About the Author:

Study and Preparation

Kris Taylor has traveled extensively and has lived and worked in many parts of the U.S and Europe.  She studied art at the University of Paris—commonly known as the Sorbonne. Kris holds diplomas in four different majors, all from different schools and in different fields, including business and accounting, medical training, and writing. At present, she is attending the University of Southern Mississippi.

Kris has worked as an accountant for over 25 years, both for a major accounting firm and for the Department of Defense in Germany.

Personal

Despite having polio as a child, Kris studied dancing for 16 years.  She also studied to become a nun, but later married—to great approval of her parents. She has married twice and had four sons, two with each husband. Her first husband passed away, and one of her sons, a disabled veteran, also died.  She now lives with two Siamese cats and dreams about moving back to her favorite place to live— Phoenix, Arizona.  Kris loves country music, especially Vince Gill, George Strait and LeAnne Rymes.  She knew Waylon Jennings and several other top performers in years past, including George Jones and Jerry Lee Lewis.

A Free Preview:

An Unforgettable Trip

We lived in Phoenix, Arizona, which is approximately four hundred miles or so from El Paso, Texas, where my brother Mel lived with his family.

One weekend my husband John and I decided to drive down to see Mel's family, and asked my sister Jackie if she and her husband, also named John, would care to go with us. Our mother was living with me, and naturally, she wanted to go as well.

We loaded up the station wagon with my two youngest sons, and my sister brought along her two youngest sons, as well. The nine of us took off for El Paso. We decided to go across the river into Old Mexico and do some shopping. Good perfume was cheap there, as well as several other articles we wanted to purchase.

Mel and his wife decided to go with us, so all eleven of us crowded into our station wagon and went across the border to shop in Juarez.

We were finishing our lunch when our waitress came to the table and told us we should leave immediately. She told us not to cross the square, to go directly to our car at the parking area near the border, and go back across to the States.

We looked at the square now filling up with men in black suits. Some were in small groups talking. Others were just walking about, serious faced, as if they were looking for trouble. Having lived near Mexico for many years, we were aware how outsiders were treated.

First, they throw you in jail, and ask questions later—sometimes months later—after they collect a hefty fine. So, we left immediately as the waitress suggested. My sister and I were on our knees in the middle seat of the station wagon trying to console the four kids sitting in the back. They were arguing and fretful, tired from the long day. Mother was sitting next to me against the door, while my sister-in law, Nancy, sat up against the other door.

Normally a border patrol officer will come to your car, talk to the driver, and ask the usual questions. Where you've been, anything to declare? Where were you born and where are you going? You answer, show your driver's license, and that’s it.

Jackie and I were so busy with the kids, we hadn’t noticed two men had come on the right side of the car. One was talking to my brother, and the other was talking to Mother.

Suddenly, my husband pulled the car over and parked where the border patrol officer told him to park, and all eleven of us were ushered into the Border Patrol building and into a room.

I asked my husband, “Why are we in here? What’s going on?”

“Beats me,” he answered. “Since he had a big gun on his hip, I didn’t think it advisable to argue. Maybe they want to ask us about those men we saw at the square.

I turned to my brother. “Mel, what did the guy ask you?”

“Hell, I don’t know any more than John,” he answered.

I went over to the door and found it locked. This made me angry. I pounded on the door and started yelling, “Will someone tell me why we are locked in here?”

Finally, a man came to the door, opened it, and said, “You aren’t helping your case by such actions.”

“Case? What damn case?” I replied. I got no answer as he closed the door.

Finally, another half hour passed and we tried to think of every reason why we were being held. They ushered us into another room and told us we would be interviewed, one at a time.

After they talked to each adult and child, they checked our drivers' licenses, social security cards, credit cards—in fact, every paper we had on us. Then they told us the reason. They believed we were bringing in an “illegal,” my mother, since she didn’t talk English, or answer any of the patrol officer’s questions. She just smiled, shook her head in a “yes” manner, and acted suspiciously.

We all glared at Mother, with somewhat hostile expressions. I explained to the officers that she required a hearing aide, and was ashamed for anyone to see it or know she couldn’t hear well. “And that pride,” I said directly to her, “has cost us over four hours of unnecessary worry and upset.”

Her answer was, “Southern Ladies always present themselves at their best when outing, and the sight of a hearing aid does not fit the scenario.” Then, she turned her head away from me, as if the subject was closed.

As far as the rest of us were concerned, it was far from closed. We never again took Mother out without making sure she wore her hearing aide, regardless of where we were going.

We laugh about it now, but, I assure you, it was not funny at the time.

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