I moved into my Salem house in 1993. But not immediately after purchasing it.
The house was built in 1925. And, even though it was well-maintained, the entire upstairs required work. New plaster. Paint. Wallpaper. Carpet.
While my brother, a friend, and I were busy gouging, tearing, and steaming inside, I decided to make the first major buy for the house outside. A hot tub. A really nice hot tub.
I knew the history of hot tubs for most families. Used daily for a week. Then once a week. And once a month.
Eventually, the hot tub turns into the crazy aunt in the attic. Something to be tolerated rather than enjoyed.
That was not the relationship I developed with my hot tub. We met every night for dinner and reading. I would spend almost two hours every evening in its watery embrace.
Put "hot tub" in the search function at the top of the blog. At least fifteen posts -- starting in 2007 -- feature my adventures in my inland sea.
All relations come to an end at some point. Even though it was a regular part of my life, the hot tub began falling apart bit by bit before I left for Mexico. On subsequent visits, the inevitable erosion continued.
First the control door -- then the skirting -- succumbed to dry rot. When I was in Salem in November, the gardener managed to cut the power cable. Flat-lining the hot tub.
And I was glad of it. I would have eventually needed to get rid of the hot tub. Selling it, if it was working.
In death there was but one option. Put it on craigslist. Free for the taking.
After four false starts, a family showed up with a trailer. And off went my deceased lost love.
My house sitter took care of the details while I was in Mexico earlier this month. When I showed up at the house early on the morning of 27 December, this is what I found.
In a month, I will be on my way back to Mexico -- where I have no hot tub.
But that is a failing that can be remedied.
Sunny. 84 degrees. A soft breeze.
I have been sitting on my patio since late morning. Reading the newspaper and enjoying a fine Christmas day.
This Christmas may be unique for me. My friends the Moodies invited me to dinner this evening and I attended Christmas Eve service last night.
But this has been a day for solitude. To enjoy the bounty that Christmas symbolizes.
My garden is in bloom. Including my favorite blood-throated hibiscus that always reminds me of an orchid. The perfume of reproduction fills the yard.
Well, along with Mozart's whimsical Kegelstatt Trio. It is almost as if the Atlanta Chamber players had stopped by for a visit. That is, if the players relied on a pair of inadequate Sony speakers.
Earlier, the Salvation Army brass band invited me to O, Come All Ye Faithful -- as if John Philip Sousa was leading a procession smartly to Bethlehem. My music tastes run to the eclectic.
Tourists often insist on calling my little village a "paradise." It isn't. It has enough human-induced warts to play the witch of Endor.
But my theology informs me that we are to daily enjoy what God has given us. Family. Friends. Solitude. And an opportunity to share our lives and what we have been given with others.
It may not be paradise. But it is certain a blessed place where we can pass blessings along.
The next few days will be busy.
Not only am I am going to enjoy celebrating Christmas with friends in Mexico, I also need to pack for my next trip north -- on Wednesday.
So, let me wish all of you a very meaningful Christmas. Because I am not certain I will have time to post until later this week.
I started celebrating Christmas early on Saturday evening.
As you know, I have a limited volunteer role in working with our local Indian school. The grounds consist of sixteen family housing units, three elementary school classrooms, a kitchen, and a clinic.
The facility also provides education and meals for students who do not live on the premises.
Saturday was a special day. The families are migrant workers. Here to plant and harvest crops for months at a time. Most of them are Mixteca from the area around Oaxaca.
As is true with most Mexican celebrations, this one was multi-layered and long in duration. But anyone who has ever been to a Mexican Christmas party will recognize the elements.
First came the posada. Some of the children were dressed as Mary, Joseph, the wise men, shepherds, angels, and the odd sheep or two. They all stood on the outside of the school grounds with the gate closed.
They then sang the traditional song begging permission to enter. But the singers on the inside denied entrance in responsive song. Until the last verse. The children then burst through the gates like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday. Because they knew what was coming next.
While they settled into their seats, Miguel and his support musicians sang holiday songs for us.
But the listening portion of the evening was soon over. And it was piñata time. Time to bust open some candy.
Some of the piñatas were traditional. Including one representing the seven cardinal sins.
But the favorites for the children appeared to be the north of the border characters. Such as Santa Claus. This little boy is about to knock the stuffing (literally) out of Frosty the Snowman.
Having redistributed the candy wealth through random acts of violence, the children lined up to receive gifts provided by the expatriate and tourist community. Primarily shoes and clothes.
This girl is being fitted for a new pair of sandals.
And there was more. Including a full Christmas dinner for all.
I can only hope that your Christmas season will be as enjoyable as the one these children celebrated with their families on Saturday.
I love food.
Of life's pleasures, it is undoubtedly my favorite. But you already know that. Or you could figure it out from the number of words I write on the topic of eating.
You would probably assume then that I an one of those people who moved to Mexico for -- and then gushes about -- The Food. But you would be wrong.
I like Mexican food. That includes the meals in The States that passes for Mexican food. Even though the Mexican food in Melaque is something quite different. The most obvious example is the taco.
The problem with Mexican food is its uniformity. After about a week of combining tortillas, chicken, vegetables, and salsa in different combinations, the culinary adventure sours.
And it doesn't matter which region I am in. Certainly, the cuisine of Michoacán is more interesting than Jalisco's. But everything is ruined by repetition.
