I will take you down my lane of remembrances to when I first came to the village of my heart, Álamos, Sonora, Mexico. I was raised a country girl on a Montana ranch, and the old fashioned sense of community in Álamos has enormous appeal to me. I will always remember yellow butterflies fluttering over the highways instead of snow flakes, amapa trees flowering in lavender profusion on the hillsides, small bits of paper kits darting over the heads of Mexican children, delicate Mexican sunsets, song birds, air as sweet as jungle perfume, little boys in colorful choir robes dispersing from the cathedral on the plaza. The beauty of all this is Álamos to me.

There is also the other side of living in Álamos that I must address, and that is the humor I have encountered living here. Believe it or not, all of it has been created by the Americans!

One evening we were invited to an American’s house for coctails. There was a story teller among them, and he got off on digging one’s grave at the cemetery in advance of one’s demise, because in Álamos one has to be buried within 24 hours. My mother, who came to Álamos in 1954, had already purchased hers. He was telling her she must have it lined with bricks and to be sure and get it measured because one time an American died here and his grave wouldn’t fit!

He also spun the tale of the fellow who had always wanted to go to Mexico, but his wife wouldn’t go without Mama, so they took Mama along. Unfortunately, while they were in Mexico, Mama died. The wife wouldn’t hear of having her mother buried in Mexico under any conditions, even though it was against the law to take her back across the border. The fellow bought a rug, rolled Mama up in it, tied her on top of the car, and hit the road heading back to the states. On the way they stopped at a restaurant for lunch, but when they came back to their car someone had stolen the rug!

I remember when an American woman died here in Álamos wearing a hearing aid, and a Canadian fellow I know took it out of her ear on her death bed and is wearing it. I hope I can luck out when the day comes that I need a hearing aid!

One time a fellow I knew, an American, went fishing on a lake somewhere near Navojoa. It was hot so he left his clothes on the bank. While fishing and swimming someone stole his clothes, leaving him penniless and naked. He had to hail a taxi in Navojoa to return to Álamos and, while on the way home, the taxi stopped at Zono Rojo to pick up another passenger. Can you imagine having to explain this to his wife when he got home? She had to pay the taxi driver! I knew both of them, and I imagine she took it rather calmly.

About five years ago a Romeo and Juliet blossomed out among the Americans here in Álamos, only they were not in their teens: they were in their sixties. One, a sweet talking retired American doctor, came single-footing into town and went around whispering sweet nothings in the ears of most of the American women, myself included. I sure wouldn’t have wanted him for my gynecologist! The good doctor swept one American woman right off her feet, shot her blood pressure over the moon, and seduced her into leaving town with him. They were never seen again.

It is rumored than an early day Singer Sewing Machine salesman scattered his wares and genes throughout most of Mexico, and is responsible for most of the light complexioned population of today!

Putting the Americans and their crazy behavior aside, living in Álamos is like walking back in history to the 1600’s to the days when the wealthy Spaniards lived here. Even today their ghosts follow us through our colonial mansions and along our cobblestone streets whispering of the terrors of their past in our ears.