prodigal patriots

Like a bad gossip, history is very good at telling us what happened.  Never very good at telling us why.


We know that Moses Rolfe moved his large family from Massachusetts to Vermont -- and then on to Canada.  To the recently-incorporated former French colony of Quebec.  The year is less clear.  But both moves followed the American War of Independence.


It is easy to forget that not all American colonists were avid supporters of the American Revolution.  And we really do not know exactly where the Rolfe clan came down on the issue.


They were part of the original group of settlers that came to Newbury colony in 1634.  Like their cousin countrymen at Plymouth, they came to America to escape religious persecution in England, and to worship as their consciences saw fit.  For almost 150 years, they settled and farmed in the northeastern corner of what would eventually become Massachusetts.


For whatever reason, they packed up their DNA and headed to Vermont -- and on to Canada.  Slipping back into the United States (through Minnesota) in the 1880s.


I have no idea what type of governmental documents they had for both international moves.  I suspect none.  That may be one reason I am not a big defend-the-borders advocate.  If they had been faced with contemporary bureaucracy, I suspect I would have been celebrating Canada Day last week rather than Independence Day today.


And that is why I am teling this tale of  Moses Rolfe.  He was, as the genealogists love to say, my fourth great grandfather on my mother's side.    As it turns out, my father's genes were floating around in the same Newbury pool.  Mixing with my mother's.  Like some Ozark gentry, I am my own cousin.


But this is not a tale about me.  It is about the men who fought in the American War of Independence.  I am glad the forces of independence won.  This experiment that is America would never have occurred if the Tories (a derisive term I picked up in my youth -- probably from watching Swamp Fox) had won.


If the Rolfes left because America no longer held the same promise for them as their ancestors who arrived in the early 1600s, we do know that one branch decided to return.  What lured them across the border into Minnesota, we will never know.  Maybe it was the balmy climate.


The point is, they returned.  Perhaps like the prodigal son -- seeking the ideals they originally sought in the 1600s.


What we do know is each subsequent generation produced men and women who were willing to defend those principles that drove them across the Atlantic in tiny ships.  Principles that would be articulated 150 years later: 

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

Each Inependence Day, I put out the Union Jack in remembrance of my familiy members who may have retained an llegiance to the British crown.  For a while.


And then became American patriots to the core.


To them, and to you, I wish a very happy Fourth of July.  Where freedom rings.

cherry dining

`

I have said it before.  And I will say it again.


Right now.


Summers in Oregon are practically perfect.


Even though the sun has not shown his face much, the most certain sign of summer in Oregon is amongst us.


Cherries.


This morning I walked the four blocks from my house to the Salem Saturday Market.  And walk I did.  I still favor my right leg a bit.  But I get around.


There was a day when markets afforded local farmers the ability to sell excess produce and for buyers to purchase fresh produce at a discount.


Those markets were similar to the produce markets in larger Mexican cities.


I do not have anything similar in Melaque.  But there is a market in Manzanillo where housewives can buy their daily food from fish, meat, vegetable, and fruit stalls.


Our Saturday Market does not share that character.  Jazz bands play while citizens buy emu and other locally-grown delicacies.  No longer the home for bargain-shopping senior citizens and single moms.  The average customer is far more likely to be able to describe the bouquet of a fine pinot noir rather than how to balance the food budget.


My cherries are a perfect example.  Let's start with quality.  They are not your usual Safeway bings imported from California.  These are locally-grown.  Sandra Rose.  Rainier.  Deliciously sweet.  Lip-staining and juicy.


And they are not inexpensive.  After all, these are Nordstrom people here.  Not K-Mart.  $4 a basket.


I wandered off with $12 worth.  Enough to last me for the afternoon.  In my own personal Tudor moment.


Two years ago I had an interesting conversation with one of the farmers at the market.  He chuckled that not long ago, he could not find buyer for some of his more exotic-looking tomatoes.  Then food faddie declared heirloom tomatoes to be "in."  The farmer, being a wily marketer, slapped a sign declaring his wares to be "organic heirloom" tomatoes.  He could not keep them in stock.


He was telling me the tale at my own expense.  While he was talking, I was buying three pounds of his rebranded vegetables.  Both his story -- and the tomatoes -- were perfect.


It may not be very warm in Salem today.  Certainly not as warm as it will be in Melaque.  But I will be celebrating summer in a truly Oregon fashion.  With cherries.  My hot tub.  And a good book.


It is hard to beat that combination.  But it is an experience worth repeating.


It is an experience worth repeating.

hot air in the capital

My blogger pal, Richard, over at The Gangs of San Miguel de Allende, often writes about the magic moments of Mexico.


OK.  He often writes from deep inside the tongue-embedded land of Sardonia.  But of magic he speaks.


He is not alone.  Most Mexico bloggers, from time to time, write about their magic moments.  Number me amongst that multitude.


