catting around

If anyone had told me a year ago I would have a cat in my house, I would have gladly examined their commitment papers.


I am simply not a cat person.  We had cats when I was growing up.  So, I know their ways.  But I never thought I would end up in a cat box as an adult.


My good friend Cor Greive moved back to California at the end of last month.  He sold his home to my land lady before he left, and she is doing a bit of remodeling.


And that is where the cat comes in.  Cor left his cat, Lety, with the house.  Cats and remodeling are not a natural mix.


But there was a natural solution.  The upper unit (or upper room, as I call it this religious season) in my duplex is not being rented right now.  So, in went the cat.  And on went my cat tamer outfit.


My land lady takes care of the cat's major needs.  My role is as Royal Jailer.


I have always wanted to appear in one of those period pieces where I do not even know the names of clothing items.  "Hand me that round thing that ties to this thingamajig." 


Each day I climb the stairs to the royal prisoner's apartment.  Lety, Queen of Cats.  To bring her the latest news of her exile.  And to avoid being won over by her charms -- to grant her full release.


Lety was raised as a house cat.  And she quickly acclimated to her new surroundings.  But she has watched carefully as I came and went through the door.


Today I decided to let her see more.  We spent about two hours wandering through the garden.  She had to smell almost everything.  As curious as a -- well, you know.  (Too many clichés and this essay will capsize.)

Just as the Scottish Queen seduced her jailers, Lety has won me over to her catness.  But she was more than willing to return to the safety of her apartments after our walk.


This little tryst is about to end.  Lety's house is almost complete.  Maybe later this week.  And she will then return to her home.


And life here will return to normal.  I can then start dreaming of a true pet.


Perhaps -- a chicken.

 

lee smith -- my clever pal

This is a month for transitions. 


Another friend died this week.


I first met Lee Smith (pictured above with his wife, Judy, celebrating their 58th wedding anniversary) in 1989 when we were both employed with the same company in Salem.  He had an innate ability to treat the most difficult situation with his trademark humor.  Often acerbic.  But always humorous.


During the five years we worked together, he was faced with what could kindly be referred to as uncaring managers.  The type of bosses that show up in situation comedies -- and we all chuckle how they could not exist in real life.


But they did.  And Lee characteristically laughed them off.  Until he decided that retirement was better than losing his sense of humor.


We had much more in common than our work.


We were both Air Force officers.  He joined the Air Force the year I was born.  But our shared status was far more important than our age differences.  Proving that age is not a restriction on friendship.


He could (and did) tell some of the funniest stories I have ever heard about the absurdities of military life.  And some of the best revolved around adventures his wife, Judy, and their daughters, Donna and Beth, faced as part of a military family.  (Beth, at one point, worked with me.)


When we all lived in Salem, I would often have holiday dinners with them at Beth’s home.  And, you will not be surprised to discover, the entertainment was usually provided through Lee’s sardonic story-telling. 


I thought I would lose some of that contact when I moved to Mexico.  But Lee turned into one of my most regular blog readers.  He always knew the details of my little adventure south of the border.  And could recount them – with his personalized twists – whenever I was in Oregon.


He devoted his life to his country and his family – participating in tumultuous events in our nation’s history. Always giving selflessly of his wisdom and his love.


We’re going to miss you, Lee.

love and death

It is one of my favorite Woody Allen films.  Maybe because it has great lawyer jokes.


And Woody starts delivering them from the prologue on.  The protagonist Boris tells us why he is in jail awaiting execution for a crime he didn't commit.


"Isn't all mankind ultimately executed for a crime it never committed? The difference is that all men go eventually, but I go six o'clock tomorrow morning. I was supposed to go at five o'clock, but I have a smart lawyer. Got leniency."


I was thinking of that routine during my recent tour of laguna cleaning.  My goal is to get rid of some of the vegetation.  But my grappling hook has brought up far more than water hyacinth.


It is amazing the things people will throw into bodies of water.  Including bodies.  Which I have not yet discovered.  But Jimmy Hoffa is out there somewhere.  I'm certain.


But I have discovered enough.  Plastic bottles.  Plastic bags.  Disposable diapers inconveniently disposed.  Various pieces of clothing.  The lid to an old washing machine.


And this beauty.  Another view is at the top of this post.

