in a fog

Timing is everything -- even with silly essays.

Three days ago, I drafted the outline of an essay on blood-sucking insects. No, not politicians. Not this time.

My focus was on a completely different group of blood-suckers -- mosquitoes and jejenes (better known to English-speakers by a plethora of names: gnats, black flies, midges; almost almost preceded by some colorful epithet). 

Normally, we have plenty of them here to help balance out the notion that this little strand of tropical beach is paradise. After all, could Eden exist without clouds of flying serpents?

Well, the answer to that rhetorical (and self-serving) question is: apparently, yes.

After I returned from my last sojourn north to Oregon in mid-January, I thought I noticed an absolute dearth of mosquitoes and jejenes. I have been on my patio in the dusk without sighting one of the little vampires. Usually, I need to retreat to the library when the sun slips below the lines of the house.

Not that their disappearance is unusual. In the dozen of years I have lived here, we seem to get a respite from biting insects in January and early February. My theory is that the cooler weather breaks up the reproduction cycle in the insect singles bar. And our nights have been cooler than usual. I thought my theory had been vindicated by semi-scientific observation.

But that is one of the flaws of limiting conclusions to observations. It appears I simply may not have been paying attention.

While writing my "insect-free at last" essay, I heard the distinctive sound of the mosquito fogger truck driving through the neighborhood. Not just once or twice, but three times. That usually means that not only is there mosquito activity, but that dengue is afoot.

Yesterday I was in my doctor's pharmacy and I asked if there has been an increase in dengue here in Barra de Navidad. There has. Along with an increase in the number of the other dreaded virus cases. Some people with both.

We humans are prone to get so focused on some new malady that we forget there are also other health enemies lurking in the tules. Masks and social distancing help to restrain the transmission of the SARS-CoV-2 virus. But neither of those will have any effect on preventing dengue fever. To do that, we need to avoid being bitten by an infected Aedes aegypti mosquito. For me, that means slathering myself with high-concentrations of DEET.

I am always reluctant to write about either form of virus because there is a tendency for us to obsess on avoiding either one. Not that there is anything wrong with being cautious. It is the obsessive part that can be counter-productive.

Now, I know you did not ask me for any advice on either topic. I offer up this reverie for one purpose -- it is information that you can choose to use or disregard in your daily choices.

But, I do have one piece of advice. And it comes straight from my mother.

Enjoy your day today. And learn something new.    

banging for phil

There is no mistaking the sound. The celebratory staccato blast of cohetes -- those sky rockets that are intertwined with religious processions in Mexico.

The Bang! Bang! Bang! is as insistent as a midnight visitor hammering on a door for admittance.

And that analogy is not entirely inapt. One of the purposes of the cohetes is to invite the faithful to join in a procession through town to the local church in the neighborhood. Even though it is 6 in the morning. Another invitation will be extended at 6 this evening.

This morning was the first day of a 3-day feast celebrating our barrio's very own patron saint. San Felipe. Or, as we would say in English -- Saint Philip.

But not that Saint Philip. Not the one who was a disciple of Jesus and plays a recurring minor role in John's gospel. Not even the one who worked with Stephen to tend the Greek widows.

Nope. This is San Felipe de Jesús. A local boy. 

There will be all of the usual excuses during the next five days to indulge in mild passions of the flesh that accompany Mexican fiestas -- religious or otherwise. 

It turns out this particular saint had a penchant for pleasures of the flesh himself.  Born of Spanish parents in Mexico City in 1572, he led the type of spoiled childhood we would expect of a son of the conquest.  Because he was born in Mexico (and not in Spain), his vocational opportunities were limited.

The best jobs in Mexico were reserved only for men of Spanish blood born on the soil of Spain. An early manifestation of the blood and soil doctrine of the Falangists.

Our guy Felipe took one of the few professional routes open to him by joining a religious order -- the Franciscans.  But, his heart was not in it.  A couple months later, he left the order and decided to be a merchant (a lowly job for his birth) in the Philippines.

The kid may as well have been Hamlet.  Within just year of experience as a cog in the Spanish globalist experiment, he decided he wanted to be a Franciscan. Again.  To be. Not to be. And to be -- one more time. But he did not quite make his way back into the fold.

Because there was no bishop at the time in Manila to ordain him, he boarded a ship to return to Mexico where a bishop could re-admit him to his order.

