Several years ago (and I will tell you the number if you have that type of curiosity), I was born in Mast Hospital in what would soon seem to me to be the big city of Myrtle Point, Oregon.
Of course, it was not a big city. But when you come from an even smaller town like Powers, Myrtle Point seems large.
In the 1940s and 1950s Powers was still a going concern of about 1500 people. Most families, including my father, were involved in the area's prime industry -- cutting and trucking timber. We were a lumbering family as I would come to say.
We often have mixed memories of our childhood. Mine are all good. That may be because I was surrounded by loving relatives. My grandparents' home was a veritable mini-farm with baby chicks to enthrall a boy -- and a grandmother who could pluck a chicken in record time while recovering the not-yet-shelled eggs from the hen's uterus for use in some very rich custards.
I was a dreamer. A day-dreamer, actually. Several of my teachers (and a few subsequent employers) complained that, even though I was a good student, I had trouble keeping my mind on the task at hand. I was usually thinking of someplace filled with far more adventure.
My father was wise enough to see that the timber harvests were coming to a close. We moved from Powers to the Portland area in the late 1950s where there were no vast forests to be trekked and no chickens to be plucked. But it was a move that taught me adventure can be found anywhere by pulling up stakes and moving.
And that is why my father is responsible for me sitting at this computer on a beautiful morning in Mexico relating a truncated version of who I am on this my natal day.
When I opened my email this morning, I found birthday greetings from a very good friend I have known since grade school, one from a reader from Germany, and a gift book from my mother.
I have no celebration plans other than a trip to Manzanillo to pick up my dry cleaning. I will then top off the day by having dinner with a friend at a stuff potato restaurant in Villa Obregón. Most likely without my white tie ensemble.
It is just another day on my journey through life.
I do not get Downton Abbey -- the British costume soap opera that so many of my friends enjoy.
I just sat through the fifth season episodes, hoping I would at least feel a glimmer of the joie de vivre my otherwise-leftist friends feel in vicariously living the life of an earl. Maybe it is nostalgia for what appears to be a less-complicated, or, at least, more elegant, time.
Me? I simply wait patiently for Maggie Smith's next witty bon mot.
The program has reminded me, though, of the tradition of home visits. And I had one of my own yesterday.
Babs of San Miguel de Allende is in town enjoying the restorative powers of the Mexican beach. Her blog entries on these annual visits seem to find an entirely different part of her personality. Her on-line personality is always positive. But she seems to bloom here amongst the sand and the sea.
We had breakfast at one of the few places in Barra de Navidad that affords a full view of our bay. The conversation, as always, was far better than the meal. And, no, I will not share what we had to say. But I will tell you that the Dowager Countess of Grantham would not have felt out of place.
I wanted Babs to see the house with no name. She had shown an interest in giving me some decorating idea. And I suspect her jeweler's eye for style will soon be reflected in the decorating scheme I choose.
However, that plan is probably a year off -- altered by Barco. Puppies and new furniture are not a good mix. He has managed to rip the fabric backing off of a chair and couch in the library. And teeth marks have shown up on the wood lining my bed.
The house is not Downton Abbey, but it is my home. And I would like it to have a timeless style that reflects its Mexican contemporary heritage,
By the way, after seeing my front door, Babs has joined me in the belief that a "peephole" would ruin its lines. But I do have some other ideas in a more technological vein.
So, there you have it. A visit from one of the verbal and visual stylists from the Mexican highlands has set me on my long-range plan to build my own living space.
Oh, that photograph? No, it is not taken at my house. I do not live that close to the beach. Nor is Babs in it.
It is New Year's Eve at Papa Gallo's in San Patricio. Several of you wanted to see my white tie outfit. Well, there it is. (Please note the waistcoat is not cut just a little too long. I simply did not adjust it properly when I got up from my chair.)
One of the perils of traveling without a valet in this era.
As Homer Simpson would (and did) say: "It's funny because it is happening to someone else."
My guess is that is the secret of good situation comedy. Schadenfreude runs rampant.
Yesterday I had just settled into my late afternoon siesta when Barco lived up to his name with his "someone-is-at-the-door" bark. I thought he was wrong because I had heard nothing.
But my bedroom is as far away from the front door as possible without slipping into the neighbor's lot, and I seldom hear unannounced guests. And my hearing is as old as I am. Barco, on the other hand, has young, if sometimes delusional, ears.
So, off I went to the front door barefoot and in only my underwear to prove Barco wrong. No one was there when I opened the door. When I showed Barco the error of his ways, he took advantage of my hubris and darted outside.