If I said Oregon is filled with magic moments, most of you would laugh.  After all, my home state is far better known for its eccentrically bipolar political system rather than any sense of romantic adventure.  That honor probably goes to Georgia. 


We Oregonians love our scenery, but you will not find magic amongst our attributes.


Or so I thought.  This week, while waiting for my ride to work, the ambiance of the day distracted me.  Clear skies.  Sun.  An almost-perfect 55 degree morning.


I started pulling a few weeds from the border along the sidewalk.  The type of pesky weeds that seem to survive any thorough weeding.


While bent over, I heard a whoosh over my left shoulder.  And then another.  A sound more akin to welding than to morning traffic.


And then it caught my eye.  A ball of primary colors passing over the chimneys of Salem.  Looking like a pied Mary Poppins.


Of course, it was not magic.  It was merely a hot air balloon.  Probably hunting for an energy source in my politician-filled town.  Where we have more hot air than rationality.


As I watched the balloon pass, its grace enraptured me.  Yeah.  I know.  Shiny moving object.  Attention lapse.


But hot air balloons are inherently beautiful.  So smooth.  So powerful.  So colorful.


And then it was gone.  I knew where it was landing.  At the small park one block south of me.  Where Jiggs and I took our evening strolls.


Brief as the experience was, it added a grace note to the morning.  Actually, to the entire day.


Like most people, I get in a rush during the day.  Mornings probably being the worst with my return to the working class.


The balloon -- even the weeds -- were teaching me a simple lesson.  Treasure the brief moments of life.


Yeah, I know.  It isn't exactly Sartre.  But anything that lets me enjoy life is all right with me.


And the balloon was magically all right.

blog dog

Now and then we bloggers rhapsodize over the acquaintances we have made over the internet.


Networking in its best sense.


They are people with whom I have shared some of my life secrets (not the dark ones, just the slightly sullied ones).  But I have never met most of them.  In fact, I have no idea what some of them look like.  (And that aspect of blog life has grown ever since some bloggers began posing as if they were beneficiaries of the Witness Protection program.)


Several of my friends are amazed that I have made as many contacts as I have over the internet.  As if electronic relationships are inherently inferior to those in the revealed flesh.


Let me give you an example.


I first met Cynthia and Mike through their blog.  Residents of Washington, they were headed south to teach English in Mexico.  They shared their preparations (repairing and selling their house, winding down jobs) with their readers.


One of their decisions hit home with me.  They needed to decide whether to take their aging German Shepherd with them to Mexico.  In the end, the answer was obvious.  Sitka was a member of the family.  She was going.


I was interested in their decision-making process because I had not yet decided whether I would take Professor Jiggs with me.  I did.  And I was grateful to Cynthia and Mike for their counsel.


After some difficulties in Mexico City, Cynthia and Mike decided to move to Guaymas.  Tragic nearly struck twice.  Sitka disappeared for long periods of time.


But blogs are marvelous.  Even though I was in Oregon and they were in Guaymas, I posted information on my blog concerning Sitka's plight.  In October 2008: lost dog in Guaymas.  In December: the prodigal dog returns -- again.


When the family moved to Salem, I finally met Sitka -- just as Jiggs and I were heading to Melaque.  Unfortunately, I missed seeing her before Cynthia and Mike moved to Washington recently.


Yesterday brought bad news.  Sitka's health had been steadily declining.  Like Jiggs, she was losing the ability to use her legs.  Cynthia and Mike made the painful decision to have her put down.


The news was sad, and it had an immediate impact on me.  After all, Jiggs died less than a year ago.


But it was more than that.  Cynthia, Mike, and Sitka had become part of my family.  Perhaps, a virtual, electronic family -- but a family, nonetheless.


Wednesday was a perfect summer day in Salem.  The sun was out in a clear sky.  The trees were as green as they shall be.


But something is missing.


Sitka.  Thank you for sharing your life with us.

blood in paradise

I despise rumors.


Especially rumors about violent deaths.


But it appears my small fishing village by the sea has lost a bit more of its innocence.


Before I get to the lurid details, let me be clear.  Melaque is not a pristine church town.  I live in a seaside town that attracts tourists -- mainly from Guadalajara.  And where there are vacationers, you will find vice.


Anyone with eyes can find sex, drugs, and some rock and roll on the streets of my village.  Just like the seaside towns in Oregon.


But on Friday, the violent mask of narcoterrorism came home to my town.  Two local young men were "executed" in the afternoon -- with the trademark bullet-riddled bodies capped off by a coup de grâce.  In front of Melaque's huge earthquake-ruined hotel.


Symbolism galore.


The news does not surprise me.  Melaque sits on the border of control between two drug cartels.  And the shooting looks as if it could be a traditional "turf" struggle. 