Fortune was not Felipe's co-pilot. His ship was wrecked on the coast of Japan.  The Japanese feared the priests (along with all of the soldiers and cannon on board) were part of a European invasion. The Japanese had had enough trouble with the bothersome Portuguese. They did not need Spanish priests mucking around in their business.

Philip's end was not a pretty one (along with the other priests on the ship and several Japanese friars and priests -- 17 in all).  Their ears were sliced off. They were paraded through Japanese streets. And, then, in an act of religious parody that would have warmed the heart of ISIS, they were marched to the top of a hill, tied to crosses, and pierced with spears until they died. 

That was 1597.  Within 38 years, Japan was closed to all foreigners. Not that it mattered to Felipe.

He was dead at 25 with nothing much accomplished during his lifetime -- other than the fact that he died a martyr's death as a lapsed Franciscan. He was not canonized until 1862. But all of that was good enough for Mexico City to adopt him as its patron saint. And for our local barrio to follow suit.

So, for the next three days, we will celebrate this prodigal son of the church. Of course, there will be daily processions with that home-town feel one can find only in small communities -- like Barra de Navidad or Springfield.

I have been informed, because of the virus, the usual lilliputian carnival with its fusbol tables and mini-carousel will not be in town. And I do not know how many people will participate in any religious procession because they have been limited in size. After all, we are technically in an extended semi-lockdown. I need to get out and about today to see how things have changed during the "restrictions." 

My favorite tradition is the dance clubs that accompany every religious procession. At the end of the procession, they fill the aisle of the small, partly-completed parish church of San Felipe de Jesús. The drums continue to beat. And the dancers circle and twirl before the altar -- reminding me of Anatole France's Le Jongleur de Notre-Dame.

France's tale is of a juggler who joined a monastery. When he could think of no other gift to honor Mary, he did what he knew how to do. He juggled in front of her statue. Juggled well.

And that is exactly what these Mexican women, dressed in their red and white "Indian" tunics and carrying their stylized weapons, do. Whirling and bowing, they offer up their talents to their faith.

The juggler's fellow monks were scandalized at his offering, just as some northerners are scandalized by being jolted from their morning reverie by the cohetes. But the cohetes, the procession, the dancers are all of one piece. The village is offering up its heart on this festive day.

I hope we hear Jesus' words in our own hearts: "You go and do as [they] did."

the further adventures of omar

It has been some time since I told you tales of my son. More than two months to be precise.

The last reference to him on these pages was in late November when we visited Ciudad Guzmán (on the road to ciudad guzmán). Well, I visited Ciudad Guzmán. Omar was there to take an entrance exam to the University of Guadalajara -- the same university that operated his prep school.

He was certain he had done quite well on the examination. All we needed to do now was to wait for the results to be announced in January. That is when things went awry.

In 2019, over forty Americans were implicated in a college admission fraud case. Because Americans are besotted with celebrity worship, two actresses (Lori Loughlin and Felicity Huffman) became the faces of elitist entitlement. We collectively clucked our tongues -- after asking: "Who is Lori Loughlin?"

Omar found himself as collateral damage in a similar less-celebrity-oriented scandal. Wherever entry examinations are conducted, some hardy entrepreneur will set up a course to teach examinees how to take the test. And that is what happens in Mexico. There are lots of courses on offer to help enhance test scores.

Omar took one locally. And he felt that it had been helpful to psychologically prepare him for the test in Ciudad Guzmán.

Then came the bad news. Around the date the test results were scheduled to be released, Omar emailed me in Oregon that there was a problem. One of the test preparation courses had obtained a copy of the examination and had distributed it to its students -- along with the correct answers.

Even though Omar's preparation course was not involved in the scandal, his results were invalidated along with all of the other results. He would need to take another examination. In Ciudad Guzmán. On 6 February.

It did not sound fair. But what other option was there for the university? The process had been thoroughly tainted.

He took the news just as I would have anticipated. He has that Mexican personality trait of patiently working through every setback. I would not call it fatalism so much as doggedness.

And now there is a new twist. Even though Jalisco state has been under a modified lockdown order for two weeks, the number of new virus cases continues to climb.

The rector of the University of Guadalajara was interviewed in this morning's newspaper. He advised the governor to extend the lockdown past its 31 January expiration date. More interesting to Omar was the rector's comment that the 6 February entrance examination would most likely be moved -- once again.

