lines with a view

This is the view that put the house with no name in my name.

The realtor and I had been walking around the house for about five minutes when I looked up to my left and saw what you are looking at right now. I had spent a couple of years looking at houses in this area, but none of them had That Something that I was looking for.

Sure, I had several ideas in mind. I wanted a place with four bedrooms and all of the rooms on one level to accommodate my mother, my brother, and my sister-in-law on what they hoped would be frequent long-term visits. But those were the criteria one would use looking for hotel accommodations.

I was looking for a place that I could call home -- someplace that would reflect my personality. Or, better yet, put a better spin of patina on my personalty.

And there it was. The answer. While I was walking through the house, I could see its design was original. Or original in a derivative sense. But it was the Barragánesque lines that joined with the acute angles that sold the house to me.

There was something else. When I was in the sixth grade, I designed a house around a swimming pool -- with all of the rooms opening on the center patio. All I knew back then was that was how Imperial Roman houses were designed. Even my niece designed a similar house when she was about the same age. The design seemed to speak to something in the Cottons.

Today while I was reading in the pool, I glanced up at that same view. The sky was more London than Mexico. That pale gray beloved of some manor owners as a color for their sitting room. The sky was a bit pensive.

Usually, the backdrop for the house lines is a bright tropical blue. Often streaked with white clouds, but blue nonetheless. Almost something Piet Mondrian would have painted. Not so today. Everything is multiple shades of gray.

Light -- and its accompanying color palette -- are what make Mexico Mexico. Christopher Wren's St. Paul's cathedral is well-suited for gray surroundings. London wears the color well. But even the dome of the cathedral can take on an almost Florentine air when the sun is bright and the skies are clear (during the nine days of English summer).

I had one reader who despised my house. He called it "a barn" and "the pipe dream of a school boy." He was wrong about the barn. But I wear the "school boy" slight with honor. He thought it was an insult. To me, it was simply a fact.

He has now moved on. I suspect he tired of trying to recruit me into his rather odd combination of socialist blood-and-soil politics peppered with a parade of various conspiracy theories.

One of nature's best assets is that it is constantly changing. Certainly, the blocks of blue are better-suited to show off the house's lines. But, even in the gray, I can find the serenity that the architect built into this dream house of hers.

And I thank her for it.

barra, july

Bloggers tend to cross-fertilize.

Even though that could be taken as a low-grade subtle insult, I mean it in the best way possible. We read a piece on another blog and it triggers an idea.

That is what happened when I read Gary Denness's "Bournemoth, July" on Mexile 2.0. I first met Gary on-line when he was teaching English in Mexico City. He and his wife moved back to England several years ago, but he is still posting his clever photographs.

"Bournemouth, July" consists of a series of photographs of his current home time -- along with some brief comments.

So, I thought: "Why not?" I could take a stroll around Barra de Navida and post my photographic impressions. Because I am me, I declared one rather eccentric rule. I am on a walk. The walk takes priority. I can shoot, but I cannot take time framing or cropping. The goal was a series of snapshots.

That was the plan. Because I did not fuss over my camera, some of the shots have an unexpected vibrancy that I did not initially see while shooting. Others are -- well, mundane.

So, here they are. Just as they came out of the camera -- with a bit of straightening.

They sum up several reasons why I enjoy living here. Especially in the summer.

As an addendum, someone asked the other day about the new restaurant in town. You remember it. The one with the cheerful colors.

Well, here is their menu.

an ant's perspective

A reader from San Miguel de Allende asked me about my fascination with animals earlier in the week. It is a passion she does not share.

I do not know the answer. According to my mother, I have always been fascinated with things that move. At four or five, I would check out any book from the Powers library (with Mom's help) that dealt with animals. Snakes topped the list.

It is an interesting question, though. Why does the mere appearance of a spider cause great fear in some people, but pure fascination in others?

I know the Darwinian explanation. Long ago, the fear of anything that had the potential of harm was locked into our DNA. But that does not explain why the fear factor is not part of everyone's psyches.

Maybe the Great Evolutionist withheld that particular survival technique from some of us. After all, someone has to bring the furled magazine to the errant spider, cobra, or tiger that weasels its  way into our bit of civilization.

Take this morning as an example. I was eating my breakfast on the long table in the center of my patio. A large umbrella makes it the perfect spot to enjoy our sunny days in the cocoon of its shade.

Umbrellas do not last long here. If the sun does not destroy the covering, dry rot will erode the wooden pole that holds everything upright. My current umbrella suffers from both maladies -- partially shredded in a tropical storm and atilt from a corrupted pole.

Whenever the dry rot sets in, ant colonies set up shop in the base of the umbrella. On a regular day, scouting parties of ants -- maybe five or so -- will scour the top of the table as if it were the Serengeti. Now and then, they will score a kill with a bit of food that has fallen from my plate. Otherwise, they service their colony with the various insect corpses that litter the patio.

But, some days, I like playing the role of a formicine god by providing manna from heaven. In truth, today's ant treat was nothing more than a few crumbs of Danish butter cookies.

