This month was the 50th anniversary of Oregon's largest wind storm. What we called the Big Blow.
My brother and I were 11 and 13. With trees falling and electrical lines snapping, my mother and the two of us wandered around the neighborhood to see what hath wind wrought.
Stephanie, the neighbor girl who lived across the street, reminded me of our crazy Cotton family outing when I stayed in place last year for hurricane Jova.
Almost exactly a year ago. (reporting for duty)
You may recall our area did not suffer much wind damage from Jova, but there was plenty of flooding.
What appeared to be a well-constructed bypass highway had recently opened on the outskirts of town. I say "appeared to be" because in two places, where the road bridged local dirt paths, the bridges had been knocked from their footings causing them to drop several inches.
The flood water rushing down the dirt paths was that strong.
Last week on my ATV adventure with Ray we drove by the construction site. I didn't have time to take any photographs. So, I wandered out there yesterday to take a look.
The two bridges have been demolished and the road crews have started anew. The fact that it has taken a year to get the bridges in place is a good indication that the road was not a priority, it presented a difficult engineering problem, or both.
The farmers around here need roads to get their goods to market. And the politicians are sensitive not to upset them.
After looking at the amount of rebar and concrete going into each bridge, I suspect there is a massive hole somewhere in Mexico where a large building is supposed to be.
Look at how densely packed the rebar is. And how much concrete has already been poured into the footings. I suspect each bridge could withstand a full force tsunami.
I had forgotten how much there is to see on that stretch of road. It runs through miles of mango orchards. And there is plenty of wildlife to see. Unfortunately, much of it as road kill.
I took the most detailed photograph of a gray fox I have ever captured. But I will save some of your sensitivity by not posting it.
Dead mammals are easy to shoot. Butterflies not so much.
I have never had much luck with butterflies. They move quickly. By the time I can get focused, the subject is gone.
And today was not an ideal day. The breeze was a relief from the heat. But it pushed both butterflies and flowers in unpredictable loops.
Of all my shots, only two are even recognizable as butterfly shots. And both are blurry and noisy. Unfortunately, I do not know the identify of either butterfly.
But here they are. Number one.
And number two.
The nice thing about having the road closed to other than local traffic is that it is easy to stop by the road and admire the narrow alluvial plains that support the farmers in this area.
And also lets me enjoy nature -- even when I am not on an ATV.
My ballot is finally on its way to the Washoe County clerk.
It took me over a week to find a scanner with a bed large enough to scan my over-sized ballot. But on Sunday evening, I launched it into the electronic electoral stream.
The scanner search gave me time to consider how I was going to vote for president. The Nevada ballot gave me five options.
- Virgil Goode, Independent American Party of Nevada
- Gary Johnson, Libertarian Party
- Barack Obama, Democrat Party
- Mitt Romey, Republican Party
- NONE OF THESE CANDIDATES
The first winnowing was easy. The IAP is one of those nativist, populist parties that pops up from time to time in American politics. But I share little of its reactionary rhetoric. Where I seek reform, it seeks nostalgia.
I put "NONE OF THESE CANDIDATES" in the same category as my sentimental favorite -- the Libertarian Party. Voting for either would simply be a bit of peevishness.
There are only two real contenders. The nominees of the major parties. And that is where the real action is.
Several days ago, I called this election "critical." Kim of Boston, a frequent commenter on these pages, demurred. He identified three truly critical issues (dramatic global military pullback,
entitlement reform, and tax reform -- to create a
sustainable fiscal path), and pointed out that neither candidate will do any of the three.
I agree with Kim that those are three of the country's most critical issues. And it is true that neither candidate has been very forthcoming on how he will address them.
But there is more than a dime's worth of difference between them. To cadge a phrase from the 1968 George Wallace.
Starting with their political philosophy of the role of government in American life.
From four years of experience, we know that Barack Obama instinctively sees every social issue as political and potentially the responsibility of the federal government. Some people mistakenly refer to him as a socialist. He is not.
He does not advocate the public ownership of the means of production -- with the exception of the wrong-headed taxpayer bailout of General Motors. (Where the tax money of single mothers without benefits were used to protect the pensions of auto workers -- an important special interest group to the president. After all, single mothers do not have money to donate to campaigns.)