I grabbed him before he could get off of the stoop. But I was far enough through the door that I was also outside.
Just then, I heard a rather disquieting sound: of the door being slammed shut by the wind.
Like many Mexican doors, when mine closes, there is no way to open it without a key. And that was one thing I did not have. Nor did I have my telephone.
What I had was a lot of nothing. Well, not entirely. I had my underwear and a hungry puppy.
Because this is situation comedy, just then, my two little neighbors (probably 6 and 8; one boy, one girl) took the opportunity to come play with Barco. As I explained my plight to them, in halting Spanish, while looking at the unscaleable exterior walls of my house, the boy looked very worried and thoughtful as if he were about to share a wise solution. He didn't have one.
The door stood silently locked before me. Without a key, I was barred as certainly as the Men of Dunharrow:
The way is shut.
It was made by those who are Dead,
And the Dead keep it,
Until the time comes.
The way is shut.
That left me with one solution. I needed a locksmith, and the only one I knew was about a mile walk away. So, off I headed down the main street that runs through our neighborhood. Barefoot. In my underwear. Carrying a calf-sized puppy.
My Mexican neighbors did not even bat an eyelash at the sight of an elderly fat white guy in his underwear toting a dog far too large to be toted. I could easily have stepped right out of Yoknapatawpha County -- if Faulkner could have found credibility character possibilities in my situation.
I initially thought of walking to the other end of our busy street to see if my friends Lou and Wynn could drive me the rest of the way to the locksmith -- if he was still open after 6 on a Friday afternoon. But I did not get that far. I walked one block to the house of my friends Irene and Allan.
Even though they were getting ready to leave for dinner, they volunteered to help. Allan drove me to the locksmith while Irene let Barco stay with their newly-adopted English sheep dog, Bella. (Barco knew Bella when she was fostered at the house next to mine.)
Of course, the locksmith was closed. And the four mobile telephone numbers and one home number went unanswered. Irene called her realtor for an alternate locksmith. No answer. I walked several house over to my realtor's home; she was not there. After all, it was Friday evening.
Then Irene had a brilliant idea. They are having a bar installed under their palapa. She asked the contractor (Solomon) if he knew of a locksmith. He didn't.
But Irene and Solomon came up with a brilliant alternative -- one I had discarded when first looking at the front of my house.
I will spare you the details. After the short walk to my house, Solomon initiated his plan and was walking out the front door in less than three minutes. With 200 pesos in Solomon's pocket, Barco and I were once again the masters of our home.
Now and then I have referred to my place as being "fortress-like." After yesterday, the emphasis is more on "like" and less on "fortress."
All ended well, though. Barco got some play time. My friendship with Irene and Allan moved up a notch. And I got some great writing material.
When I bought the dog, I thought my Mexican adventure days were going to be truncated. Fortunately, as I so often am, I was wrong.
After all, who gets to have a Tolkien-Faulkner outing in Mexico? On a fine Friday evening.
Barco has forced me to face my mortality.
Puppies do that. And I am not talking about the high odds of dogs dying during their puppy years. I am talking about my mortality.
Barco is at the stage where he can easily outrun me. And, of course, all of his obedience training disappears while he runs circles around me. Literally. It is fun to watch, but it makes me realize this dog could easily outlive me.
I thought of that today as I sat down to write about three recent deaths of friends -- all three who have had an impact on my life. If you have read these pages for very long, you have already been introduced to two of them.
Joan Shinnick you should know (the monkey on my back; putting my best foot forward). When I first met her in 1972, she was the wife of my first commander in the Air Force. We became fast friends. I was stationed at Castle Air Force Base for only a year, but, after I left, we kept up regular correspondence until she entered a rest home -- forgetting a lot of the things that made her who she was.
I doubt I can improve on my summary of her in an earlier post: "Joan was one of those
personalities that come into our lives and forever change how we look at
the world. She was an incredible writer. Witty. Precise. With a
jeweler's eye for cant. I think I once called her a cross between Mame
Dennis and Erma Bombeck."
Joan always reminded me of Elaine Stritch with her wit and acerbic humor. Her nickname "Stretch" (because of her height) may have facilitated that comparison.
She encouraged me to keep up my writing. Whenever I think of abandoning this blog project, I recall her words prodding me along -- words that always helped me to find the purpose in what I was writing.
When her son Blake informed me that she had died, he passed on another bit of encouragement: "I asked her last week if she remembered you and she lit up and said she definitely did."
Without Joan's inspiration, I am not certain I would have ever launched Mexpatriate and its predecessor.
