My New Hobby

mejicofoster - A True Story from the Mexican Revolution

Foster Averitt (mejicojohn's third cousin, four times removed) was born on 17 Nov 1898 in Coleman, Texas.  Before he turned seven years old, Foster's father had packed up the family and moved to Seminole, Texas.  All accounts of Foster state that he grew to be an honest and truthful young man, the sort of fellow you could always trust and count on to do the right thing.  So far, so good.

Shortly after Foster's fifteenth birthday, his father, James Burr Averitt, died of "brain and stomach congestion".  His mother, Sarah Jane, had to run a hotel to provide for Foster and his two younger siblings.  Foster himself, who was very bright and studious, went off to college in Midland, Texas, for two years.  Afterwards, he returned to Seminole to work in the office of the County Clerk.

Evidently, as bright and studious and honest and truthful as he was, Foster Averitt still longed for the rattle of the Thompson gun--the first World War was raging at the time--so the County Clerk, B.B. Curry, secured an appointment for him at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis.  He completed his training, but was discharged on 29 Mar 1919, after serving only three months regular practice cruises aboard the S.S. Wisconsin.  He was a Midshipman 3rd class at the time of his discharge, and apparently chose to resign[1] since the War had practically ended.

From the pen of Sheriff Cleve Cobb, Gaines County: "He had been trained for two years to fight, and on account of being in training was deprived of the opportunity to go overseas where he really desired to go and then after the war was over to fail in the examination and leave him out of any excitement at all was rather disappointing."

So Foster Averitt, aged twenty years, left the Navy and made his way to New York City to look for work.  He  soon came upon a sign at 320 Broadway, whereupon were written the names of Pedro del Villar and Roberto Gayon.  He went inside (dressed in his U.S. Navy uniform) and spoke with Sr. Gayon about the possibility of working in Mexico.  Foster figured it would be easy for a U.S.-trained fighting man to find foreign employment.  Turns out, he was right.

But there were these pesky things in the way called Neutrality Laws which prohibited Gayon from employing Foster or paying him anything in lieu of expenses or salary.  However, Gayon said, his friends were certainly in need of men with military experience.

To make a long story short, Gayon gave him two letters: one to be delivered to Gen. Blanquet in Mexico (pictured), and the other for a lawyer named Naranjo in San Antonio, Texas.  Foster spent the next four days travelling from New York, and arrived in San Antonio on 12 Apr 1919.  He reported to Naranjo at 310 Matagorda Street and gave him the letter.  The next day, Naranjo told him to go to Laredo.

Upon arriving in Laredo, Foster went to the San Agustin Plaza and waited for contact.  In a little while, a man approached him and said the word "Graciano", to which Foster replied "Tapia".  That was the agreed-upon sign, and this new contact instructed Foster to call on Santiago Mendoza at a store called "La Ciudad de Mexico", at the corner of Iturbide and Flores.  Sr. Mendoza gave Foster $15 in cash and introduced him to some other gentlemen who were to cross the border into Mexico with him.

On 17 Apr 1919, the would-be revolutionaries were transported in an automobile to a point near the Rio Grande, about five miles from town.[2]  Four men--namely, Leopoldo Castro, Celestino (or Clemente) Flores, Foster Averitt, and the other unknown--got out of the car with the intention of swimming across the river to Mexico.

Meanwhile, back at the Laredo office of the FBI: "Confidential informant told me this morning that at 3 p.m. today some revolutionists were going to cross to Mexico..."

One FBI agent and two customs guards were hiding in the brush by the time Foster Averitt and his cohorts arrived.  The officials allowed them to approach the bank of the river and undress.  When they were all ready to jump in, the guards sprang out of the weeds and arrested those named above.  The other one ran away, so the officials fired a few shots after him and called it a day.  Incidentally, the only one of the lot who was armed was Foster Averitt, who was toting a 32-caliber pistol and a box of cartridges.

It's just as well that he didn't make it across the river.  Foster Averitt was supposed to deliver a letter to General Aureliano Blanquet.  The General, however, was killed near Vera Cruz on 16 Apr 1919, two days before Foster and his pals were apprehended.  He was carrying a letter addressed to a dead man.