I just gave him the news that he may not be taking the examination in a week. He accepted it stoically. Just as I anticipated. It also gave me an opportunity to stretch my Spanish muscles by conveying some abstract ideas. Slowly and roughly. But it worked.

Omar is one of the many students around the world whose educational process has been interrupted. Unlike primary and elementary school students (many of whom have left school permanently as a result of virus-related school closures), Omar can bide his time on the road to becoming a dentist. He has kept busy by working as a waiter in a seafood restaurant. I suspect other potential students may have abandoned their dreams during these shutdown days. 

So, that is the latest installment in "Father Knows Least" and "My One Son." As long as the network does not cancel us, Omar will be back with more on his tooth-drilling quest. 

water, water everywhere

My morning routine was interrupted.

I usually brew up a pot of Tazo Zen tea before I sit down at the computer on the patio to chat with you.

Making tea is a rather universal process. Heat up some water (in my case, it is a teapot in the microwave). Pour it over the tea. Drink the tea.

I use the same process here that I do at my brother's house in Prineville -- with one major difference. In Prineville, I fill the teapot from the tap at his kitchen sink. In Mexico, I fill it from a five-gallon bottle in the corner of my kitchen.

Before I moved here, people were extremely free on giving me advice about water in Mexico. The first nag out of the gate was: "Never drink water from the tap."

I have generally followed that advice. My water source for the house is a well. The house is plumbed to connect to the city water that runs in front of my house, but I have never felt the need to complete the circuit. It would mean installing a tinaco (a water tank on the roof) and setting up a complex plumbing connection.

Even though, I do not drink the untested well water that pours from my tap, Omar does. He does not seem to be adversely affected. For me, the tap water is for cooking, washing up, and showering.

My drinking water comes from another source. That bottle I mentioned earlier that is housed in a stand that looks as if it is a relic of the revolution.

How that water gets to the house and what it costs is a tale that has changed over the years.

When I lived on the beach and then on the laguna in Villa Obregon, a young man named Ivan delivered water to my house in a truck that had a distinctive Tarzan yell to announce its presence in the neighborhood. In 2009, the price of each bottle had just jumped from 10 to 12 pesos, and each bottle supplied me with water for about two to three days.

Over the years, the price inched up to 15 pesos, I think. I never tracked it because it was such a small amount.

Then, one day, Ivan asked me to help him with a planned trip north. Way north. I never saw him after that. Even though another driver took over the Tarzan route, I switched to a fancier brand of water on the advice of a friend who had the foresight to have several samples tested at a lab. 

I became a Santorini fan. The price was a bit more expensive (about 25 pesos), but it had a great taste -- even though it is a Pepsi product. There was something enticingly exotic about the brand that evoked the sun of Greece. I assume Pepsi did not want its customers to dwell on the fact that what we know as the island of Santorini is the rim of a catastrophic volcanic explosion.

When I switched brands, I switched delivery systems. There was a Santorini truck that delivered water in one of the neighborhoods in Barra de Navidad. But not to my neighborhood with any regularity. And an irregular supply of water is not a good way to run a household.

Instead, I drove my car every two or three days to the nearest Kiosko and bought my water there. When an Oxxo opened near my house, I switched my custom there. It is a simple operation taking no more than ten minutes of my time. The Oxxo is within easy walking distance of my house, but I have come to an age when toting loads like a full water bottle three blocks strains my capabilities.

Because we live in an area where supply chain interruptions (hurricanes, tropical storms, floods) are expected every year or two, I keep three bottles on hand. In emergencies, that will hold me for over a week. Short of a protracted revolution, I should have plenty of water. In a pinch, I can always resort to the Omar method and drink water right out of the tap. 

The price of my Santorini water crept up slowly to 30 pesos. And then one day, it was gone. The Santorini brand simply disappeared from the shelves. No more echoes of Greek burros climbing the path to the top of the island.

But, it turns out, only the name was gone. The same water in the same bottles were still on sale. Tarted up in modern marketing jargon. Out with rural Greece. Forward with the more antiseptic E-Pura.

Of course, re-branding is expensive. So, the price per bottle jumped to 34 pesos.

I was about to make a comparison between the 10 pesos that a bottle of water cost just before I arrived and the 34 pesos I am now paying to draw a lesson about the cost of living in Mexico, but that would be simply perpetuating the type of false comparison so common of politicians. After all, I would be comparing unlike brands. There are still plenty of suppliers who will deliver a bottle of water to your house here for much less than 34 pesos.