That is pure speculation on my part.  But two young men are dead.  And the circumstances do not look like the usual crimes of passion.  This is different.


If this story plays out as most tales do in my village, there will be plenty of theories and "facts" that start showing up in local conversations and on message boards.  But they should not be confused with the truth.  Something that most likely will never be known.


I will admit I find it unsettling that people died so close to my house in Melaque.


But more people have died from drug violence just as close to my house in Salem.


I also know that some of the people I have met during my stay in Melaque will not be returning.  I just read another survey of retirees in Mexico.  The retirees who were surveyed said the chief reason they would leave Mexico would be the fear of drug violence drawing near to them.


I guess I will now find out if that is true.


As for me, I will be a bit more cautious.  But I am going to return home to Mexico in November.  By then, this incident will be no more than an echo.

fiesta on the road

Good news for Mexico.

Even better.  Good economic news for Mexico.

Surface transport trade (what we non-economists call truck and rail traffic) has improved markedly this year.  $27.8 billion in March.  Up $8 billion from March of last year.  And the 2010 figure is nearly as big as it ever has been.


So what?  You might ask.


Well, this is a big "so what."


The numbers mean Mexico's trade economy is coming back to life -- partly due to the economic structures put in place as a result of NAFTA.


One of the first results of NAFTA was an increase of Mexico's maquiladora industry -- factories, mainly on the border, producing manufactured goods for other manufacturers in The States.  Lots of auto parts.


So, when the American car industry showed all the vitality of a mastodon on tour in La Brea, the Mexican factories started closing down.  And Mexicans went without jobs.


Until now.


The increased numbers are interesting for another reason.  As the Mexican numbers grow, so do the figures for the American manufacturing sector.  Economists note that without this surge, the rise in the American gross domestic product over the past several quarters would have been much smaller.


NAFTA may not have delivered all of is promised benefits.  But it is working for both national economies during this faltering economic recovery.  Without the trade increase, those knitted brows at the White House would have looked like crocheted Afghans.


And if the White House would stop stalling on the trucking provisions of NAFTA, the trade figures -- and the subsequent increase in the GDP -- would look much better.  The president would undoubtedly respond he wants to see more trade move to rail and sea.  And off the roads.



Whatever the political ramifications, it is nice to hear good news about Mexico and America working together to improve the lot of their citizens.


That is something to celebrate.

designs on mexico

Still building.

Still decorating.

For the past year, I had intended to change the look of my blog.  It looked the same as the day I started it in December 2007.  I just never got around to doing anything about it.

That changed on Saturday.  Due to a series of circumstances, my old template disappeared as thoroughly as Amelia Earhart.


Poof!


Gone!


There was nothing to do but sit down and start building from scratch.  So, build I did.


My trip to the Portland Zoo was canceled earlier in the day.  That gave me time to start thinking about what I wanted the page to look like.


Under normal circumstances, I would have spent a week establishing design principles and testing out options.  I did not have that luxury.


But I have learned several principles from reading other blogs.


The first is to keep the design simple.  Clutter takes away from the posted material.  The form should reinforce the message -- not be the message.


The second is a corollary of the first.  Pick a design that reflects the subject matter of the blog -- and stick with it.


The third is a personal preference.  Due to the brightness of my monitor, my eyes fatigue when reading text on white backgrounds.  The easiest blogs for me to read are blogs with a colored background with high contrast text.


Easy principles to state.  Not so easy to execute.


Picking a simple template was easy.  Blogger offers a "Simple" template by name.  After tinkering with it, I decided it would meet the first principle.  Onc e all te textured colors were stripped out.


Then, I needed a design.  Because the blog is about my adventures of living in Mexico (despite my current temporary relocation), I decided to use the Mexican national colors: red, white, and green. 


The background color is the spine of any blog.  I knew it should not be white (see ramblings above).  That left me with green and red as candidates.  After trying several options, I eliminated primary red and green.  Too plain.  Too stark.  And, after a few more auditions, settled on a pale brick red.


That left green.  I tried using it as post titles.  But it looked less like Mexico and more like Kris Kringle.


The solution was easy.  I could use my beloved limes in the header and get as much green as a tree hugger could crave.


That left only one task -- a new title.


When I started blogging, I chose "same life -- new location" after reading a series of comments from people who believed that a move to Mexico would solve all of their social and financial problems.


I simply did not believe it.  That approach makes us a victim of our circumstances.  The experiences that make up our lives do not disappear when we cross borders.  People who have trouble fitting into society in their home country will most likely experience the same thing in Mexico.  Often in spades.


Or, so I believed when I crafted the title.


Even though I was moving to a new location, I was taking my life (who I was) with me.  As it turned out, I think that is exactly what did happen.


But the title now needs a make-over.  And I need to give it some thought.  When I come up with something, I may even revise the entire template.


Until then, here it is.  New page.  Same locution.