I keep hearing the phrase on our local message board that "we live in paradise."
The phrase must mean something like "What a beautiful baby" when trying to think of something about the child that looks as it had been kidnapped from a Rhesus experiment.
Don't get me wrong. I love living here. If that does not come through in my writing, I may as well vie for the John Grisham Prose Prize.
It simply is not paradise. Melaque is a real community with all of the foibles that beset humans.
My garden is a microcosm of what is good about Melaque. Tranquil (with a dash of neighborly noise). Filled with birds and their constant chatter. Caterpillars. Walking sticks. Turtles. Plus the concessional snake. And lots and lots of flowers.
What could be better?
I found out on my return. In my absence, the garden had grown, and had been buffed and manicured. The Duke of Marlborough does not look out on such splendor.
But life here is not merely highly-honed gardens. I did return to one disappointment.
My little pond -- the breeding ground for crocodiles -- was still a mud hole. Even though the laguna was re-filling, it had not reached the arm that fills my reptile sanctuary. You can see by the surface of the water this it does not seem to be the rising tide that would lift all life.
Even though it is lifeless now, in a week or two, my buddies the crocodiles should be back in residence. And I can once again do battle with the water hyacinth and water cabbage.
It is not paradise. But it is a nice place to stay -- for a bit.
No comments:
Post a Comment