There was a trial, and Foster was quickly indicted--evidently because he turned into a government witness.  By 13 May 1919 (less than two months after his discharge from the Navy) he was applying for a government job as a mechanical draftsman.  He asked the FBI to write a nice letter saying that he was a trustworthy fellow, et cetera, and that the "attempted filibuster activity" might be disregarded.  I am unable to say whether he got the job.

Foster was married around 1924, and a year later had a son.  By the mid-1940s, though, either his first wife had died, or they had divorced, because he had a different wife.  Somehow, once you get Mexico on your mind, you just can't get enough of it.  Foster returned to Laredo, where he married a Mexican woman who was about sixteen years younger than he.  Two more sons were the result.  He wound up in Hebbronville, Texas, proprietor of Foster's Five & Dime.  Heart problems got him in 1976.

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[1]According to County Clerk B.B. Curry and Sheriff Cleve Cobb, Foster had undergone surgery on one of his eyes and had never recovered full sight.  They both stated that after finishing his training, he was subjected to a physical, which he failed on account of the bad eye.  Per their accounts, his discharge had nothing to do with personal choice.  That certainly sounds more realistic than choosing to resign from the Navy, yet the FBI seem to have believed him when he told them that he resigned.  Maybe it really was an option at that time, since the War was pretty much over by then.  (The Treaty of Versailles wouldn't be signed for another three months, but there had been an armistice with Germany in place for four months already.  It was all over but the shoutin', so to speak.)

[2]An attempt had been made the day before, about four miles North of Laredo, but was aborted due to the presence of border patrol officers.

Lasciviousness, Nudity, Adultery, Gluttony, Smoking, Drinking, Dancing...

Today I started going through my things, sorting out the trash and packing the rest, getting ready to vacate this apartment next month.  I guess if I start early, and just work at my usual slow pace on my days off, I'll be ready to go well in advance of the day the lease expires, without all the usual hustle-and-bustle.  Got some cleaning to do, too.

Anyhow, I found this old religious tract that I'd been saving.  It was given to me on my way to work, probably as I was leaving Nuevo Laredo.  There used to be an old man at the bridge every morning handing out religious tracts.  He usually had them in English and Spanish.  I don't think he was ever quite certain which one to give me, so he just sort of arbitrarily gave me one, sometimes in the one language, sometimes the other.

But this one was far and away my favorite.  I saved it for a rainy Xanga day--but evidently tucked it away in too safe a place.  I found it just a few hours ago, and here are some excerpts.  I hope that all who come here and read this will go away forgiven, cleansed, and delivered.

*****

LASCIVIOUSNESS, NUDITY, ADULTERY, GLUTTONY, SMOKING, DRINKING, DANCING...

People are becoming evil enough in this "adulterous and sinful generation" for their father Satan to come and rule over them.

The lewd, vulgar dress of the coarse women of these "last" days is one of the major causes of rampant "lasciviousness".  The demon possessed, half naked, cigarette sucking, cursing, beer drinking women of today defy God, tempt men, dress like whores, look like morons, and behave like tramps in repulsive tights, shorts like underwear, halters, and ugly, tight, short skirts, sitting with legs apart, insulting decent people who shudder and turn away in horror.

In these "last days" before His return there is a great prevalence of eating and drinking gluttonously for taste: unhealthy banquets, lunches between meals, sweets, candy, cokes, coffee, tea, etc., this sin of "lasciviousness" being common among religious hypocrites.

God condemns the drinking of any kind of intoxicating liquor, and yet many religious people try to justify their alcoholic drinking by saying they are only moderate drinkiers who avoid intoxication, but the truth is that alcohol in any quantity causes intoxication in varying degrees, resulting in the person thinking, saying, and doing evil things he would not otherwise.  Some even blasphemously say that the Lord Jesus made intoxicating wine, when He made only the common grape juice, health drink of the Jews: unfermented wine.  Most liquor drinkers tempt others to drink, as Satan tempts.