His views are more accurately labeled as corporatist. The means of production remain in private hands, but the government determines the policies the producers must follow. Of course, it is also a system where the government attempts to pick economic winners.
And does it very badly. After twelve years of Bush-Obama economic policies, I am ready for a change.
Mitt Romney is not a libertarian. But he appears to be serious about addressing the nation's pending fiscal car wreck.
There is little that the federal government can do to right the economy. But much can be done to make matters worse.
The Bush-Obama tack of relying on Keynesian economics was doomed to fail. Until the federal government's fiscal situation improves, no one in the market is going to believe there is a stable economy in America's future.
That it why is was gutsy for Romney to add Paul Ryan to the ticket. Ryan is willing to talk as an adult with the American people. If we do not take steps now to address our blossoming entitlements deficit, everything else the federal government does will be for naught.
And Romney has proven himself to be a capable leader as the American people have come to know him better. The president is the head of the executive department. He needs to be competent. We have already seen the results of amateurism with our last two presidents.
Is he the perfect candidate? Hardly. His call for increased military spending is wrong headed. It is time to let the Europeans pay for their own defense of their economic pipeline.
But, he is the best candidate.
So, I have voted.
Having done my part as a citizen, I can sit back and wait for the results (and not trouble these pages with more politics -- for a bit). As it turns out, I will be doing my sitting in The States.
Note -- The very nice people at the Washoe County Clerk's office just sent me an email that my ballot was received and accepted. An amazingly efficient process. Other than the step about finding a scanner.
There are days I feel drained.
As if my energy tank had lost the bung out of its bunghole.
The frog (I suspect it is a Mexican tree frog) sat on the window grill of my guest bedroom for two days. Maybe he simply did not have the energy to go make tadpoles.
I know how he felt. About not having energy.
Our weather here has decided to do its best impression of September. As you know, I headed off to the highlands for the months of August and September to avoid what is traditionally our most tortuous months in tropical Jalisco. And the moderate 50 degree mornings of the highlands were like gifts from heaven.
This past week, the combination of temperatures and humidity in Melaque has driven the "feels like" indicator consistently over 100. I can tolerate a lot of weather. But it does get more difficult when it is a lot of weather -- repeatedly. Like being force fed papaya.
My usual coping skill is to sit in the shade with a book while a fan does its yeoman best to make me believe there is a breeze. The kind of breeze you would feel on Molokai.
Even my Mexican neighbors are complaining about the inability to sleep. When I get to bed early (around midnight or 1 AM), I regularly end up staying awake until 4 AM.
The heat has really taken the joy out of my recent house-hunting high. Today I started asking myself what on earth I am thinking? Buying a house on the coast because I liked the highlands?
Earlier in the week I received a long list from my realtor in Oregon of projects she thinks need to be done to upgrade the house for the current market. They are all quite logical. But if I were to complete the list, I would move back into the house myself. And I would undoubtedly make changes that a new buyer would not like.
So, here I sit on the back porch. My Kindle at hand. My fan at foot. Putting away big decisions for a week or two.
Because I can.
Every Friday morning when I am in town, I have breakfast with Ed the Artist -- and another friend when he is here.
We usually talk about needs at the Indian school for the migrant worker children. But there are no borders on conversation. We push each others' buttons now and then. But that is one of the liberties of friendship.
Last week, I was running a bit late for one reason or another. But I was not rushing. What's the point? This is Mexico.
The main highway crosses the laguna just before passing through my destination village. I could see a motorcycle in front of me. Maybe about 10 car lengths.
Ed rides a motorcycle. Thinking it might be him, I slowed down a bit. We could arrive at about the same time.
The next thing I saw was the motorcycle cartwheeling forward. Making at least three or four revolutions. Of course, I was now really worried that it might be Ed.
I have seen many a motorcycle go down on the road and on the race track. They usually slide.
Not this one. And I instinctively knew that a rider exposed to the road on a cartwheeling motorcycle would not be a good thing.
And it wasn't.
I was the first to pull up. Within seconds there were two other men on the scene helping. The first task was to get the motorcycle off of the rider. It was not Ed.
