Jose Guadalupe Silva

Mi Abuelo Silva- Jose.

“Nothing is important in life unless it means something to the ones we love.” -Jose

I have taken the time to write down as many quotes from my grandfather as I can each time I visit. My grandfather is a smart man and has worked hard his whole life. He was born February 15, 1936 in Montemorello, Mexico near the Guadalupe Mountains in Nueva Leon. His family was taught the gospel and then shortly after they were able to apply and become citizens of the United States. My grandfather was raised early on in the church and also in the states and he remembers most of his childhood in Texas. I visit every summer as I go down to El Paso and spend time with my grandparents…I always ask my grandfather question after question so that I can learn more about him. My dad used to start stories about him that sounded so cool but he would never finish because even my dad didn’t know the whole truth. There were mysteries that needed to be solved and I was going to be the grandchild that would figure it out. Jose Guadalupe Silva married my grandmother Sara Bojourquez Silva when she was only 15, who was also from Mexico but now a United States citizen. Only days before the wedding did my grandma come to Jose in tears revealing her true age. They married anyways. They had 8 children and moved all around the country and at times overseas. They started out in El Paso, moving 3 times there and then to Orlando, Florida. From Orlando they stayed with some family in El Paso again for a short while and then moved back to Orlando. A few years later they moved to Denver, Colorado and then to El Paso. They really liked El Paso obviously. After staying there for less than a year they moved to Banbury Cross, England and then to Chilbrook Cottage, Oxon, England. After staying in England for 3 years they moved once again to El Paso and then to a few different homes in Boston Massachusetts. They left to Hawaii before the 10^th child was born, and from Hawaii they moved back to Texas, except this time to Austin. Of course after a very short stay in Austin they moved finally back for good to El Paso where they are today. The reason for this traveling?...My grandfather was in the United States Air Force and moving the family was necessary. There were times I found out from my grandfather that he would often travel without the family to different countries. He mentioned Germany, Spain, France, Portugal, Turkey, Thailand, Israel, and countless others. My abuelita added in during this interview with my grandpa that there were times that the Air Force would call her and let her know that my grandpa had just been notified that he would be leaving on a top-secret mission for a few months and they would tell her not to worry. I was told that once he was notified, he was handcuffed to a briefcase and would leave not knowing his mission until he got there. To this day he won’t tell us a thing about what those missions are about. He did let slip once that it had something to do with taking enemy pictures during the Vietnam War. He told a story once of how he was in a helicopter flying over enemy territory when all of a sudden he and his teammates were bombarded by bullets from the ground below. He said he began to fervently pray. Several of his comrades were struck but he made it back to the base. As he left the helicopter he saw a bullet hole that was directly behind his back. How the bullet got behind his back without him moving was beyond him and he knew that Heavenly Father had had his hand in protecting him that day.  How had I not known these things? I’ll tell you how…my abuelo is humble. He is a humble man who has served the Lord all his life.  As of right now my grandfather is a retired junior high history teacher, temple counselor of the Juarez, Mexico temple, a cook and a comic. He fills his grandchildren’s and his children’s lives with humor. He always has a joke. I love him and his example very much. He always has such love for Grandma and for his great grandchildren, grandchildren and children who are no few in numbers. His love for the Lord shines so bright. I have no doubt that my grandfather has been used by the Lord more than once to accomplish services that needed done by the Lord. As I conclude my brief history I leave his testimony with you and pictures throughout his life.

I love you abuelito!...Emalia

"I’m the oldest of 8 brothers and sisters and my sister Irma was the baby of the family. In early 1956 I left to serve a mission for our church. At that time my sister Irma was just a few months old. She was a beautiful baby. I took a picture of her sitting on my mother’s bed which I carried with me the two years I was away. I still remember embracing my little brothers and sisters as I said goodbye. Some were crying and so was I. I don’t know if they remember but I never forgot. I held the baby (Irma) for a long time before boarding the greyhound bus. The last thing I would have thought them is that any of my brothers and sisters would precede me in death.

It is a devastating, consuming thing to lose someone you love. It gnaws at our souls and many of us, fell lost, confused, and sometimes without comfort. However, we need not despair for the promise of the resurrection is certain. Jesus said “I’m the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live (John 11:25-26). The resurrection is the reuniting of the spirit and body in its perfect form.

President Joseph F. Smith, a modern day prophet said, “That those from whom we have to part here, we will meet again and see as they are. We will meet the same identical being that we associated with here in the flesh.”