Earlier this week, my friend Todd McIntosh announced his wife Shannon Casey had died. You met her on my pages in finding my faith, where I discussed the possibility that our caring actions toward others are some of the most effective prayers.
I met Todd and Shannon years before I moved to Mexico. They lived in a housing area outside of Pátzcuaro where I was seriously considering buying a house. Discovering their blog was like getting insider information about my potential neighbors.
The adventures of Larry the Rabbit and an ever-changing cast of cats convinced me that I needed to get to know this couple. And I did. Whenever I was in Pátzcuaro (or later in San Miguel de Allende when they moved there), I would arrange either lunch or dinner with them.
Maybe it was the fact that we talked about our own lives so much in our essays, but it always felt as if I had known both of them for most of my life. They were both erudite, fun-loving, and willing to discuss controversial matters in an amicable manner. That type of civility is a rare commodity these days.
Our dining options were often limited because Shannon used a walker. While attempting to save a hummingbird in her home, she fell from a very high ladder severely injuring her leg. Multiple surgeries and treatments marginally improved her condition. But she was stuck with the walker.
And then the really bad news came. Cancer. The prayer essay I mentioned earlier centered on her struggle -- a struggle she bore with an amazing smile. Just more proof of her innate civility.
But that battle came to an end this week. I will truly miss her and her writing. She taught me that even what we must endure can be endured with grace.
What will influence me most about Shannon's life is her sense of giving. She did her best to save the life of one of God's smallest creatures, and spent the remainder of her life physically limited.
It is to that sense of giving I now appeal. In his announcement of Shannon's death, Todd wrote:
Shannon has asked that there be no service or memorial. No
flowers. If you want to do something you can contribute to the Cash for
Chemo fund to help pay down the bills we will have backlogged over the last
6 years since her accident. I didn't want to ask for help, but Shannon made me Promise! It has been a rough few years.
If you choose to donate, you can find the link at: https://www.generosity.com/fundraisers/cash-for-chemo.
Last night I sat down to write about Joan and Shannon. But I simply could not get started. I think I now know why.
This morning, I received an email that a grade school friend of mine, Keith May, had just died of a heart attack. A heart attack! The suddenness caught me completely off guard.
I knew Keith since he moved to the Milwaukie area. He is undoubtedly the primary reason for my infatuation with politics.
One day in the sixth grade, our teacher, Miss Dix, asked for nominations for class officers. Keith immediately shot up his hand and offered up my name. Up until then, I am not certain I knew him very well.
He became my campaign manager. I bought a box of lic-ris-ets for each of my classmates with a handwritten note tucked inside asking for a vote -- for me. I was an early believer in the power of buying votes and disguising it as influencing the voting public.
We became fast friends with bike trips to the river and expeditions into the woods. I saw him less frequently after I headed off for other adventures with the Air Force. When I returned, we would get together occasionally for dinner to catch up on our lives.
His experiences often reminded me of the warm-up act for the Book of Job. But he kept on plowing through life. I remember our last lunch in Canby, he told me that he was certain everything was going to work out.
I hope it did. I am just sorry that I will never again be able to enjoy his optimism -- and to remind him that politics was not my best life choice.
Three lives. Each one has added a layer to my life. But that is what relationships are about. Spreading a new patina on our very souls. When lives end, they go on in our own.
Joan. Shannon. Keith. I am going to miss all three of you.
Reality has raised its stinger in our idyllic compound.
Barco has entered his hunter stage. Butterflies and grasshoppers during the day. Things that go bump in the night after the sun sets.
That usually means crickets. He has developed a fondness for them that would qualify him to be a native of Oaxaca. I regret his choice. The nocturnal sound of crickets in my courtyard makes nighttime here a joy.
But he is a predator. And he will hunt. It is his nature. My conservative outlook long ago taught me there are some things in nature that cannot be undone. Most things, in fact.
He also attacks the occasional small cockroach. But the survival nature of cockroaches is hardwired to Barco's disadvantage.
The courtyard is only dimly lit at night. If I do not have my flashlight with me, I cannot always see what he is stalking.
Last night around 3 AM, on my mad dash to the door with a bladder-challenged dog in hot pursuit, I noticed I was the only being dashing. Barco had stopped near one of the planters with his nose plastered to the ground. I assumed that he had found the makings for an early morning cricket snack.
As I ran back to scoop him up, he dealt whatever it was a deadly slam with his paw. (Dogs have a very effective way of proving that might often does make right. At least, might makes favorable results.) I did not pause to look at what he had killed, but had not yet eaten.
This morning, while cleaning up fallen leaves and flowers (one of my homeowner rituals), I found the carcass. It was not a cricket. Or a cockroach. Or even a butterfly.