I grabbed my telephone to call for an ambulance while retrieving my first aid kit from my truck.
But in the time it took me to return, someone else had completed the call. And whatever was wrong with the rider, my first aid kit was not going to help. He could not move.
What did help was the arrival of the fire emergency crew. And then an ambulance.
While they tended to the rider, we started clearing the street of various motorcycle parts. And one big dead dog. A second dog had limped off into the laguna, probably to be a crocodile meal, just as we arrived.
I can only surmise that the motorcyclist hit one or both dogs and panic braked on his front wheel. Whatever happened, his motorcycle performed actions for which it was not designed.
When I finished breakfast, I returned to the duplex and told Dora, the maid, what had happened.
Yesterday morning she told me the rest of the story. The motorcyclist had died.
Of what, I don't know. Like most riders around here, he wore no helmet. But I am not certain that would have mattered with the forward rolls he took with his bike.
We will all have our own lessons to draw from this tragedy.
Mine is: life is fragile. If we remain aware of that fact, we might treat others in our lives with a bit more respect and love. I know I need to work on that.
Note -- There is no photograph with this post because I took no photographs at the scene. If I had, I trust you would have lost any respect you might have for me. Even though that type of photograph is daily grist in some Mexican newspapers. But not this blog.
Thursday was Man Day.
The day I rolled up my short sleeves to tackle the duties of a pioneer on the frontier.
Around here, that means pulling water cabbage and water hyacinth out of the laguna. The chore has been neglected for some time.
First, it was the crocodiles babies. I was reluctant to disturb the nursery. And, as you may recall, MaMa Croc was far more intent on me not disturbing the nursery.
Then I wandered off for two months. In my absence, the laguna was emptied twice. When I got back, it was a plain of wet mud covered with water plants -- hanging onto life in the few puddles that survived the drainage.
For the past three weeks, my inlet has been filing with water. And just like income tax rate cuts, all boats (or, in this case, plants) are rising.
Having put off what needed to be done for too long, I started gathering up my tools. Well, tool. I only have one. The four-prong hook that I toss into the pond and then pull out with a rope. If all works well, a carpet of plants will come along with it.
But, if you look carefully at the photograph, my two-part tool has been reduced to a single piece of re-bar. Without the rope, it would be as futile as a governmental program to toss the hook into the pond.
I am considering driving to Manzanillo on Saturday -- for a day in the Little Apple. If I do not buy a rope locally (and there are plenty of local retailers), I will pick up one there.
Then I can return to my John Wayne impression.
My compadre blogger, Felipe, over at Unseen Moon has posted on the baffling resurrection of nostalgia for communism and its related cousins.
There is no doubt where I stand. I have spent my adult life opposing an ideology that is morally indiscernible from Italian and German fascism.
But some red keeps creeping into my life.
For those of you who have met me (or even looked at my profile photograph), I am not overly blessed with melanin. Some of my ancestors came from the Outer Hebrides. There is a good chance Scandinavian raider genes run in my blood.
Whatever the reason, no one has ever called me olive-skinned. I am one of those people who broil rather than tan.
Yesterday I recalled staying at my cousin Danny's house in Myrtle Point when I was nine or so. We had spent a full day at the Bandon beach -- in a time when sun screen was what you put on the front porch.
Trotsky was less red than my back the next morning. But I helped Danny with his paper route by wearing those old paper carriers that looked like a fat-man poncho stuffed with newspapers in front and in back.
It hurt. But there was work to be done.
Looking at today's photograph should be reason enough to explain why that little anecdote popped into my head.
You would think I would have learned -- after sixty-some years -- that going out in the sun means protective gear. At least, a hat.
In fact, Ray asked me that very thing when we started our ATV tour. He just shook his head that I was heading out without a hat or sun protection.
I thought my four years down here would lay down a protective layer against the sun. I forgot one important fact.
For the past eight months I have been traveling to places where long pants are in order. My pudgy thighs have been living in the equivalent of a rabbit warren.
Not surprisingly, you can see the result. My face is a bit red. But it is my thighs that took the brunt of the sun. And just the thighs. That is what comes of sunbathing while sitting down.
And, yes, I am aware of the dangers of sun exposure. But it ranks up there with eating what I want to eat. And fearing being eaten by piranha in the bath tub I do not have.