In my case, driving the short distance to the Oxxo to talk with the clerks is just part of my routine. Like making tea.

And it is time that I finished off the pot I made this morning.

hamming it up

I made a Charles Dickens visit to Hawaii last week.

You know. "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times."

I had just paid for my bag of produce and some exotic imported items when I asked Alex if he had sold any Costco hams over the Christmas season. I was primarily curious because I had not seen any in his coolers before I headed north the Oregon to celebrate Omnisolemnis. I did not particularly need any on that stop.

He called to one of his employees who hauled out a red foil-wrapped ham the size of Rhode Island. I immediately recognized it by the wrapper. It was one of Costco's spiral-cut smoked hams that are the centerpiece of holiday stand-up parties. A slice of ham on a kaiser roll slathered with extra hot mustard, and a party-goer will be content for the evening.

My problem is that I was not cooking a Christmas dinner or hosting a stand-up party. Such events do not happen at the house with no name. I would like to, but I don't. Or, as Florence King would put it: "I would love to. I just don't want to."

Even though my head said "what are you going to do with that hunk of meat," my heart responded "whatever I want to," and I left with the ham slung over my shoulder looking as if I worked in a Smithfield packing house. Even Upton Sinclair would have given me a pass in The Jungle.

One of the drawbacks of decisions based on emotion is that the passion soon fades and reality sets in. In this case, the realityt was a bone-in giant that hunkered in the corner of my refrigerator daring me to come up with enough uses to justify the cost of the purchase.

So, for the past week, I have eaten ham fried rice, ham sandwiches, ham with mustard, ham with scrambled eggs, a ham-cheese-egg breakfast sandwich, and a couple of other dishes I cannot now remember. All of them were delicious because I like ham. And this ham has given up itself to my pleasure like an Al Capp shmoo.

But I have just about hit the ham wall, and about half remains uneaten. One obvious solution is to pull the rest of the spirals off of the bone, wrap them individually in plastic wrap, and then freeze them. That is always a last resort with me. The freezing process will destroy a lot of the ham's flavor. 

There are other options, of course, that I do not need to elaborate on. But I am certain I could find good homes for what is left of the ham.

I suppose the moral here is not to buy more of anything than I can reasonably use in a few days. (Of course, that would be contrary to the very concept of my pantry.) That is not going to happen.

A better moral is that when faced with an excess of anything, I should ask where could it best be put to use?

Before I answer that question, though, I see a grilled cheese sandwich with smoked ham in my future. 

keeping the house afloat

Any boat owner can tell you what a boat is -- a hole in the water surrounded by wood into which you pour money.

Home owners understand the sentiment. Just like boats, houses need constant attention and repair to stay afloat.

The boat analogy is not inapt. Unless a house is situated in the middle of the Atacama Desert, it needs to be as watertight as a sloop during rainy seasons. Assuming that the homeowner is not fond of impromptu water features in the bedroom.

I have now lived in the house with no name for six years. The house has been kind to my budget. The largest maintenance cost I have incurred was a new paint job just over a year ago (painting the dead). But it is not the wallet-deflating projects that are often the most annoying. It is the recurring flaws that are often most memorable.

My house is built in the Mexican modern style championed by Luis Barragán. Straight lines. Acute angles. Lots of flat planes.

It is those "flat planes" that present the recurring problem.

The house consists of two stories. The ground story contains the main living area built around a large patio. Four bedrooms. A library. A kitchen. A guest bathroom. The first floor is a large circular terrace topped with four pavilions. With the exception of the area covered by the pavilions, the terrace is open to the vagaries of weather. Here, that means lots of exposure to high temperatures most of the year and tropical rains in our wet season.

The terrace is surfaced with ceramic tiles. Tiles mean grout. And punishing weather means that the grout between the tiles will often crack from expansion and contraction. When that happens, water can seep into the rooms below because the terrace forms the roof for the rooms on the ground floor.

My house has suffered more leaks than the White House. When I moved in, the first rains exposed leaks in the kitchen, the library, and one guest room. Those leaks were plugged by replacing several tiles on the terrace and adding fresh grout.

No leaks appeared for a year. But they eventually did. And, as is the way of leaks, they were in new places. We have been through that cycle several times during the past six years.

