on the street

I may as well have been Lieutenant Sunderstrom ashore in San Diego in On the Beach.


But it was main street in San Patricio.  At 2 in the afternoon.  On a Monday.


Where was the traffic trying to wend its way through double-parked pickups?  Where were the local residents finishing up their daily shopping?  Or the gaggles of Canadians looking for a rumored bottle of HP sauce?


I almost expected zombies to stagger out of the open, but uncustomered shops.  But that would be too easy to confuse with one of the tourist bars.


As colorful as the possibilities were, reality, as is the usual case, was far more prosaic.  No life-ending radiation.  No zombies.  No enchanting witches (well, maybe in the aforesaid tourist bars).


The non-poetic truth: it was clean up day for the San Patricio streets.

The firemen were there with their powerful hoses to assist local volunteers in clearing the hardened flood mud off of the streets.  And even though the sun was stomach-churning hot (hot enough to make me dream of a ski vacation), the volunteers were doing yeoman work in washing the mud off the streets.


And a good idea it is.  Every time I drive through any of the triplet villages, whether in town or on the highway, it looks as if Charles Schulz could find a life model for Pig-Pen.  Just like Pig-Pen, we are surrounded by the dust of ancient civilizations.


But today, the volunteers were attempting to emphasize the noun and soften the adjective.


I think they did a rather good job.

that gnawing feeling

Rasping.  Periodic rasping.


There was no other word for it.  As if a pachyderm pedicurist had opened shop next door.


Not really an annoying sound.  Just regular.  And persistent.  Something was trying very hard to get at something.


It did not take long to find the culprit.  We call our surroundings a jungle here,  That is merely a high-falutin’ word for a lot of shrubs and trees.  But the wildlife in our trees are not hidden very well -- as you can see.

The culprit was a squirrel.  Probably, a Colima tree squirrel.  Intent on having a coconut lunch.


And he was well on his way to success.  Having gnawed away the husk, he was at what would be his next challenge -- the coconut shell.  The required accessory for every production of South Pacific.

Anyone who has ever tried to get a coconut to give up its milk or meat has to give this little critter a good deal of credit.  My neighbors use muscle and machete.  This guy is using enamel and a good deal of heart.


But it solves one mystery for me.  I regularly find empty coconuts with an odd hole in the top -- but empty inside.  The detritus of a squirrel cooking show, I guess.


My admiration only goes so far.  Coconut just happens to be on the list of things that I do not care to eat.  Something I inherited from my father.


As far as I am concerned, the squirrel is welcome to the lot.

it’s a small world -- no more

Dora’s tale starts with her arrival.  An arrival so unexplained -- so miraculous -- it could only have begun in Mexico.


Dora is a turtle.  A Mexican mud turtle.  A title so bland it could be borne solely by the most dignified of animals.


My friend Anne discovered Dora in a fountain at her house.  That does not sound very miraculous.  After all, where else would you find an amphibian other than in a water place?


The miraculous part is Dora is no more than two inches long.  And the fountain walls are about two feet high.  Lined with tile.  Escaping Alcatraz would be a piece of cake compared to Dora’s appearance in the fountain.


Of course, there were all of the usual theories of human and avian agency.  But we will stick with the magical appearance theory.  After all, it is Mexico.


Anne rescued Dora -- named, I suspect, for explorer fame -- and kept her in a special tub outfitted with a brick, lettuce, and fancy imported turtle food.


But, all good things must end.  Anne flew north this afternoon and dropped off Dora at my place – tub and all – with instructions to do as I saw fit.


Now and then, I am lucky to face issues we have already worked through in my mind.  When Gary of the mexile left Mexico to return to England, he was faced with the problem of finding homes for his turtles.  At the time, I suggested my laguna would be a good home.  After all, quite a few turtles live in and around it.


I let Dora wait in the garden for a few hours while I completed some other tasks.  We then walked shell and hand to the edge of the laguna where I placed her on a rock.  She poked her head out once or twice.  Probably trying to get a sense of the huge world that stretched to her horizon.


And then with one push, she was off into the water.  Putting her natural Dora exploring skills to good use.


I suspect her life outlook is the same as most animals.  Woody Allen said it best: “To me nature is … big fish eating little fish, and plants eating plans, and animals eating … It's like an enormous restaurant, that's the way I see it.”


Well, I hope Dora can enjoying more years of eating than being eaten.

in my speedo

My laguna is tamed.


So I believe in my most fevered moments.  At least, it looks a bit domesticated.


When I returned to Melaque from my summer highland adventure, the water lettuce I had been battling to clear had returned with a vengeance.  The photograph at the top of this post was my first view of my work undone.


Just as I was getting ready to clear my version of the Augean stables, the laguna was drained in anticipation of the hurricane that did not happen -- but the flooding that did.


The water lettuce simply settled on its bed of muck.  I was tempted to wade in and start forking it out.  That plan came to a quick end when I discovered the muck was at least knee-deep.  A year’s inventory for The National Enquirer.