Oddly, I am not paying the pain dividend for my hubris. Usually a burn like this would present logistical sleeping problems. But it does not even feel warm to the touch. What is the world coming to when I cannot count on Skinnerian aversion therapy.
I am smart enough that I generally stayed out of the sun yesterday.
Today I am having lunch with a reader who participated in the house poll. It will be fun to listen to another property owner's decision-making process.
We may even get around to talking about reds of one type or another.
And some things I have never done once.
Tuesday was the day I marked at least one thing off of my list. The list of things I want to do before I die -- even though some of the activities could easily result in "GAME OVER."
This was one. Sorta.
I have never ridden on or piloted an ATV -- an all terrain vehicle. Those four-wheeled vehicles that pre-teens use to terrorize sunbathers on Mexican beaches.
There was no reason for not doing it. My house sitter is a big advocate -- having had one in his youth on the family farm.
It turns out that its ride is a cross between a motorcycle, a wave runner, and a horse. And I long ago mastered all three.
Last week, I saw Ray Calhoun of The Only Tours at Rooster's restaurant late last week. We met about three years ago while my neighbor (at the time) and Ray were figuring out exactly where true north was on the beach.
I really do not remember why that was so important then. But it was.
I would then see Ray on the beach or guiding one of his ATV tours through the back roads of the Costalegre. But I never had taken the time to set up a tour for myself.
When we talked last week, he told me he was heading out on Tuesday to scout the streams and roads before this season starts. I invited myself along as a paying customer.
Let me give you the bottom line. I love ATVs. And I love the challenges Ray offers on the trip.
We were gone for about four to five hours. Riding on beaches and back roads. Fording streams. Climbing landslides from our summer rains -- slides that I could not have climbed on foot.
You heard me go on and on about the scenic vistas of Michoacán. Where there is a stunning sight around every corner.
I have slighted Jalisco's coast with my prose. This is a view in the hills looking south toward Manzanillo. When this place greens up, it makes Greenpeace look like minke harvesters.
Unfortunately, when you have one hand on the throttle and both hands on the brakes while dashing through shifting sands, it is difficult to get good shots. As you can see.
And that is too bad.
We passed through clouds of tiny to large butterflies -- as if we were in a Mardi Gras parade surrounded by blue, white, yellow, organge, brown, and black confetti.
Gray hawks. Turkey vultures. Lizards. Snakes. And birds I have never seen before. All on the back of a steed that could take us almost anywhere our dreams could imagine. We went down trails Ray has never explored before.
And I think this is the first time I have seen the Mexican and Red Chinnese flags flying together at a business complex. It turns out it is a joint venture mine. The locals in Tequesquitlán say it is an iron ore mine.
That makes sense. It is in the same range as the Peña Colorado mine on the road to Colima. If I remember correctly that mine is a joint venture with the British. It is almost as if both Guadalupe Victoria and Porfirio Diaz were still setting policy in Mexico City.
But there may be more than iron ore in them thar hills. Our local source lowered his voice and got that Hispanic glint in his eye -- the same look that propelled Nuño de Guzman through the highlands.
"They say there is -- gold." The perfect opening line for a short story.
But we were not in a short story. We were on another of those adventures that make me as giddy as a school boy. At least, until the adrenalin has burned off with what is left of my testosterone, and my buttocks start telling me it is a long time since I sat a saddle. That hot tub would have been welcomed last night.
I want one. An ATV, that is. If I get that house in the country, it would be a perfect fit. Something more to tie me to Mexico.
Unlike the area around Lake Pátzcuaro, the roads and fields around Melaque do not have banks of fall wild flowers. But the mountains do.
Not the pastel pinks of Pátzcuaro with its cosmos. These flowers are boldly tropical. Oranges. Purples. Reds. Blues. Yellows.
Nothing subtle. But I could not help but notice this flower (whose name I do not know) is certainly close kin to the cosmos. As leggy as a Las Vegas chorine. But in a brighter costume.
It seems that all good times eventually meet, shake hands, and become one.
For your own adventure, you would be well-served to contact Ray when you are in town.
I intend to take a few more runs myself.