A couple of scouts were near the hole where the umbrella passes through the table. Within seconds of sprinkling the crumbs near them, the scouts smelled the cookies and the frenzy was on. Having been alerted by the scouts, a wave of colleagues emerged from their trenches, first hauling off the small crumbs, then working as a group to move or divvy up the larger pieces.

While the main harvesting was under way, other scouts branched out searching for the possibility of additional largess. And they found it.

Even though I could not see any crumbs, the ants congregated at where I had placed my cookies on the table and where my crumb-encrusted palm had rested on the table.

I watched this little diorama of life for about a half hour when the reader's question intruded on my thoughts. Why do I find these creatures so fascinating when some people's first reaction would be to reach for a can of Raid. After all, this is where I eat some of my meals.

Maybe it is as simple as Solomon tells us in Proverbs. There is a lesson for us in the ant ballet.

Go to the ant, you lazybones!

Consider its ways, and be wise.

It has no chief, overseer or ruler;

yet it provides its food in summer

and gathers its supplies at harvest-time.

I know that is one reason that ants attract me. Not only are they built efficiently to gather food, but their somewhat-unorganized methods of bringing home the bacon are concurrently amusing and awe-inspiring.

The answer is rather lame, but I guess the reason we like most things in life often eludes a rational description. Why do I like green, but not orange? Why do I like sour cream but not cream cheese? And why do I like things that crawl in the night?

Some things in life do not come with pat answers. We just enjoy them because they are there.

Ants and all.   

a flamboyant red state

I really do need to get out more often.

On my walk last night, in a futile quest to shoot the comet Neowise for you, I realized I had almost missed one of our best flowering periods of the year. I have always been fond of the yellow Primaveras, but my favorite flowering tree is what English-speakers call a Flamboyant -- or Royal Poinciana.

Even though they are not native to Mexico, Flamboyants can be found almost everywhere in the country. Some growing wild, but most of them are specimen trees anchoring urban landscapes. This time of year, when they are in full bloom, they show up as scarlet patches on country drives.

The Flamboyant at the top of this essay is part of a series of the trees planted in front of houses along calle Puerto de la Navidad in Barra.

I have written previous essays about the tree (better than a box of keeblers -- where I compared the tree to Tolkien's Lothlórien; and a tree as lovely as a poem). I knew about the tree before I headed south because former blogger Isla Gringo often wrote about the tree, its exquisite flowers, and the sabre-like seed pods that are a favorite of hungry squirrels.

In this part of Mexico, they put on quite a show in the late spring and early summer.  We have plenty of local trees that produce tropical-colored flowers. The orange-red blossoms of the African Tulip tree are also putting on an early summer show.

And red seems to be this season's color. The architect who built my house had a great eye for landscaping. She chose plants that would stagger their red blooms throughout the year. This month, they have decided to all put on a show at the same time.

The stars are this Lipstick plant -- backed up by the pinkish blossoms of a Crown of Thorns.

And then there are these blossoms that look similar to a lilac. So far, no one has been able to identify the name.

I am told that red is one of the most attractive colors to butterflies. I can believe that based on the number of visitors at the plants in front of my house.

While I was photographing the plants today, I realized that I spend almost no time out there enjoying the flowers or the butterflies. Maybe, when I say I am going to get out of the house more often, I could spend a bit of time enjoying the sights close to home.

Even if they are not Flamboyant. 

a comet tale

Some people are morning people. Others are night people. I am both.

Or, I once was. My usual pattern, until a couple of months ago, was to get to bed around 2 in the morning and then get up around 6. There was, Of course, a nap tucked in during the afternoon.

That pattern was set when I was in college and worked a late shift at the bank. Well, without the nap back then. Napping at twenty-something would have been sure evidence of sloth.

My recent bout of "head colds" this month and last March seem to have re-set my sleeping patterns. I still get to bed around 2, but I am now sleeping in until 9 or so.

I suppose it really does not matter. I know the reason: the colds have left me feeling more fatigued than my years would allow. Or maybe it is the combination of age and these minor bouts with viruses.

The effect is that I am now missing Mexican mornings. And I do mean "miss." I miss the birds threatening one another, the strange yellows and pinks at sunrise, and the sounds and smells of my neighbors as they begin their days and the aroma of their breakfasts fill the day. Each morning is a unique combination worth experiencing.

But what I am missing most is the opportunity to witness one of nature's most fascinating creations -- a comet. To be more precise C/2020 F3. Or its more common Matrixesque moniker -- Neowise.
Neowise shows up in our northeastern skies just before dawn. If that is too early for you night folk, it will soon be showing up in the northwestern sky just after sunset.

There is one caveat. Comets are fickle performers. A lot of us have been disappointed with the lackluster stellar performances of past comets. Yes. I am talking about you, Halley's Comet. And don't think we don't remember your world-class fizzle, Kohoutek.

Comets are fragile objects made up of rock, dust, gases, and ice. That is why they are often called "dirty snowballs." It is also why comets often just fall apart as they approach the sun. They do not do well with high temperatures.

If comets survive their encounter with the sun, they often develop a longer tail as some of the comet's material sloughs off from the heat. That is what happened to Neowise when it swung past the sun on 3 July. It now has a rather pavoine tail.