President Spencer W. Kimball also a modern day prophet amplified this when he said, “I’m sure that if we can imagine ourselves at our very best, physically, mentally and spiritually, that is the way we will come back.” When we are resurrected, this mortal body is raised to an immortal body…we will die no more. Can you imagine that? Life at our prime? Never sick, never in pain, never again burdened with the ills that afflict us in mortality? The resurrection is at the core of our beliefs as Christians. Without it, our faith is meaningless. The Apostle Paul said, “If Christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain and our faith is also vain. (Corinthians 15:14)

When the Savior rose from the tomb, he did something no one else had ever done. He did something no one else could do. He broke the bonds of death, not only for Himself but for all who have ever lived or will live—the just as well as the unjust (John 5: 28-29). When Christ rose from the dead he made that gift available to all. And with that sublime single act he softened the devastating, consuming sorrow that is felt by those of us who have lost precious loved ones.

I think of how dark that Friday was when Christ was lifted up on the cross. On that Friday the Savior of mankind was humiliated and bruised, abused and reviled. It was a Friday filled with devastating, consuming sorrow for those who loved Him. But then came Sunday and the resurrected Lord burst the bonds of death. He appeared gloriously triumphant as the Savior of all mankind.

Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the shards of our shattered world lie littered about us in pieces. We will all have our Fridays but I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. No matter our desperation, Sunday will come. I testify to you that the resurrection is not a fable. We will rise from the grave and on that day we will embrace our loved ones. On that day I will hold in my arms my baby sister Irma just like I did so many decades ago.

It is my solemn testimony that death is not the end of existence. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

-Jose

Jose at 7 years old

 At 17 right before he left on his Spanish/American Mission

 First Air Force Uniform

 Buddies within the Force

 Silva family house in England

 Right before Jose's first mission over seas

 Grandpa in Thailand

 Having dinner with some friends in Germany while on a mission

 Grandpa back at the base developing enemy photos

 Sara and Jose on their wedding day

Sara with Art, Pearl, Bobby, Maribel, Pepe and Gus

Jose and Sara today

From the personal account of Jose Guadalupe Silva:

"February is the coldest month of the year in the state of Nuevo Leon, Mexico. And so it was that the fifteenth of said month, in 1936, I was born in a humble shack made of sticks plastered with mud from the nearby arroyo and a corn stalk roof. I don't mention this fact to appear humble as those that know me intimately know better. This simply is the way or circumstances under which I began my mortal journey in this beautiful world. My parents were truly humble.. My father could just barely read and write and the only skills that he had were those related to ranch life. My mother never went to school and as a consequence, she never learned to read or write, and she was always a housewife. Although she came from a well to do family, they had lost most everything during the Mexican revolution when everything of value that my grandfather had was either stolen or expropriated by the new "government" except some non children. My aunts and uncles scratched that arid land with plows and oxen to eke out a few bushels of corn and beans to survive. They also grew a few domestic animals such as chickens, cows, goats and pigs to supplement the agricultural produce. My parents were the poorest of them all and lived in a small plot of land my grandpa Serapio, my mom's father, had given them. My dad worked on surrounding farms as a hired hand and most of the time he was paid with corn, beans or animals that we could consume. My mother gypsum on which ranch wives cooked corn tortillas. She did this to sell them and help my father support us. Sometimes she also helped my dad on the ranch chores. Once she was helping him clear a plot of land to prepare it for planting, it consisted of cutting down the trees, pulling out the trunks and burning the branches. I was about three years old and was there playing. I don't remember very much about it except the part where I got curious and took a machete and started to cut cactuses, which abounded in the area. It was easy and a lot of fun, until I cut my left foot with it. As I was barefoot for lack of footwear, nothing protected me from the very sharp blade of the big machete. At almost seventy two years old, that scar is still visible. That was the environment where I learned to take my first footsteps and learn my first few words. My childhood memories, until about five years old, are centered in my relationship with my cousins, aunts and uncles on my mother’s side of the family although I did see my sousins, aunts and uncles on my father's side of the family a couple of times. I never knew my mother's mom (Apolonia) as she died when my mom was only two years old. My father’s dad (Cleofas) died long before I was born and I only got to see his mother (Florentina) about three times when she came to visit us. Although I did not see my father's relatives but a few times, I have fond memories of those times. They were very kind and loving to me. I remember that they took me to a fair once and they bought me a lot of candy and other snacks. I was about three or four years old and do not recall too many details but I do remember having a wonderful time. I do remember that, that was the first time I tasted candy and any type of cookie. I remember that I saved some of the cookies for my mother, but by the time we got home, I had eaten them all. I could not resist the urge. It seems like my parents moved quite often. I don't remember when we left Grandpa Serapio's ranch but have memories of living in several places between then and when I was seven. Most of those places were in Texas. In all this time I remember going to school for about three or four weeks and did not return to school until I was twelve years old, in Mission, Texas.

