THE END 
--   
Abbie Johnson  Taylor, Author _http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com_ 
(http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com/)  
_http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com_ (http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/)  
_abbie at mysero.net_ (mailto:abbie at mysero.net)  
Order my new  memoir at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm 


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# Alice’s piece 
I love it. Charming. I  love the sound of the Italian words. That is a 
class reunion that even I might  go to. It sounds almost as romantic as Italy  
itself. 
Fifty Years  later, Meet Me 

Once again, fifty years  later, 
meet me 
at the Little Italy  Festival. 
This time, 
follow the green, white, and red  lines 
down Ninth  Street, 
and meet me 
at Immigrant  Square, 
west of the Coal  Fountain, 
Since Coal is capitalized, do you need ‘the’ in front of  it? 
in the striped shadows of the twenty-six  flags 
which represent  countries 
from where Clinton area  residents 
have immigrated. 
Meet me 
in front of the statue of the  immigrant 
Luigi, 
with his one hand  waving 
I love that  image. 
and his other hand 
holding a valise. 
Meet me  
by the drinking  fountain 
called "Il Toro"-- 
the Bull-- 
like Luigi, 
crafted 
near my ancestral  home, 
in Torino. 
Then, we will go 
to the riverfront, 
down the terraced  banks 
I like it better without  ‘the’. 
where Joe Airola  
nurtured his  grapevines. 
On the Wabash River, 
we will take a gondola  ride 
in an authentic  gondola. 
Returning from our little taste of  Venezia, 
Do you need  ‘little’? 
we will eat spumoni 
as we sit beside 
the Quattro Stagioni  Fountain, 
listen to the music of the main  stage, 
Can you leave out the first ‘the’  
and absorb the chatter of  festival-goers. 
Back to Ninth  Street, 
we will tour the Little Italian  House, 
Il Mercato, and the Wine Museum 
Consider breaking this up into 2  lines. 
where you can buy one of my  books. 
Why only one  book? 
Then, in the Wine Garden, 
we can sit  
under lush Grapevines and Hoosier  stars, 
sip Chianti, 
listen to the polka  band, 
With so many ‘thes’, would you consider using  ‘a’? 
and talk of old times 
and fresh tomorrows. 
Don't be concerned: 
at Immigrant  Square, 
in the midst of the  crowd, 
you will easily recognize  me: 
It sounds good without  ‘easily’. 
I will be the one 
with the Black Labrador 
guide dog. 
Meet us. 
# Brad’s piece 
This is a well  constructed philosophical piece. I really like it. It would 
make a great  foundation for a philosophical discussion. It is particularly 
pertinent in the  present political climate where ideologies are fighting 
for  dominance. 
The Knowledge  Puzzle
C By Brad Corallo
Word count  141

It has been said:
to live, is to be marked. 
Can you explain  what you mean by ‘marked’. 
Mistakes and failures  are 
crucial sculpting tools. 
I like the music of  this line. 

As are the  victories and triumphs, 
Nice ‘R’  sounds. 

That illuminate  our many thousand days. 

Of course, when they are ravaging our precarious  stance, 
I think I know what  you mean by ‘stance’, but can you explain so I can be 
sure? Also, should it be  stances’? 

There is no  comfort in such knowledge.
The interrelation of things, time and events   
I’m not sure why I  want to say interrelationship, but I think it is the 
noun form of interrelate,  and it feels like you are using it as a noun. 

and all our  choices
comprise the loom on which
The fabric of our lives is woven.   
I love the analogy of  the last 3 lines.

We try to  distill
Some meaning in all such.
And, do we discern  something 
I don’t know why you  started this line with ‘And’. 

Working behind the  scenes? 
Are our perceived recognitions real?
Or are they no more
than  beliefs that give us comfort;
masquerading as epiphany and wisdom?   
This is a great  philosophical question. 


Better men  than I 
I don’t believe that  there is a hierarchy of who is best suited to 
contemplate the essential  truths.
Have struggled  with such questions.
I believe there is no way to be sure
but, I am sure  that, 
Using an alternative  word to ‘sure’ in one of the consecutive lines 
should be considered. ‘Certain’  would be a candidate.
I truly don't  know!

# Val’s  piece 
A powerful poem. I  suspect it has been inspired by the recent 
sociopolitical strife that has been  going on. There is a warning that if it goes too 
far, there will be a point when  the hurt will be beyond healing. Hate will 
cause a permanent rift within  individuals and the fabric of our society.  The 
author creates prayers for peace. That is her only tool and hope. She  
describes the paths that other’s use, but the implication is that they are  
futile. We can’t get through this without the help of a higher power   
Battlefield
VM  8-21-17

Hate separates with acid lines 
Good ‘a’  sounds. 

drawn in the  tender space 
between mind and emotion,
exploding fury.

Gun and  granade are 
replaced with acrid words,
beatists that delight in hurting,  
words cast like fiery arrows
in to bright, blessed hearts
where  healing comes slowly--
perhaps, never!

Some look away,  pretending,
some dash for cover.
I seek refuge in light,
lyric, prayer  for peace 
I like the use of  lyric here.  

before there is no  more hope.



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