I could see it in the shallows when I started this project, but I could never quite hook it.  At first, I thought it was the bulb of a large water lily.  But it finally gave way to the hook.


My romantic side suspected it was the head of a young crocodile killed by a larger version of himself.  Oedipus on the Nature Channel.


But that was obviously not true.  Crocodiles are not round heads; they are cavaliers.  (And, yes, I know.  References to the English Civil War are seldom witty.)


It has to be a bird.  A big bird.  And we have plenty of big waders in the laguna.  Great blue herons.  Great egrets.


But my gardener, who is a professional fisher, has a different theory.  He thinks it is the skull of a pelican. 


And he may be correct -- even though most of the photographs I have seen of pelican skulls reveal a much smaller skull.  Maybe this fellow was a Klingon subspecies.


Pelicans we have.  But not in the laguna.  I will not discount the possibility some pelican mob boss dumped a rival pelican in my inlet.

 

While I was cleaning the skull in the garden, I noticed an odd shape near one of the bushes.


An egg.  Well, you might say, it is Easter.  Perhaps, the bunny left it a bit early.


My vote is the Easter serpent or the Easter lizard.  This beauty is about the size of the tip of my thumb.


My land lady and I moved it closer to one of the shrubs to protect it from all of the back yard activity.  We will see what sprouts from it. 


I have been tempted to put it in a box to protect it -- and to see what pops out.  But I have seen Alien enough times to know I do not need to do a personal reprise of John Hurt.


According to Woody, I should not even be concerned about the love aspects in my garden.  "Some men are heterosexual and some men are bisexual and some men don't think about sex at all, you know... they become lawyers."


But even Woody is not always correct.  Just funny.

palms across the village

On Thursday, the palapa over the space where our church met burned.


When I walked through it on Friday morning, the rubble had been cleared.  But it was clear we would not be meeting in that space.  A stump was still smoldering. 


And summer has arrived.  Meeting in the heat of the sun is not a possibility.


But I had no need to worry.  The church board is made up of people who have the souls of expatriates.  Being sentimental over the loss of a grass roof simplify would get in the way of finding a place for us to worship on Sunday.  And find a spot they did.


The photograph at the top of this post is the home of the Maya Restaurant in Melaque.  It is closed during the summer.  But it provided just the right venue for we circumstance-created nomads.  Disney calm writ large.


Our pastor read an email from one of our regular visitors recounting that the recent loss tied with our current happiness was a perfect reflection of the mixed emotions of Palm Sunday.  Triumph.  Loss.  Ultimate joy.


I have received several comments and email concerning what the church is going to do. 


What we are going to do is to continue to be a part of the community.  One of my Mexican neighbors attended church with us this morning to show her solidarity with our work.


This whole incident has helped confirm what I like about my church family and this area of Mexico.  I think it is going to be the start -- or renewal -- of a great friendship.

snapping the sea

I am, at best, a hobbyist when it comes to photography.


No.  Even that label sounds too grand.


I am nothing more than a snapper.


A friend once told me I had a sculptor's eye for photography.  He didn't intend it to be a compliment.


But it is a fair rap.  I have very little knowledge of how my camera works -- or how to get the best out of it. 


And my choice of subjects is often -- to be kind -- touristy.  A bathetic Thomas Kinkade.


Now and then I run across something that simply strikes my fancy.  Like last week's pig.  I find joy in contrasts.


Late last week I drove up to the mirador in Melaque.  The high point at the west end of our beach.


There is a panoramic view of the bay and the sea.  For some reason, the contrasting combination of the ocean and the cactus on the cliffs that form the margin between land and water struck me as amusing.


Maybe the shapes.  The textures.  The foundational plant and the ever-changing tide.  I don't know exactly what it was.


But I decided to share them with you -- and let you draw your own conclusions.


From your snapper.

one plate of mustard seeds at table five

This is the faith season.  At least, on Mexico blogs.


Several of my fellow bloggers have posted about spiritual matters.  I have been planning to do the same thing since January -- the Easter season seems like a good time to do it.


I enjoy much about Melaque.  But, my church here makes the area very special.


I started attending San Patricio by the Sea when I first visited the area as a tourist.  Since then, I attend religiously.  And, despite the old joke, that means more than twice a year.