During those early years of my life, we lived in several farms in the lower Rio Grande valley, (El Valle) in Texas. My father worked for differenet farm owners for several years. Between the ti8me when I was about four until I was nine, we went back and forth between Texas and Nuevo Leon. We usually went to my grandfather Serapio's ranch outside of Montemorelos. Those were short visits of a few days and sometimes a few weeks. It seemsthat every time we visited my grandpa, my mom had another baby while we were there. As a consequence almost all of my mother's first seven children were "made in Texas and born in Mexico." My oldest sibling was named Guadalupe, a girl. Then I was born and was followed by Roberto, Ernestina, Alejandrina, and Aurora. It was about this time that my father and mother had some kind of marital problem and he left us. Aurora was a few months old and I was about nine when it happened. My mom gathered her ch8ildren and returned to Texas. It must have been very hard for her to try to raise us on her own. She got together with a man whose name I don't remember as the relationship only lasted a few months and he went back to Mexico where he had come from. My sister Esperanza was born of that short relationship. And guess what...we went back to grandpa's ranch for about three months. Long enough for my sister to be born there. By this time, I was twelve and again my mom brought us back to good old Texas. This time my mom enrolled me in school (1948). The name of the school was Roosevelt Elementary in Mission, Texas. They placed me in first grade but was there only a few weeks. The school placed me in first grade but was there only a few weeks. The school administration and my teacher decided to place me in third grade for the rest of the year. Perhaps because of my age. At the end of the school year, I was advanced to fourth grade but only attended four or five weeks. I had to drop out to help my mother. I went to work in the fields as a field hand. Sometimes to pick tomatoes and other times to pick other kinds of farm produce. The work was hard and the day was long. A truck would pick us up at sunrise take us to the fields and bring us back at sundown. The pay was so low that in a good day I would earn between a dollar fifty and two dollars. But, it helped. When I look back, I’m surprised that nobody cared that a little boy was going without an education (I was not the only one). It seems that none of the authorities of those days cared if “Mexican” children were educated or not. About 1950 or 51, my mother met and got together with Francisco Trevino. He fathered my other three brothers and sister. He was a good man but drank too much and kept losing his jobs. He was a good mechanic and not a bad stepfather. After my brother Juan was born, the first Trevino, we moved from Mission to Pharr Texas, Shortly before the move, my mother and my sister Ernestina were baptized in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. This event eventually led to my conversion which I will write about in some details later. Between 1950 and 1954 I continued to work in the fields but in that year we moved to Harlingen, Texas after living in Weslaco for a while. This time I heard that the Texas Water Conservation Department was hiring and I decided to try and get a job there. I was a short skinny kid (not one with the physical stature for that kind of work) but I needed to get out of the fields. The work consisted of cleaning the large irrigation canals and clearing the sides of all kinds of bushes and trees. It was very hard work but it paid better than the field work (25 dollars a month).

I arrived at the place on a Monday morning before it was opened. It was a large enclosure where they stored the trucks, bulldozers, materials and other equipment. A small office sat to the side of the enclosure. I was scared to ask for work since I had never done so. In the case of fi8eld work you just stood by in some corner where trucks would pick people up and they did not ask any questions. With some trepidation, I moved towards the shack, all the time thinking that they would say no after looking at the scarecrow that approached. After some hesitation at the door, I managed the courage to enter and ask for the man in charge. A big heavy man turned to me and asked me what I wanted. I asked for a job and he just stood there for a minute or two without saying anything. Finally he asked me to wait outside on the porch. I waited and watched the all that was going on as the crews loaded up equipment, tools, and materials. One by one each crew left until there was only one left. I watched as they also loaded up and proceeded to get on the truck. I thought the boss had forgotten about me but just at the last minute, he came out and called to the crew chief in a loud commanding voice. “Take this kid and try him out. See how he does and then we’ll see,” he hollered. I ran to the truck and climbed faster than I had climbed before. The crew was very friendly and offered encouragement. They must have sensed my anxiety. I worked very hard to the point that my hands were bleeding from not being used to the tools for that kind of work. At noon the crew shared their lunch with me as I did not have any. I will never forget the kindness of that group of rugged boisterous men. At the end of the working day we returned to the enclosure and I waited for somebody to tell me something but nobody said a word to me. Everybody went home and the night watchman proceeded to close the gate. I went home and my mother took care of my hands with some alcohol and some kind of ointment. I returned the next day and since nobody said anything, I just climbed in truck and went to work. This time I did have lunch. An egg and potato burrito…ugh. I did not care for flour tortillas then. I have come to like them now.

