[Critique Group 2] submission for January 31 critique session, 949 words

[Alice Massa]

*One Cobblestoned, White-washed,Golden Day in Taxco*

by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

On this January night in 2019, a year whose sound seems foreign to me, I 
am recalling a January day of 1974.While tonight I am weary of shoveling 
snow and weary of excited voices of weather forecasters proudly 
announcing the wind chill will be twenty-five to thirty-five below zero, 
I drift into thinking of a trip to Mexico in late December of 1973 
through January of 1974.On each day of our journey around Mexico, D.F., 
only a blazer or light sweater was part of my daily traveling outfits.On 
the one day of a dozen or so I could recollect, I am focusing on Taxco, 
once a silver-mining town.

Rather than a comfy seat in a large bus, a private car was our mode of 
transportation into the higher altitudes of Cuernavaca and then 
Taxco.Jorge, who spoke English very well, was our apt guide and driver 
for the day.We listened and learned from all that he had to tell us on 
the winding roads to Cuernavaca, where we visited the church in which 
the first guitar mass was celebrated.Unlike all the other churches and 
cathedrals we toured, this church in Cuernavaca was more contemporary.

My sister was my traveling companion; I spoke Spanish,; she did not.She 
had perfect visual acuity; I did not.At 23--eight years into something 
called "legal blindness"--I had planned, with virtually no qualms, to 
travel alone to Mexico; however, to help my dad feel a little more at 
ease, my sister decided to join me on this winter vacation to a warmer 
climate and to a land where I could practice speaking Spanish and tour 
points of interest.

Besides my sister and me, a vivacious woman of around fifty years of age 
and another much quieter woman whom we had not previously met were also 
fellow tourists and passengers in Jorge's car.

After the short stop at Cuernavaca, we continued through the mountains 
to our main destination--Taxco, in the southern Mexican state of Guerrero.

In this relatively small village, no vehicles are allowed on the 
cobblestoned inner streets of the town.Thus, we could walk through the 
streets without any concern about vehicular traffic.My first experience 
of walking on the cobblestone streets did not disappoint:although one 
had to be a little more careful with simple walking, the tactile journey 
was interesting and memorable.All of the houses and stores that hugged 
the mountainside were white-washed with red-tile roofs.While I have a 
distinct remembrance of the bluest sky I had ever seen, the white-washed 
abodes washed out in my limited field of vision.However, at that time, 
my photography hobby focused on slides.Later, at home or in my 
classroom, I could better see the white-washed buildings with the 
contrasting red-tile roofs projected from the slide carousel onto a 
large screen.Back home again in Indiana, I could much better see 
Mexico.(One of these slides, I had developed into a print; framed, the 
print of the Taxco hillside joins four other framed prints on a wall in 
my bedroom.)

Before we entered the town square of Taxco, Jorge seriously reminded us 
that we absolutely should not give anything to the children who would 
come near us and beg for a peso."If you give something to just one 
child, a minute later, a dozen or more children will quickly gather 
around you to beg for more," Jorge explained.

As we exited a shop on the festiveand cheery town square, a physically 
challenged boy did come near us and carefully asked, in English, for a 
peso.Jorge's words echoed in my mind.No matter what I did, I was 
uncomfortable, unsure.Jorge had also told us to give in another way to 
help appropriately.We did walk on:somehow, we walked past the little 
disabled boy whose image is forever unceremoniously pressed into the 
photo album of my mind.

Past the brightly decorated square, we strode to the stairs of the Santa 
Prisca Church--an impressive structure, built from 1751 to1758 in the 
New Spanish Baroque style and known for its gilding.("The Golden Church" 
was the tallest building in Mexico from 1758 to 1806.)Inside the Santa 
Prisca Church, the air was cooler, sounds crescendoed, and I wished for 
the moving chords of the organ.In the candlelight and streaks of natural 
lighting, the gold decor shined in contrast to the relatively dark (to 
my eyes) church.

The confessional for men was on one side of the church; the confessional 
for women was on the other.Did I ask God's forgiveness for my not giving 
anything to the little boy?Midst the quiet gold, did I kneel and pray 
for him; or did I just squint and admire the architecture and gilding?

I knew that Senor Jose de la Borda had the church built after he found 
not a vein of silver--but a vein of gold.De la Borda said, "God gave to 
de la Borda, and de la Borda will give back to God."He did:de la Borda 
gave the quaint village of Taxco the Santa Prisca Church.

Throughout these intervening forty-five years, I have periodically 
thought of the Santa Prisca Church and the little boy.Often, I have 
thought of the famous quote: "God gave to de la Borda, and de la Borda 
will give back to God."With each passing year, I try to live by this 
motto more and more because I know that even in the midst of this Polar 
Vortex, I find that I am better if Ido not count degrees below zero, but 
count blessings.

January 24, 2019, Thursday

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