The chances are that the night people will eventually have the best view of the comet. It appears that the comet will survive its visit to our solar system. But, you need to get out there and see it soon. It will not stamp its passport for another visit for another 6800 years.

And, if you choose the evening, you will always have an opening act of some of the most colorful sunsets in the world.

Something both morning and night people can enjoy.    

mask up, ke-mo sah-bee

Zorro wore a mask to hide his identity.

The ruse let him flounce amongst his Spanish brethern while he plotted to undermine their corrupt administration of California.

The Lone Ranger wore a mask. The back story was to hide his identity while he burnished his do-gooder image. I have never found that explanation very satisfying because he usually arrived as a stranger in town with each new episode. Not every bit of fiction has to make sense.

But I am neither Zorro nor The Lone Ranger. However, I am masked. At least, when I escape the walls of the house with no name and visit populated places.

Let me confess that I am a recent convert to The Order of the Masked. For months, I have worn a bandanna over my face whenever I was in a store or where someone required me to wear it.

Last week I was talking with a Canadian friend who had admitted she did not wear a mask very often. "It is not logical. I know I should wear a mask, but every time I read one of those morally smug posts on Facebook about masks written by some mythical virologist or nurse or OSHA inspector, all I hear is my first husband's voice trying to control everything I do."

The fellow at the next table in the restaurant, chimed in: "Or my first wife."
I tend to be contrarian. It is an aspect of my personality that I deal with daily. But the first husband/wife metaphor had never occurred to me. But I know exactly what they mean. And after they mentioned it, I see it in many posts. 

A lot of what I read on Facebook these days has a certain bludgeoning bullyishness about it.  For some people, that approach is not the least bit persuasive. In fact, it often elicits the opposite reaction. Calling someone stupid is usually not the best approach to winning them over to your team.

I am not very fond of masks. They are uncomfortable. The more I sweat, the more claustrophobic I feel. But I have suffered far worse discomforts in my life (like listening to life insurance pitches) -- and I have survived.

Then there are the practical problems. I am now of a certain age that I need my glasses to read. If I am wearing a mask and put on my glasses to read labels in a font that even an 8-year old would be challenged to read, my glasses immediately fog up with the breath escaping from my mask. It s a bit like driving in a San Joaquin Valley fog.

There is also the social slight that comes from mask-wearing. I was shopping in Hawaii last week when three separate people greeted me. All three were wearing masks, and their voices were scrambled like witnesses at a Congressional hearing because of the fabric covering their mouths. I had no idea who they were. A bit of facial strip-tease solved the mystery.

I bet you think, after whinging about the small discomforts of wearing a mask, I am going to now weigh the known benefits. That would be my usual lawyerly approach. And I almost did that.

But I decided not to. For two reasons. First, you know them all. And, second, they are not the reason I am now wearing a mask.

My recent "head cold" was something of an eye-opener for me. Or, logic opener. Even while maintaining social distancing, wearing my mask in public, and staying at home for a vast majority of my day, I contracted the virus that caused whatever I had.  The SARS-COV2 virus is spread very similar to the common cold virus (another coronavirus).

Someone once said that logic is the beginning of wisdom, not the end. And it was not mere logic that has led me to be amongst The Mask-wearers.

When I was growing up, my parents taught me to hold the door open for people, to be on time, and to make my bed when a guest in someone's home. None of those things are particularly logical. But we do them because we are polite.

Wearing a mask is like writing thank-you notes. It is the polite thing to do.

For some, masks have turned into a social symbol. I understand that. But this particular hill is probably not the one you want to choose to die on. Literally.

Best of all, it it going to please your Dad and Mom to see that you learned your manners well.

the rest of the story

Some things in life do end up well.

On Thursday, I took you down a ranine nostalgia path in ¿como esta tu rana? -- how a frog managed to get trapped in my kitchen and its road back to health. When we left that story, the frog had recovered enough to climb out of his hospital bowl, stagger along the edge of a planter, and then -- just disappeared. Like an elephant at a David Copperfield show.

Given all the possibilities of the frog's fate, I had stopped thinking about him. Until this morning.

Today is one of Dora's cleaning days. I have several duties. Collecting the toilet paper bags. Changing out the kitchen garbage. Making my bed. Putting away the dishes in the rack. And picking up the leaves and flowers that accumulate on the patio during the night.

Two of the four planters have small palms planted at the base of the cup-of-gold vines. They are magnets for leaves and flowers, funneling them down to the palm base where they form clots of debris that make satisfactory homes for stinging ants. I try to cut the cycle while the leaves are on the fronds.

Today there was a layer of green leaves on one palm frond. I picked up most of them. But the last leaf was just a bit hefty. It was the frog.

I am not a sentimental person, but I confess that I felt a bit of pride seeing him resting there calmly waiting for a passing meal or another night-time hunting foray. When Dora arrives, I will alert her to his presence. Neither one of us needs to molest him.

Does his survival destine him for some Greater Purpose? Probably, not. He was a frog, is a frog, and will be a frog until he comes to some sort of end.

But I hope our encounter will somehow change me. After all, that is why we are on this journey, isn't it? To share the kindness and grace granted to us. And to choose life.