Going back to my conversion. When the missionaries first came to our house, I was at work, in the fields then. When I got home, my mother handed me the Book of Mormon and the Joseph Smith pamphlet. Since my mother knew how I felt about the churches that we knew then, (I was very skeptical based on what I observed) including the Catholic church to which we belonged but to which we rarely went, she approached me by telling me that some Catholic missionaries had stopped by and left the literature. After eating, I picked up the pamphlet and started to read. I knew immediately it was not Catholic but my reaction was one of greater skepticism. The first thing I thought was, this guy is worse than all those silly people that claim to have seen saints, angels and virgins and prayed to things made by men. This guy “Smith” had gone all the way to the top. I confronted my mother about her attempt to deceive me. Her response was “how else could I get you to read it?” I did not touch the literature for about a year. In the meantime my mother and my sister Tina were baptized. Sometime later I had an opportunity to go to Beaumont, Texas with a crew of older men to work at a packing plant to pack tomatoes, label the crates stamp and ship them out on the railroad. This was a welcome opportunity as it would temporarily take me out of the fields. My job consisted of stamping the crates as they were loaded on the train. When my mother packed some of my clothes for the trip she also threw in the Book of Mormon. Since I was the only minor on the crew I found myself alone in the place where we slept, (an old, old, old army barrack)…on the weekends while my co-workers went to town to drink and be merry. Having a lot of time on my hands and only a small radio to keep me entertained, I began to read the book. The more I read, the more I wanted to read, until I received a testimony that it was true and that it was from God. Upon my return, I sought the missionaries and as they taught me and the members, about 12, of the tiny branch befriended me I grew spiritually and was baptized. I was baptized in September of 1954 and ordained a deacon in the Aaronic priesthood. I also served as mutual president. About a year later I was called to serve a full-time mission in the Spanish American Mission presided by Harold I. Bowman. I served in Texas and New Mexico from 1956 to 1958.

When I was released from the mission field, I joined the US Air Force. To this day I believe the Lord blessed me on this because given the limited education that I had; only a miracle could account for me passing the Air Force enlistment test. I knew some men then, and many more since with high school diplomas that did not pass. My Heavenly Father and the Lord Jesus Christ have never abandoned me in spite of my sins and my follies. This will be highly evident to the readers of this account as the read more of My Life Upon this Earth."

Stories from Grandpa...

Story 1:

The Swimming Hole-

“Come on, there is nothing to it.”

The voice was that of my cousin, urging me to make my first dive into the depths of his favorite swimming hole. “I can’t.” My voice sounded weak and so far away as I perched on the tree limb that hung over the water no more than ten feet above the surface. “I’m cold…and besides, I don’t feel like swimming, anyway.” My body felt cold and was one continuous tremor. The palms of my hands felt moist, and cold perspiration ran down my face and the back of my neck.

“You are being a sissy.”

“Sissies don’t ride wild bulls!”

“My bull is not wild and besides it’s only a calf.”

“It is not a calf! His horns are more than two inches long.”

“It is so! And it threw you right away…haha!”

“…only because you let go of the rope which you promised not to do.”

“Make up your mind. Jump and be a man or stay there and be a baby.”

I tried to jump but my body felt glued to the tree limb as I stared at the crystal clear water below. As I struggled to control my shivering body, his voice was being drowned by the shattering of my teeth.

“Come on sissy, Jump, Jump!”

“Ok!  ...I’m coming!”

Making a super-human effort, I let go of the branch without taking my eyes off the water. It looked so far away. I tried to change my mind. It was too late! I found myself tumbling down and the next instant the cold water was enveloping my body.

“I did it, I did it, I did it!”

“I told you, you could do it, you sissy!”