This morning the latest group of leaks -- primarily in Omar's bedroom -- are being fixed. Martin and Victor know the routine. Not only were they part of the paint crew last year, but they have been responsible for two prior leak jobs.

Because the problem is the grout, Martin and Victor will remove the current grout with a saw that sounds as if I have opened a cut-rate dentist practice. If tiles are loose, they will be removed, cleaned, and re-seated. When the new grout dries, a sealant will be applied over the top of the grout. That method has been effective in stopping leaks in the past (no plumber required for these leaks).

Is it a permanent fix? Of course not. Short of pulling up all of the terrace tile and installing a new drainage system, there will be no permanent resolution. And, even if I were to shell out the type of money that would put a new car in my garage, leaks would appear in the new construction. Water will find a way.

When the rains arrive this summer, we will discover whether the hull has been properly caulked. If not, we will weather the storm and invite Martin and Victor back with their trusty saw.
 

holding up others

It is one of the most striking word pictures in Judaism.

Our pastor at the English-speaking church in Villa Obregon, Al Stebing, shared it with us as the central text of his sermon on Sunday.

After the Israelites left slavery behind in Egypt, they encountered numerous travails on their exodus to the promised land -- including attacks from other tribes along the way. The first tribe to attack the Israelites were the Amalekites, a tribe closely related to the Israelites. They were descended from Israel's brother, Esau.

Moses climbed a hill above the battle site and was accompanied by his brother Aaron and their friend Hur. When Moses raised his staff in the air, the same staff that was the medium for God's miracles in Egypt, the Israelites would prevail. But, when he lowered his staff, the Amalekites would get the advantage.

Because battles last a bit longer in reality than they do in Hollywood movies, Moses had difficulty holding up his arms for the length of the battle. After all, he was 80 at the time. Some of us have trouble holding up our house keys at that age.

That was when Aaron and Hur offered their encouragement to Moses. They sat him on a rock and each one held up one of his arms. They did that until the sun set, and Israel was victorious over the Amalekites who had attacked them.

The theme of Al's sermon was why we should encourage one another -- just as Aaron and Hur encouraged Moses. Not merely with words, though they are important, but through actions -- physically lifting up Moses's arms.

His sermon was directed at his audience, of course -- those present under the palapa and those watching on YouTube. But that notion of encouragement that resonates through Judaism and Christianity is not just a message for believers.

Something has snapped in personal relationships. It is easy to blame the toxic mix of politics that has poisoned conversations for Americans for at least 30 years or to point out how the pandemic has been a contributing cause of an outbreak of what appears to mental illness. But, I suspect the problem predates either of those circumstances.

In theory, we all know that we feel better when we receive encouragement and we feel almost as good while encouraging others. We know it, but we do not do it. Or we tend not to do it.

Someone politely offers a mask when we forget to wear one in a public place with the courteous out: "I thought you must have dropped yours." Too often, the immediate response is to snap rather than thank the giver for helping you save face. LIterally.

Or you have a friend who lives in political fear. Rather than arguing with her that her fears (let alone her politics) are strangers to reality, you could encourage her by talking through the underlying fear rather than berating her.

Being an encourager is hard work. It is especially hard when we are going through the same travails as everyone else. But investing a bit of time to talk with people where they are experiencing life can be encouraging for both parties.

For some reason, I had pulled my copy of Lord of the Rings out of my library last week. Maybe it was because Frodo's quest has so many echoes in our current plights.

J.R.R. Tolkein's classic is one of the best examples of contemporary Christian fiction. The main characters are as recognizable as our family and neighbors.

Two quotations caught my attention as I read through the first few chapters. I did not know what Al's sermon was going to be on Sunday, but each of the quotations echoed his message.

When Frodo discovers that Gollum is still alive, he angrily states: "He deserves death!"

It is Gandalf's response that is so powerful:

Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.

The second is like the first. Frodo expresses a wish that the ring had never come to him -- that he would have preferred living his life in the Shire without the complications of a quest. Gandalf counsels:

So do I, and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.

There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the Ring. In which case, you were also meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought.

If we were to follow Aaron and Hur's example, and lift up those around us with encouragement, rather than tearing them down in anger, we might not change the world, but we will certainly have an impact on the part of the world where we live. Acting in the humility that we cannot see all ends and knowing that there is a purpose for everything that happens around us.

That, in itself, would be miracle enough for me.