Rollin' with the Fresh Cucaracha
At the southeastern corner of Arizona, there is across the international border a small town called Naco, Sonora. As late as the first half of the 1970s, when I attended the university in Tucson, nasty scarring still marked adobe bricks in the south wall of an old hotel there. Some were likely bullet holes, some were divots the size of softballs, indications of shrapnel from pretty good-sized howitzer shells.