                He was only eight months older than me, but at the ripe old age of nine, he was a man of the world. He had been to the city with his dad several times and had ridden the bus and the train. I had not seen either. Once when he and his parents had gone to the city, they took him to a “feria,” a combination of a fair and carnival. For the next two weeks we sat under the lilac tree at the end of the pasture going over this new experience of his. My mind was filled with the images of two headed cows, bearded ladies, fire eaters, hairy giants, all kinds of fruits and vegetables, colors lights and music. The day after he came back from town, he came to see me. He was wearing a mask he had picked up at the fair. He wanted to frighten me, but I recognized him right away.

“You were scared as always. Weren’t you?”

“I was not! I knew it was you all the time.”

                His parents were better off than mine and seemed to favor him, over his two younger sisters. He always got what he asked for, or so it seemed to me at the time. He always shared everything with me no matter the size, cost or number. Six  months after my experience at the swimming hole, his father slaughtered the white bull that had so little regard for my rump and my ego by throwing me on a big pile of fresh cow manure. It took a lot of explaining before Alonzo was convinced that I could not take half of the bull home with me. Even then, he was not satisfied until my uncle helped us carry one whole leg of the beast to my place. I used to tell him that when I grew up and became rich, I would buy him all kinds of toys and things to play with.

“I’m going to grow up too, silly!”

“Ok, Ok…then we will go everywhere together and I will pay for everything.”

                As far back as I can remember we were always together. Our mothers were sisters and our farms were only half a mile apart. Sometimes I slept at his place and sometimes he slept at ours and always we were treated the same both places. We seemed to have two sets of parents, no wonder we felt like brothers. In fact I have never felt that close to my own three brothers. It never occurred to us that we would ever part but it happened, and in a way neither of us expected. My father had started to quarrel with my mother the year I had turned eleven. It seemed that the farm we lived in did not belong to us as I had thought. It belonged to my mother’s father and my dad wanted to move. Mt mother refused to do so and my dad began to drink very heavily. By the time I turned twelve, the arguments became a daily occurrence and both my parents were always in a bad mood. Alonzo did not come to see me as often, and every time I asked to be permitted to go to his place, my dad would say “What the hell do you want with that bunch of stuck-up bastards? Stay home where you belong!”

                On my thirteenth birthday things came to a halt. My parents separated and eventually obtained a divorce. My mother could not run the farm so we moved to the city. It all seemed so foolish and so utterly wasteful. We left the farm on a Saturday afternoon. That was the last time I went to see Alonzo. I still remember him standing there, on the patio, after he had showered me with going away gifts.

“Come and visit soon, we will go swimming at the old place.”

                Almost a year later we got word that there had been an accident at the farm. The tractor had turned over with Alonzo and a hired hand inside. Alonzo had been pinned under it for three hours before the hired hand, with a broken leg and other injuries was able to get help. Alonzo died two hours later but not before asking that his favorite hunting gun, a twenty-two caliber rifle be sent to me. I still keep that rifle even though it has never been used by me and as often as I can, I visit the farm, the lilac tree and the old swimming hole.

-Jose G. Silva

(Some of these details are not all true facts…) J

Story 2:

Traveling-

Traveling can be a tiresome and boring experience, bur every once in awhile, one finds a trip interesting and even fascinating. The journey I am going to describe is that which is covered by the rail line Chihuahua al Pacifico between the city of Los Mochis on the west and Chihuahua city on the east, across the little known Barranca country, in the northwest states of Mexico.