My faith is far more important to me than the religion (the ritual practices) that surrounds it.  My experience has been that religion tends to get in the way of our relationship with God and with our love for our neighbors.


But I also find that my faith is strengthened when I worship with other disciples.  And that has been especially true here in Mexico.

San Patricio by the Sea is an odd faith vehicle -- suited perfectly to the community. 


It is a multi-denominational church drawing worshippers from various religious backgrounds.  Because the services are in English, most of the congegrants are expatriates or tourists -- lots of Canadians, a few Americans, and a sprinking of Mexicans, Australians, Englishmen, and South Africans.


In the winter, the attendance is regularly over 140 on each Sunday.  In the summer we dwindle to a handul -- often in the single digits.  But that is the rhythm of life in Melaque.


And because this is a church that believes strongly in sharing love with our neighbors, I have found many good friends through the church.  Lou and Wynn being prime on that list.


I started this post by saying I have been meaning to write it for some time.  But there is another reason to write it today.


The palapa at the church is no more.  When I drove by on Thursday afternoon, this is what I found.  Fire decided to have its way with the roof.

No one knows what happened -- only that the roof, the wooden contents, and the plastic chairs are no more.  Even the poor palm trees look the worse for wear.


And this is a photograph taken from about the same place as the interior shot posted above (second photograph).  That one was shot this January.  The one below on Friday afternoon.

The rubble is cleared away.  The church board has arranged to meet in the space that until recently was Maya -- one of my favorite restaurants. 


There will be new chairs.  And a reminder that God does not live in buildings.  Nor is a church a building.  A church is people.  Anywhere we worship, He will be there.


And it will be a good reminder to continue showing our love to our neighbors.

following the paper

I just realized, I left you hanging on the outcome of my visa renewal tale.


As I noted in are your papers in order?, I intended to drive to Manzanillo to start the visa renewal process.  And I did.  Drive to Manzanillo,that is.  And started the process.


This is my second renewal.  So, I thought I had the process down.  Even though the office had required different documents on my initial registration and last year's renewal.  And I was partially correct.


When I arrived, there were a few people in front of me.  Including my good friends Lou and Wynn Moody.  They had finished the application process and were simply waiting for the date they needed to return to pick up their new card.  We soon found out.  9 May.


Well, that was not going to work for me.  But that was still three steps away.


The first was to get my application started.  I already had a head start on that.  I had applied on line, printed out my application form, and signed the request letter -- now combined with the application form.  Quite impressive work Mexican Immigration has done.


The clerk patiently took each of my documents -- and asked in English whenever the Spanish term resulted in my very good impression of a clueless expatriate.


The application form.  My mug shots.  A copy of the first page of my passport.  My old FM3 booklet.


"Do you still live at the same address?"


"Yes."


I showed her my lease.  It got a quick glance.  When I tried to show her my constancia de domicilio (that engendered drools last year), she waved it off.  Along with the utility bill.  If I had not moved, no need for the extranea.


"Do you need to see my bank statements?"


"Not this year.  Only after five years."


Great.  All of that could not have taken more than five minutes.  Pleasant.  Efficient.  Professional.


I was then off to the military bank to pay my application fee.  $1,294 (Mx).  No line.  No wait.


To and from the bank was a twenty minute walk.  It was a practically perfect day.


Then came the bump in the road.  The fly in the ointment.  The twist in the knickers.


The clerk told me my card could be picked up on 9 May -- just like Lou and Wynn.


Well, no, I can't.  On 9 May, I will be in the Atlantic Ocean -- almost to the Canary Islands.  I leave on the 29th.


Supervisory huddle.  Very motherly look.  Just this one time, I can get my card expedited.  Be back on 27 April.


And that was quite a concession.  Next week is semana santa (Easter week) in Mexico.  Almost everything shuts down while Mexicans celebrate the Messiah's resurrection by partying on the beach.


The 27th will be cutting matters tight.  But I am certain it will work out.  And, if it doesn't, Mexico allows FM3 holders to leave and return without their card.  But the process for that dispensation is -- onerous.


A denouement will soon be at hand.  The last step in this process will occur -- one way or other.


I am counting on the Manzanillo office.  After all, they have never let me down these past two years.


Hmmm.  Did I just jinx myself?