Mexican Insurance

The rig this time was my father's beige Malibu wagon. I don't know what the lady was driving, to and from work in, at that time. Maybe that green squareback, which never made the crossing. The lady had secured the best possible transportation. She always made proper provisions. Must be that New England sensibility.

On the way down, she always stopped at the same Mexican Insurance establishment, to insure our journey. She always kept one eye on the car, from the front counter.

Then, we were off, the six of us, precious freight. Mother and the ducklings, tooling around in a huge station wagon. Each of us, running a separate inner dialogue. K1 always had her nose in a book. Long, prosaic books, with obtuse titles.

K2 and I would usually have something going, like a shared comic book, or a game of 'tease K2 until he cried.'

B and L would probably have something going, as well, or separate boy daydreams. Mother would have her concentration on the task at hand. My step father, G, came along on this trip. At least I think he came along, because I remember his vacuous grin the night I first drank tequila.

Back then, I was a thin stripe of a lad. My dark hair had fallen to my shoulders. Mother has a framed, black and white photo of me on horseback. I was wearing a cowboy hat, slung low over my eyes. Another boy is seated on the horse behind me. We were probably sitting on his horse, since his father worked for the patron. Mom says that lots of people took me for a mexicano boy, based on that photo.

The rancho belonged to a Flintridge family friend. On our visits to this world, somewhere east of Ensenada, our family roamed and soared. The youngest, of which I was their leader, helped to carve a frisbee golf course out of the natural landscape. We would send our wacky discs flying high through the air, with the aim of plunking a predetermined target, like a rock.

During the day, sometimes we would drive into town. There was plenty of fresh fish, and not a few diversions for adolescent boys. I always thought there was real equine 'business' in those horse-shit cigarettes. Mom was permissive enough to let me buy a switchblade knife, and firecrackers. She never allowed me to have a bb-gun, but gave me enough ammo to level half of the rancho!

One day I noticed that a tree near the casa, had two curious seedlings. They were about eight inches tall. Since they were cannabis, I figured it was Providence, and gently uprooted them. I stashed them in a plastic bag in my stuff, and attempted to smuggle them across the border.

All went according to plan, until we got close to the frontier. Then, my scheme began to unravel. I started to get nervous, and, with about seven cars until freedom, I caved.

"Mom, I know this isn't the best time to tell you this, but remember those two marijuana plants that were by the house? Well, they're in my stuff."

She blanched. By the time we got to agent's booth, she was white, and was waved over for secondary inspection.

Next time I speak with her, I just want to know how she pulled it together. And thank her for not tossing me, and my weed, out onto the interstate!