Los Mochis is situated on the northwest tip of the state of Sinaloa on the westcoast of Mexico. It is a city of approximately forty thousand with nearby port facilities, and serves as a railroad junction between the south, north and east of Mexico. Many prominent and well-to-do people live here. Their homes are as varied in architecture as their occupations. Doctors, teachers, lawyers, engineers, merchants, politicians and government emplotees all live in one area of the city comprising about 40% of the city and 30% of the population. The homes vary from elegant mansions in imitation of the English, complete with their rose gardens and lush vegetation, to the Spanish colonial stype intermixed with the most modern Mexican and American architecture. Most of their homes have swimming pools in their backyards, the size depending on the financial status of its owner, from the air they give the impression of hundreds of tiny oases dotting the semi-arid coastal town. From this picture one may get the impression that this must be the most prosperous city in all of Mexico. That impression is quicklt changed as one proceeds to the railroad station where our journey will commence. As you get closer to the station, the homes become modest both in construction and materials, from the red fiery brick to the cold, dull cinderblock and the most common of all, the small adobe houses with their whitewashed walls and extremely small windows. The other 70% of the population lives here. Upon arrival at the station one is impressed by the ease with which all is made ready for the trip, without the hustle and bustle to which one has become accustomed in the big cities of the neighbor to the north. Soon, you find yourself gliding north on some of the most beautiful railroad equipment in the world. In fact, the whole train trip soon becomes a revelation to those who have limited themselves to reading outdated accounts of Mexico. The images they have formed of this beautiful country, its terrain, its people and its relation to modern civilization are grotesquely distorted to say the least. The rail line runs through the Barranca country. Had one visited this area before the line was constructed, one would not think that it would ever be possible for any enginnering ingeuity to get a railroad across those canyons and to the Pacific. But it was done. It was probably done at a terrific expense and with incomparable ingenuity. The rails are welded together. Most of the ties are concrete and steel rather than wood. The roadbed is balanced so smoothly that the train simply glides along as though you were riding a small boat at Disneyland. But what country the train glides over! You get into the mountains. You cross bridges over breathtaking sheer drops to turbulent streams hundreds of feet below, plunge into tunnels cute through solid rock on the sides of mountains bringing you out into an entirely different part of the water course. You double and twist and climb, climb, climb. And always the trip so smooth that it is like sitting in you livingroom watching the scenery glide by on a giant television screen.

At the start of the trip, the terrain is actually a jungle. There are, of course, cleared places in the jungle and quite a bit of domestic stock that has learned, from sad experiences, to stay clear of the tracks. When these animals, mostly cows, horses and burros hear the train's whistle and the behicle bearing down on them, they move ith alacrity. Later, the road goes through some rugged terrain. Solid walls of rock loom in the distance with dark spots representing entrances to tunnels. The train plunges into the tunnel and far ahead will appear a beam of light which is the opening at the other end of the tunnel. How many tunnels does one go through? Impossible to say, for the traveler is so taken by the beauty and majesty of the towering mountains, near bottomless canyons and diversity of vegetaion that he hardly has time for trivial matters. During the rainy season, these mountains and canyons are transformed into a world of exquisite beauty. The mountains with all the shades of green imaginable and hundreds of cascading, silvery waterfalls and torrential rivers creating a roar as of a thousand lions and taking with them, on their swift flight to the Pacific Ocean, everything standing in their path. The train hurtles through the darkness out into the bright sunlight on the other side and there before your eyes is one of the most breathtaking views that you can imagine. A view of a great canyon, twice the size or better, if you can imagine it, than the Grand Canyon of Arizone. This canyon is called El Canon del Cobre, (Copper Canyon) complete with a tumbling stream and quaint waterfall. Beyond the exit to the tunnel comes a trestle bridge which looks as fragile as a spider's web. From here you can look down on the chasm, and the light rays reflecting off the tiny stream below as if it were a million sparkling diamonds. Beyond this, a brief moment later, the train stops at El Divisadero where one may get our and walk over to the edge where an iron rail has been placed around the sheer drop, to keep people from slipping down into the depths of the canyon. The canyon is so deep that when the sun is well up, a thermal updraft is formed, much like the one formeed by a chimney. You can drop a piece of lumber and watch it drop and drop and drop and see it slacken speed, stop, poise for a while in mid air and start upward, emitting a whirring sound rising fifty or one hundred feet up in the air above one's eye level until it will rest somewhere behind you on the rocks. Sitting around the small building that serves as a rest station, as well as a refreshment center are several Tarahumara indians. They are the natives of this rugged country who still cling to a way of life they have known for cfenturies, still scraping a living off this rather sterile, desolate land, beautiful as it may seem to the traveler. Here they sit, eyeing us as curiously as we eye them. Most of them are women carrying children in a shawl wrapped around their backs, wearing dresses down to their ankles and sandals of their own making. The children, liek children everywhere, are likable, sweet, shy and innocent. One has the urge to take them and carry them away to edpose them to better things. But, how would they be affected? Would they be better off as they are, without exposing them to this cruel world we call modern civilization, almost devoid of human feelings where almost everybody and everything is controlled by numbers, comptuers and other modern "conveniences?" There they remain, so close to the twentieth century and yet so far, far away.

The train whistle blows and we board the train headed for Chihuahua. The rest of the tirp is not as picturesque as it had been to this point. Suffice it to say that by this time one has had a most exciting trip and is ready to succumb to the power of Morpheus until the arrival in Chihuahua or any other destination. Yes, some trips are boring, others, exquistite revelations, one should always be cautious of what one reads, my dear reader. This may not be a true account.

-Jose G. Silva