In 1943, when I was seven, my father drove to Agua Prieta every Saturday to fill the tank of our wobbly old Packard automobile with Mexican gasoline. While the car was parked beside the pump, I wandered up and down the block, my range limited only by the edge of the road. There were few cars on the streets of Agua Prieta in those days and not many more across the border in Douglas, Arizona; nonetheless, caution limited my excursions. As I whiled away the time, I noticed holes in some of the walls, like the holes the big red ants bored in the ground near the house where we lived. But these were bigger holes, deep in the thick adobe bricks. Here and there, beside a doorway or a window, there were rows of them, black spots in the brown.
- From The Life and Times of Mexico by Earl Shorris