Living close to the Mexican border, I'm often asked if I have problems with drug smugglers or "illegals" trekking across our land here in the mountains of southern Arizona.

When I tell friends in the Midwest or New York or Oregon that my main worry is walking into a Safeway parking lot in Tucson and dodging bullets, they just nod. They suddenly remember the infamous massacre of Jan. 8, 2011: Six people shot dead, 13 others injured, including Democratic Rep. Gabrielle Giffords, who was shaking hands with the people, practicing the ideals of democracy and freedom of speech.

So, no, I'm not afraid. But I keep my head up. I remember Gabby.

I've accepted that ours is a country prone to violence and that I live in Arizona, a state that is hell-bent on sending all undocumented workers back to Mexico or Central America. I witness the tragedy of deportation each week as a volunteer at the comedor, a dining room and shelter, as well as at a clinic in Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. As a retired registered nurse -- oh, I was so finished with health care -- I work with the Samaritans, a group of retirees dedicated to preventing deaths in the desert.

Never underestimate the children of the 1960s. They are on fire. Samaritans are mostly socially progressive folks who are tired of talking about issues -- they want to do something. I am one of the young ones, and I am "pushing 70." Many of the migrants we see have been lost in the desert for days.  Some have been locked up in detention centers for weeks, months, even years. Mostly young men, the migrants seem in various stages of shock, both physically and emotionally.

When I am in the tiny clinica, a cinderblock room with no windows, it feels like I am in Afghanistan.  There is no running water. The Jesuit priests and nuns carry in tureens of warm water to wash wounds. I wash feet ---the most blistered and wounded feet I have ever seen. Walking in the desert for days will do that to you.  It is biblical. I am on my knees washing the wounded feet of an indigenous Mexican man, and he is continually telling me, "Gracias," while he crosses himself, tears streaming.

Last week was Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. This is a festival of extremes, a party of joy and sorrow. The Nogales cemetery, a place usually of sadness and grief, became a place of singing and feasting, with marigolds everywhere. The streets were lined with booths selling bouquets of marigolds and pan dulce, sweet bread and pastries. There was the smell of roasted pork on skewers and strolling guitarists and accordion players everywhere.

Mexicans celebrate Dia de los Muertos with a different spirit than we Americans celebrate Halloween. Families gather around the graves of their departed loved ones, feast on favorite foods and pass a bottle of tequila. They spend the night singing and reminiscing about those who have died, welcoming the spirits of family and friends into their lives. I didn't find it scary in the least. Things were pretty upbeat in the old cemetery.

Our Samaritan group stops first at the comedor, where we see 100 or more migrants lined up for breakfast. I meet Alberto, 12 days old. His proud papa holds him up for me to see.  Alberto's madre is there as well, and she is glowing because her husband has just been released from a U.S. detention center after being deported from California. Papa is weeping quietly when he tells me this -- out of happiness, with relief? I do not know. Alberto yawns and makes squeaky baby noises. They have everything they need today. They have their baby, and they are together.

I ask where they are heading. "We will stay in Nogales until Alberto is stronger." Wise parents.  I rummage through the piles of clothing and find a Calvin Klein "onesie" for baby Alberto. I see them proudly stroll off toward the cemetery and the celebration.

My Samaritan friends and I walk over to the festivities. I buy a huge bouquet of marigolds and cockscombs to decorate my own altar at home. We dine on the best carne asada I have had in years in a taqueria along the street.

Afterwards, as we start walking through U.S. customs and back to our cars, the customs agent stops me and says, "You cannot take the flowers with you, because of possible infestation of destructive insects."

"What?" I protest. "But the bugs don't know about borders. They'll just fly over! Taking my flowers won't keep Mexican bugs out of the USA."

The Customs agent smiles and agrees. He says, "I'm sorry ... it's not me, it's the government. It's a rule."

So I give him my beautiful marigolds and tell him,"Take these home to your own altar tonight. It is a tradition around here, Dia de los Muertos." He smiles, takes my flowers and walks them over to the trashcan.

It was a small thing perhaps, but I was upset about those flowers. It just brought out all of my frustrations about deporting migrants, holding them in detention centers, even kicking out the bugs.  As I looked back toward Mexico, I had to admit that the world seemed saner in that cemetery with the singing and the laughter and the music.  Viva Mexico.

Peg Bowden is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country News (hcn.org).She lives in the desert in southern Arizona.