Until recently, there was only one way to break the tortilla chain. Cook for yourself at home. And I enjoy doing that.
But we have had some additional choices recently here in the Melaque area. During the biggest tourist seasons of the year (when the highland Mexicans migrate our way). most of the restaurants serve the usual Mexican fare.
The only exceptions are during the few winter months when flocks of northerners head south. And need to be fed.
Most of them are looking for a filling meal at a low price. And we have a few restaurants that are essentially Denny's (or Appleee's) knockoffs.
And then there are the good restaurants. One of my favorites is La Rana. The eatery around the corner from my house.
The menu there had been somewhat the same since I have been living in Villa Obregon. Mexican classics mixed in with a few northern favorites.
This year the menu is delightfully different, The daughter of the owner has been attending chef courses in Manzanillo. And this year's offerings prove she has learned her stuff well.
The chicken section is proof enough. Italian chicken. Marengo chicken. Chicken piccata.
But my favorite is illustrated at the top of this post. Chicken jamaica.
A sautéed chicken breast, stuffed with goat cheese and walnuts, tied with a sprig of lemon grass. Set off by a tangy hibiscus sauce -- the southern equivalent of a pomegranate reduction.
The tastes are a perfect blend. The fresh breast has the pungent taste that only fresh chicken can provide. And the smooth tang of the goat cheese mixes perfectly with the acidic crunchiness of the walnuts.
I could not eat it every night. But it is certainly a pleasant weekly diversion for the winter months.
At 90 pesos (about $7 US), it is not the least expensive meal in town. But a similar meal in Salem at a tarted-up hotel coffee shop would run about $25 to $30. And it would not be as fresh.
It almost makes me wish I could take La Rana with me when I head north on Wednesday.
Thursday was art day in my little village by the sea.
We may not have a cultural scene as multi-layered as San Miguel de Allende. But we are not sand-encrusted trolls, either. Well, not all the time.
Three venues opened their doors to the public on Thursday afternoon.
My first stop was at Villa Xochipilli at the end of my street. I have worked with the owner on projects related to the laguna. But on Thursday she opened her home to display paintings by her late husband, Martin McCarrick.
I had seen some of the pieces in her home on prior visits. But this was the first opportunity I had to examine them critically. I need to return for another visit to spend more time.
In the courtyard, my birder and photography pal Melanie Hester displayed several of her nature shots. My favorite was a vine snake that had just captured a frog. Now, why don't I have action shots like that in my garden?
My second stop was at the home of my friends Ed Gilliam (the painter) and Roxanne David (the photographer). Ed had turned their garden into a perfect gallery for his work.
I have written about Ed's work in the past. He combines the spirit of Picasso and Gauguin in his individual style. In addition to canvases, he has started painting table tops. With some fascinating scenes.
My last stop was at the home of photographer Jeanne McGee. Even though we have lived near one another for years, I dd not meet her until the Day of the Dead bus trip this year.
She had opened her home to several art vendors in addition to her own interesting brand of photography. Plus there was music and locally-roasted coffee. Just what every good art walk needs.
The biggest choice in attending these functions on the beach is which pair of sandals to wear. But it is nice to know that I have such creative neighbors. All within a few houses of mine.
I may not need to bring my art collection south, after all. There is plenty here already.
I did not move to Mexico for the weather.
It is usually one of the primary reasons expatriates list for moving here. Along with The Food. The People. The Culture. And, for a few bluntly honest souls -- because the cost of living is affordable on a Social Security check.
But, now and then, the weather starts to seduce me.
Tomorrow will be the first day of winter. There is no sign of that in my courtyard. At least, not what I usually expect of winter in other pars of the world.
The bougainvillea are in full bloom. Red. Purple. Salmon. Attracting waves of butterflies and skippers. But mainly skippers. Darting around in small squadrons. As if they were Spitfires defending the Dover cliffs.
This seems to be the time of year when those colorful pieces of confetti start setting out territorial boundaries or choosing mates. Sometimes the behaviors are indistinguishable. In insects and humans.
To watch them is to enjoy life. To photograph them is like trying to film water spray. Lots of activity, but nothing stays framed very long.
So, I snapped a few photographs and set the camera aside. Instead, I just watched the skippers provide the show and the flowers to provide the backdrop.
Proving, once again, that Mexico is more than dead dogs and parasites. No matter what I write.
I am amazed that anything gets done in Mexico.
Or more, particularly, I am amazed at how I manage to get anything done in Mexico.
.
On Tuesday night I was waking to dinner. I had arranged to meet my landlady at a French bistro in town at 6:30. And I was on track to get there on time. She is always punctual.
Then out of nowhere, a parade of children appeared at an intersection. And not just any parade.
There was Mary on a real donkey. Joseph. Shepherds. Angels. Wise men. All of them looking as if they had just escaped from a Sunday school play in Topeka.
The annual custom of the posada was at hand. Where Mary and Joseph go door to door seeking shelter while their accompanying chorus sings to allow them admittance. That is the retail version.
But this group had spotted a restaurant filled with Canadian tourists. And the kids knew that nothing separates grandparents from money as quickly as smiling children in costumes. Let's just call it Our Virgin of the Halloween.
Having sung for their pesos, they were on their way to share more terminal cuteness with the rest of the village.
I was late for dinner. But it was well worth the experence.
After all, I did not come to Mexico to develop punctuality this late in my life.