It was a scorpion -- one of our very toxic small beige scorpions. The ants had begun feasting on what Barco had missed. Being wise ants, they had severed the stinger and set it aside while they dined on one of nature's most efficient predators.
That was the first scorpion I have seen in the sixteen months I have lived here. That is surprising since there are lots of open fields in my neighborhood.
But I saw only a few scorpions in my five years of living on the laguna in Villa Obregón. They are certainly here, but nowhere as prevalent as they are in San Miguel de Allende on my visits to the highlands.
Having made that rather facile comparison, it only takes one scorpion under a bare foot to re-construct one's view of how any given day is going. And it was a good reminder: I obviously need to wear something on my feet when I am walking around. Especially, at night.
Of course, while I was acting as a police crime scene photographer, I was standing there in my bare feet. I am an expert at spouting life morals; I am rather a slouch when it comes to practice.
I suppose lesson number two is that I need to be more observant about what Barco is hunting.
However, I have no delusions of crowning myself the King Canute of changing dog behavior. After all, he spends a large portion of his day romping in the goat lot across the street chasing butterflies.
He will end up learning his life lessons as the rest of us have. Roses have thorns. Scorpions pack a punch. Crickets are tasty.
The three crones in Macbeth may have had it right:
When the hurly-burly's done,When the battle's lost and won.
That about sums up my relief in being south of the border for this American presidential election. I suppose I can say that about almost all northern politics. It is a joy to be away from all of the nonsense. Or, at least, most of it.
It is very easy to get a distorted view of the subtleties of American politicking here on the Mexican Pacific coast. I get most of my news from The Economist and National Review -- two publications that share a rational view of life even though their politics are quite different from one another.
I fell into this trap during the debate over Obamacare. According to those two publications (and The American Spectator), there were a multitude of alternative ways to remedy some of the more egregious failings of the American health care system. Options were compared and discussed in the type of logical discourse one would expect to find at the finer dining tables in Chelsea.
When I went north for an extended stay in 2010, I was shocked at the reality of the discussion coming from both the White House and Congress -- and the public. What I thought was a garden party discussion had turned into a skid row bar fight.
And, as the late great Yogi Berra may have said (but probably didn't): "It's like déjà vu all over again."
I just read a very well-reasoned article on immigration -- one of the big issues in this year's campaign. I do not necessarily agree with the conclusions of the author (Reihan Salam), but his approach to the issue makes a good deal of sense.
Using statistics and immigration studies, he walks his readers through the positive aspects of immigration and the down-sides of an immigration policy that is slanted in favor of low-skilled workers that will depress wages for the recently-arrived immigrants with the same skill sets.
His answer is an immigration policy based on the model used by Canada and Australia -- opening immigration to potential citizens who have the skill sets that America will need to remain economically competitive in the 21st century. As I say, I am not completely won over by the conclusion, but I was impressed with the analysis.
What impressed me is that I have not heard a single presidential candidate propose any policy that contains that type of logical analysis. Instead, we get bumper sticker responses from both political parties.
In my ivory tower in Mexico, I have been a bit shocked at the popularity of Donald Trump among Republicans and Bernie Sanders among Democrats. I shouldn't be. Both candidates have dipped into the mother lode of anger and distrust that Americans naturally have of establishment politicians. That anger has come to a boil over the past 16 years.
As a result, voters are primed to buy Trump's reality television boasts that immigration can be solved by building a wall (with a giant door) between America and Mexico, or the equally questionable Sanders nostrum that a similar wall built around the entire country (metaphorically) will magically solve America's job and manufacturing problem.
I know that this is not the only political campaign where rational people have wept. It all started with the election of 1800, and nothing has improved much since then.
So, I will live in my cosseted world with my rational publications and studies believing what could be. And I will leave the reality to others. I can always hope that whoever is elected will have the sense to govern more rationally than he (or she) has campaigned. But I know the truth of that, as well.
After all, Shakespeare (in the same play) summed it up far better than the rest of us could:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
Happy new year from the cast of Mexpatriate.
I have an annual tradition of compiling the 10 most popular episodes (based on your comments) of the past year. Re-reading my essays also gives me an opportunity to figure out how I invested my time.
It was quite a year. I lost three close friends. Took two road trips -- through southern Mexico with my cousin Dan and his wife Patti, and up to Oregon and back with my brother Darrel.
Then there was the visit to Fascist China (I have acquiesced to those of you who found my reference to "Red China" anachronistic) -- with the follow-on cruise to Korea, Japan, Russia, and Canada.
