Burros and paintbrushes : a Mexican adventure PDF
Preview Burros and paintbrushes : a Mexican adventure
Page i Burros and Paintbrushes A WARDLAW BOOK Page ii Going Home from Market Page iii Burros and Paintbrushes A Mexican Adventure Written and Illustrated by Everett Gee Jackson Page iv Copyright © 1985 by Everett Gee Jackson All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Jackson, Everett Gee, 1900– Burros and paintbrushes. "A Wardlaw book." 1. Mexico—Social life and customs. 2. Jackson, Everett Gee, 1900– 3. Artists—United States— Biography. 4. Artists— Mexico—Biography. I. Title. II. Series. F1234.J26 1985 972.08´23´0924 8440558 ISBN 0890962294 Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition Page v To my three sweethearts, Eileen, Jerry Gee, and Hildy Page vii Contents Preface xi Publisher's Acknowledgment xv 1. Chapala 3 2. Guanajuato 39 3. Ajijic 65 4. El Manglar 86 5. Mexico City 110 6. Tehuantepec 138 Page ix Color Plates Going Home from Market Frontispiece From the collection of Mrs. Thomas Williamson, San Diego Fishermen's Shacks, Chapala Following page 80 From the collection of Mrs. Thomas Williamson, San Diego The Charcoal Burners From the collection of Mr. Dennis Abel Ragen, Los Angeles Street in Ajijic Following page 88 From the collection of Eileen Jackson, San Diego Women with Cactus From the collection of Mr. Cliff May, Los Angeles Page xi Preface When I was five or six years old, the Battle of the Alamo was fought on the playground of my school. The entire grammar school took part in that battle, and I was given the role of a Texan who got shot in the very first skirmish. I was told by my teacher to lie down and play dead as soon as the battle started, which I did. So I didn't get to see much of what went on, but it made a deep impression on me, and I knew for years afterwards that I had been killed by a Mexican. The fact that I had not only taken part in the Battle of the Alamo, but had also died there, along with Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, made it inevitable that I would someday go to Mexico and see for myself the kind of people who had done me in. In my hometown, Mexia, Texas, there was only one Mexican. His name was Martínez, and he made and sold, up and down the streets, the most delicious tamales, the small kind some people call "Texas tamales." I had a great fear of—but also admiration for—this man, Martínez. When I would hear him coming down the street yelling "taMALes," I would run and tell my mother, hoping she would buy some of his wares. But I would also make sure to stay out of sight, for I did not want to get killed by a Mexican again. One day, as my mother and I were walking to town along the sidewalk, we met this Martínez with his box of tamales. Inside the square box, which he carried by a strap over his shoulder, was a fivegallon can with a lid. Page xii When Martínez would lift that lid, the steam and the magic odor would fill the air. On this occasion, feeling fairly safe with my mother, I reached around and touched the bright red bag he used as a cover for his box. When I did that, old Martínez gave my hand a slap. That was too much. I simply wet my britches from fright. No longer could there be any doubt where my major interest in life would lie. Many people have wondered why I spend so much time in Mexico, why I go back again and again, why I even carried my bride there and returned so many times wih her that she finally asked if there were any other place in the world we might someday visit. Since I had become a painter and illustrator of books, people assumed that for some reason I preferred Mexican subject matter. It is true that from the beginning I found beauty wherever I went in that country. But this is the first time I have revealed the true psychological reason for my searches from one end of that land to the other: subconsciously, I have been trying to find out all I could about those people who killed me in the Battle of the Alamo. This project has proved to be without end. There is no "Mexico." There are many, many Mexicos, and as many Mexicans who may have shot me at the Alamo as there are inhabitants in that land that reaches all the way to the Guatemalan border. I have often suspected that the Mexican I was searching for was the one who suddenly stops singing and starts yelping in those Mexican orchestras called mariachis. But then when I have listened to him yelp like a coyote, I have known that he would not have wanted
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