Most people in these "last days" are dope addicts, addicted to nicotine, etc., with a repulsive drug sucker hanging from their lips.  Crime has increased with the "lascivious" use of tobacco, containing nineteen different poisons damaging the brain cells, the nerves, the heart, causing lung cancer, etc., and harming the health of others forced to breathe in these poisonous fumes.  All tobacco slaves soon look depraved, and commit other sins because they have "seared their conscience", and killed their own soul.

The "lascivious" modern dance is like that of the heathen demon worshippers.  Nerve specialist, Dr. E.S. Sonners, said, "I attack the modern dance as a reversion toward savagery.  As a medical man I flatly charge that the modern social dancing is fundamentally sinful and evil.  I charge that dancing's charm is based entirely oupon sex appeal.  I  charge that dancing is the most insidious of the maneuvers preliminary to sex betrayal.  It is nothing more or less than a damnable, diabolical, animal, physical dissipation."  Statistics reveal that 81% of the fallen women of Los Angeles entered their life of shame by way of the modern dance: sensual public petting, resulting in adultery, fornication, abortion, venereal disease, and prostitution.  "Repent or perish."

The sensual jazz music and lewd singing of today is also that of demon worship, rousing all of the basest desires of the evil human heart on the radio and television: one of the biggest promoters of "lasciviousness".  Many religious hypocrites have the 'Devil' box in their homes, but criticize those who attend movies, when television is a combination of the worst filth Hollywood and the theatre have to offer: with nudity, suggestive dancing, jesting, kissing, immorality, gluttony, smoking, drinking, gambling, profanity, lying, stealing, boxing, wrestling, brutality and killing, some of the worst in children's programs; and this evil portrayed as good.

Not long ago it was a crime punishable by law to advertize birth control devices, but now these and pornographic pictures are openly publicized in the "lascivious", Satanically inspired literature flooding the news stands, filled with all that is vile, putrid, and obscene, including the crime and lust comics for children which make a mock of sin.  No "born again" child of God could enjoy TV or this filthy literature.

Nakedness is a sign of demon possession, which clearly reveals itself in the naked designs of modern art: statues, ornaments, paintings, and shameful 'lascivious' greet cards, which go so far in blasphemy, that they insult the Holy Son of God by painting Him and His holy angels naked on Christmas cards, religious magazines, etc., putting Him to an open shame, as on the cross, implying that He is evil.

The good news of the Gospel is that there is forgiveness, cleansing and deliverance for the sin-sick soul who abhors his sin...

[Written by Doris Guinup of Manitoba, Canada.  Published by the Pilgrim Tract Society of Randleman, NC.]

*****

I only left out the specific Biblical references, for the most part.  If you think you need to look 'em up, I will be happy to send you a list of verses upon request.

Everybody pray for mejicojohn.  He has been looking a little depraved lately, don't you think?  I'm afraid he may commit a crime any minute now.

Doggo, Fearless Hunter: A Classic

 I think this is my all-time favorite.  So far.   I still owe the sequel--the Mexico stories.  Don't hold your breath, though.  I still have some exploring to do down there.

To make this even better than before, or possibly worse, I have made some new illustrations. 

(original post: Sunday, July 03, 2005)

I was thinking of something along the lines of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.  I mean for today's post.  A collection of some of my more memorable encounters with the wildlife of Texas and Mexico.

*******

I remember crawling around on the floor at home, when I was about three, and finding a spider under an end table that was as big as my hand.  That's how I remember it, at least.  I still regret that I failed to take notes.  I only mention that incident because it is my earliest memory of a brush with the untamed.  I believe that I either fled unscathed, or was frozen to the spot (screaming, likely) until someone drove the slavering beast back into the depths whence it was spawned.  Or squished it.