I also resurrected my relationship with Amazon. Shipments now regularly show up at my post office box or my house. A pair of sandals and dog accessories are currently in transit.
But none of those episodes made the top ten list for 2015. Here are the winners -- once again, by the number of comments from readers. Interestingly, all of them were written in the second half of the year.
#10 -- sawing memories in half (29 October). Following Hurricane Patricia's visits to our shores, I wrote about the sound of chain saws cutting up fallen trees. It reminded me of a more innocent time in Powers when timber was still an industry.
#9 -- ghost of a chance (8 June). My most prized acquisition on my summer trip to Oregon was a bottle of ghost pepper chili powder. One of the hottest peppers known. I had great plans for spicing up dishes -- and most of them worked just as anticipated. My favorite use, though, is spicing up my tomato juice.
#8 (tie) -- puppies on the half shell (10 December). One of my quests in 2015 was to purchase a dog. Most of you showed great interest in whether I would get one puppy -- or two -- or none. In this episode I was still in my Hamlet mode. But it did introduce you to the two puppies I was considering -- Red and Green.
#8 (tie) -- best-laid plans (26 August). In August, I initiated my long-delayed walking program. Barra de Navidad has a splendid walking/running/jogging/bike path, and I wanted to put it to good use. For some reason (probably ill-fitting shoes), I developed a large blister on the bottom of my left foot. That led to an infection in my leg and -- well -- a series of doctor and hospital visits. Health-wise, 2015 was not a great year for me.
#7 -- moving to mexico -- learning the language (15 October). When I cut back on my essay writing in August, I decided to devote more time to exercise and working on my Spanish. The Spanish project has worked far better than my exercise program. After all, conjugation has not put me in the hospital. I brought several Spanish lessons with me when I moved to Mexico. They have helped. But there is material here for a follow-on episode.
#6 -- the naming of dogs (17 December). Having purchased only one puppy, I was faced with the prospect of finding an appropriate and witty Spanish name. American politics offered up the solution. Barco Rubio. It is witty. Whether it is appropriate is another question. After all, I just named my dog "blonde boat" -- in Spanish. He doesn't seem to mind. As long as food is involved.
#5 -- moving to mexico -- food budget (13 December). One thing I have learned in the nine years I have been writing Mexpatriate and its predecessor is that the content of the essay will almost always be subordinated to the personal fervor it evokes. This episode was a perfect example. I wrote about my trip to the local grocery store that specializes in imported foods. All of them were very expensive. My point was that food budgets can be inexpensive in Mexico as long as the buyer does not try to re-create a northern dinner table. Most of the comments ended up discussing the items I purchased and how unhealthy they were. But I was not surprised. That is merely what happens in the blogging word when religious topics (like food) are mentioned.
#4 -- toying with the story (22 August). After announcing that I was going to shut down Mexpatriate to concentrate on exercising and learning Spanish, readers convinced me that I could do both while writing only occasional (rather than daily) essays. I surrendered.
#3 -- farewell (21 August). This was my curtain call announcement for Mexpatriate. I have yet to tell you the full story -- and I doubt I ever well. But events from late August convinced me it was time to change a few things in my life. Mexpatriate was one. My original plan was simply to shut down the whole operation. But, as you can see from #4, I changed my mind. I will admit the comments and email I received had a great part in moving me back to the keyboard.
#2 -- welcoming patricia to the party (22 October). In October, Barra de Navidad was faced with its first hurricane since Jova in 2011. And Patricia was a big storm. By the time it was off our coast, it was a category 5+ hurricane. I received a lot of advice to flee. I didn't. As projected by the computer models, Patricia steered north of us: following about the same path Jova did four years earlier. My house turned out to be a great sanctuary not only for me but also for a local Mexican family.
#1 -- an opening for a princess (8 September). I thought "farewell" was going to own this spot. But I had completely forgotten about this episode -- and the controversy it caused. I announced I was looking for a wife, and then created a list that could be called mildly sexist. Of course, it was all a put on. As a warning to people who might take it seriously, I tacked this on at the bottom of the piece: "Just in case you are curious, this is not one of my jokester essays. My life is ready to take a turn for the better." My mother saw through it immediately. But the comments did lead to some good advice on getting a dog.
So, there it is. 2015 in review. On the whole, it has been a good year -- even with the hospital visits.
It is now time to start a new year with my puppy who believes he is a fox with very sharp teeth. And there is probably an essay in there somewhere. But it will have to wait.
For all of you who left comments this year, thank you very much. It would be nice to hear from more of you.
We trust all of you will have a blessed new year,