Instead, I waited for the day when the laguna would start filling, and, like some supply side dream, all lettuce would be lifted by the rising tide.


And I was correct.  At least, about the water lettuce.  Up from its grave it arose.


I say “grave,” because much of it had gone on to vegetable heaven (where rutabagas torment vegetarians).  The effect was artistically interesting.  Almost as if a topographical map of North America had melted on the surface of the inlet.

Schools of mysterious minnows went to work on the dead.  But there were still plenty of green candidates waiting to be harvested.


When I moved down here three years ago, my brother convinced me to purchase a pair of Speedos.  Not the swim suit.   Water sport shoes.


After sitting in the closet unused all this time, I slipped them on, grabbed my pitch fork, and kept a sharp (but myopic) eye out for the return of my small crocodile, who has been prowling the inlet every night.


After almost a week of clearances, this is the result.

Not bad, if I do say so myself.  There is still the odd plant here and there.  As there should be. 


Clearing the vegetation is a journey, not simply a one-shot project.  Like Candide, the best I can hope to do is to tend my garden.


I suspect my Speedos will never dry.

pulling on the versatility chain

Bernie Madoff must have come up with one final scheme before being trundled off to white collar confinement.


The Versatility Blogger Award.


Here is how it works.  A blogger will nominate a fellow blogger for the award.  More on the number nominated in a moment.  But the criteria for nomination seem to be a bit vague.


It is an award, so we can assume that the nominator finds something interesting in the nominated blogs. 


And there is reference to versatility, so we can also assume the blogs should show some form of flexibility.  Unless, it is an inside joke and the adjective modifies the second noun, rather than the first.  Sardonic irony in a postmodern world.


Well, I am a nominee.  My pal blogger, Kelly, over at A Canuck in Cancun, saw fit to nominate me for the award.  I thank her.  I think.


A couple of years ago, fellow blogger Felipe tried a little experiment.  He wrote about the obviously false statistic that there are one million Americans (or foreigners or left-handed dwarfs -- take your pick) living in Mexico.  He then made up an equally false number and posted it on his blog to see if it gained currency on the internet.  It did.


In that spirit, I accept this award.


The rules are simple.  If nominated, the nominee must tell seven things that readers may not know about the blogger.  And, having then bared his soul, the nominee must nominate 15 other blogs for the great honor of the playing confession on the web.


We once called these things chain letters.  But this is the age of full frontal social networks.  So, here goes.


Because we are discussing secrets, I thought I would open my old FBI file, and pass on some of that information.  Of course, if you have read this blog for very long, you will know how to complete the sentences.


Subject:


1.  Has been married X times.  When asked by his then-girlfriend, X  XX: "When the leaders of your planet sent you here, did they tell you people had feelings?," his answer was: "XX."


2.  Was assigned as an XXXXX of the XXXXXXXXXXX XX XXX XXX XXXXX between 1973 and 1974 while living in Greece.


3.  Became a member of the XXXXXXXXXX Party in 1967.


4.  Was placed on an IRA watch list by MI5 in 1976.  The accusation was XXXXX.


5.  Will not eat any foods beginning with the letter X – unless he does.


6.  Would like to write with the XXX of P.J. O’Rourke, but ends up sounding like the XXXXX XXXXXX of Andrea Dworkin.


7.  Owns a favorite t-shirt with the slogan: “I make stuff up.”


So, there are the secrets.


And now, for my nominees for the Versatility Blogger Award.  Kelly chose less than 15.  Because there are no criteria for nomination, I am simply going to make stuff up as I go along.  (You may have already caught that.)


I was simply going to nominate all of the blogs in my roll on the right.  And there would have been nothing wrong with that.  After all, they are there for a reason.


But I will stick with two:


honduras gumbo -- When Mexico gets me down, I realize I could be living in Honduras.  Laurie’s faith always makes it better.


the unseen moon -- Felipe writes ten times better than most of us.  And I know he will not allow himself to get sucked into this.


Please note, we are all “nominees.”  Not “winners.”


I suspect it is a bit like everyone getting a little trophy in Third Grade soccer.

a shot in the dark

dog days of death

Christine -- my landlady, my friend, and sainted laundress -- told me this morning that she would be building a remembrance altar for two of her pets as part of the local Day of the Dead celebrations.


I will not bore you with the background of Day of the Dead.  You can find far more interesting pieces elsewhere on the internet.


Because the grave of Luna, one of her pets, is in my courtyard, she wondered if I wanted to remember Professor Jiggs, as well.  I took her up on her very kind offer.


So, there he is.  In the snow.  Where he was far more comfortable than here in Mexico.  And I can relate to that.  The tropical heat of the coast is not my favorite thing about spending a bit of time in Mexico.


But this is not about me.  It is about Jiggs and his favorite hedgehog.


What I like most about the Day of the Dead is that it is a ritual that helps us to remember what is far too easy to forget.  The people and pets who made us what we are today on our journey towards death.


And who have left their hand prints -- and paw prints -- on our hearts.