*******

Then there was the time that Clyde got loose.  He was a German Shepard living in our neighborhood.  I was with my sister, vanishinglisa.  We were walking home from school, and had almost made it home without remarkable incident.  (Unless that was one of those times she spit in my hair.)  Clyde sallied forth from the bushes (or something) and smirked.  If you've ever seen a big dog smirk, then you understand why I ran.  When I made it into the house, I immediately began to feel guilty for leaving Lisa behind.  I was probably disappointed, too, that my Mello-Yello can was empty, having splashed it all onto the front of my shirt as I ran.

Lisa survived the encounter with only minor psychological damage.  Sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out differently, if I had stood my ground and let Clyde gnaw on my leg while my sister ran away instead.

*******

I was always an intrepid hunter.  Once at a state park, somewhere in Texas, I devised a cunning trap that no squirrel could resist.  Or at least this particular one couldn't resist it.  I left an open package of cinnamon rolls on the picnic table.  Having hidden myself from the creature by turning my back to the bait, I didn't have to wait long for the rustle of plastic. 

I spun around and shouted "AHA!" at the fattest squirrel I've ever seen, or ever will, I think.  He chattered at me as I removed the bait from the table, and my niece threw him a marshmallow.  I scoffed.  "Squirrels don't eat marshmallows.  They eat cinnamon rolls."

If I had said nothing, the squirrel probably would have thrown the marshmallow back at my niece.  As things stood, however, he was dangerously miffed at me for taking away the cinnamon rolls, and ate the marshmallow just to prove me wrong.  He smacked his little rodent lips at me and patted his belly.

During the course of the morning, he downed half a bag of marshmallows, a couple of glazed donuts, and I think a six pack of Coors Lite.

*******

Once I went pigeon hunting in Travis Park in downtown San Antonio.  It was my first and last excursion into the realm of that terrifying bird of prey.  I barely escaped with my life.

My equipment consisted of a bag of peanuts.  It was a small bag, since Mutual of Omaha never answered my request for funds.  I stationed myself on a stone bench, opened the bag, and waited in silence for a scout pigeon to catch the unmistakeable scent of salted peanuts.  I sat there for about an hour, because it was early in the day and all the pigeons were asleep in the trees and on the statue of William Travis that stands high in the center of the park.

At last, one pigeon descended onto the sidewalk and moved toward me.  I threw a peanut.  He ate it.  I smiled.

Then I looked up and the smile slid off my face.  There was a wall of pigeons--no, a tsunami of beaks and talons rushing toward me.  I took a deep breath and determined to see this thing through to the end, though it might have cost me my very life.

As the blood-thirsty flock advanced on my position, I began throwing peanuts as rapidly as I could, and as far away from myself as I could, hoping to divert a few of them, at least.  But the nuts I flung were absorbed into the mad rabble as quickly as I could fling them, and I was in an instant surrounded by pigeons.  I sat frozen to the bench as they perched themselves in my lap, on my shoulders, on either side of me, in front of me, and behind me.  In desperation I dumped the bag of peanuts onto the sidewalk.

The peanuts were gone before they hit the ground, and scenes from Alfred Hitchcock's movie were replaying in my head.  I saw myself sitting there, a skeleton picked dry by these ferocious predators.  By now the pigeons were pecking at the empty bag, at my hands, at my thighs.  I prayed for deliverance, and promised in return that I would never eat another chicken as long as I lived.

Meanwhile, across the park, a little old lady had tossed a breadcrumb onto the ground.  No sooner had the scout pigeon hunted it into a corner and consumed it mercilessly, than all six thousand or so pigeons lifted from off my person as one large being, beating that funereal tattoo with innumerable pairs of wings, and I was breathing air unsullied by the stench of those demonic airbourne rodents.

A snigger or two escaped me at supper that evening, as I slurped the last bit of meat off a pair of cold chicken legs.

*******

That was the last one.  I've stayed up past my bedtime writing this.  I should point out that I have altered a few trivial facts for heightened effect, but the majority of 'em is true.

Good night.

Doggo Theme

Every morning when I wake up, this is what I hear.  For the rest of the day, I avoid falling anvils, outwit my pursuers, defy some of the more tedious physical laws, and generally have a cartoonish time.  That's what happens when you give yourself a name like "Doggo".