Cat Litter and a New Car

Andrea asked me to drive to Queretaro with her, to pick up some things for her clients. I didn’t really need anything from Queretaro so I called Rod and asked if he needed anything. Cat litter from Costco. So off we went.

I left Costco with only the cat litter and a new DVD. My cheapest trip to Queretaro ever.

Andrea and I climbed into the Pathfinder and I turned the key. It wouldn’t start. This has happened before. All the dash lights turn on but not the engine. Nothing. Not a sound. And then, after a number of tries, it starts and doesn’t have a problem again for months. I’ve talked with the folks at the repair shop and they say that they cannot diagnose the problem except when it is happening. “What if I’m stuck out at some ranch?” I asked. “Call us, we’ll come.” (Yeah, but what if I don’t have cell phone coverage?) Whatever. I’m pretty sure it is a problem with the ignition and I should probably just have it changed as a pre-emptive strike.

As before, after a number of tries, it starts as if there is no problem. I turned to Andrea. “We leaving Friday for Mexico City and then on to New York. I can’t take this car. What if it craps out on me someplace on the road, we get stuck and miss our flight? It will screw up our whole Christmas.”

“Let’s go buy a new car!” Andrea said.

“I thought you had to buy fabric.”

“I can come back later this week and do it. Let’s buy a new car. You worked hard for your money. You deserve it. When was the last time you bought a brand new car?”

“17 years ago.”

“There, you see? It is not like you’ve been extravagant. Yea! It’s time for a new car! Call Paola. She has a Nissan X-Trail. That’s the car you want, right? She’ll know where the dealer is in Queretaro.”

(I’ve found that Andrea is very good at helping other people spend their money.)

Paola did, in fact, know exactly where the dealership was and was delighted to meet us there as she wanted us to drive a friend back to San Miguel.

Long story short (too late for that now, right?), I bought the car. That week included a banking holiday so I had to do some fancy footwork in order to get the money together. The salesman delivered it to the ranchito on Thursday and I drove him to the bus station for his return trip. Then, on Friday, I needed to get the car registered, get license plates (Mexico City’s smog prevention program does not allow cars without plates to drive in Mexico City on Friday’s and two of our planned travel days were Fridays) as well as a smog certification (required every six months here). We were able to ask for plates with no circulation on Wednesdays, and managed to pull it all off in the morning and departed for Mexico City that evening.

Given that I’m afraid to drive in Mexico City, you can imagine how white knuckled I was, as Rod drove my brand new car across town to the hotel. He did a fine job I think. My eyes were closed most of the time.

Birthday Party

Given that our birthdays are only eight days apart, we planed a joint birthday party. Turning 47 is not a monumental birthday mark, however, turning 30 is. I therefore had to defer to Rodrigo in terms of planning the event. Much to my chagrin, he wanted a “Drag Queen, Drag King” theme.

I was less than enthused, probably because I’m too old to be a pretty woman and if one is going to do it, one should do it right. Right? So I decided to take the easy road and be a nun. Nothing to shave, no makeup, easy. Rod, on the other hand, took to watching Cher’s farewell tour DVD for his inspiration.

Begrudgingly (on my part), we set off for Queretaro to pick out our fabrics. Once inside the fabric store I began to get into the whole idea as we found one crazy fabric after another, and dirt cheap.

Andrea turned us on to a seamstress and we took her our fabric and photos of our ideas. (I just had to look up “Nun costumes” on the internet for my photos. Rod had to stand in front of the TV, pause the Cher DVD and take photos with the digital camera.) I think Liz, the seamstress, really enjoyed the project. It was certainly more creative and interesting than her normal jobs. And her 11-year-old daughter stood by at each fitting, fascinated by the whole concept.

I have to admit, the party was a smashing success. Even the straight boys went all out, although most made for some pretty ugly women. And the girls comparing their make-shift bulges were hysterical. One guy made his entire dress completely out of glad trash bags. We gave first and second place awards in each category and one bar owner who attended, wanted us to do it again the following week. (Probably at his bar given how much he saw everyone drink.)

As for the rest, a few photos speak volumes.

Angels and Insects

Wasp nest in back yard

I was sitting on the front patio, reading, when I noticed a swarm of flies invading. It was small at first, and then began to build. I quickly realized that they were not flies at all, but small black wasps. Within seconds I was driven into the house as the swarm intensified and they began building a nest on the beam in the corner.

This was not the first time. About a year ago I returned from the states to find a nest already constructed in the same location. Rod had tried smoking them out with a chiminea, but to no avail. We were forced to abandon the front porch and use the back door. (We also had to keep an eye on our dog Evita because she likes to eat the wasps even though they sting her in the mouth. I guess she thinks they’re spicy.)

“You need to spray them with soapy water,” was Andrea’s advice, “Then run like hell.”

So last year I put on my top coat, gloves and a hat, loaded the “Super Soaker” with soapy water, launched my attack and ran like hell. The nest was instantly demolished but to my surprise, reconstruction began immediately. It was like a neighborhood barn raising, as if all the neighboring wasps dropped by to help rebuild. It was Maria, our maid, who found the solution by spraying the beam with Raid through the window screen.

So this year I went straight to my “Service Advertisement” file and found an exterminator. But when I returned I found Maria on the patio, towel over her head, mopping the beam with soapy water. Who needs an exterminator when one had a brave maid?

A couple of days later, while pruning a tree, I found the huge nest you see in the photo. It is difficult to get the perspective in the photo but I was not about to stick my hand up there. It is far enough away from the house that we have an agreement, they don’t bother me and I won’t bother them.

Dog Show

This is NOT one of our dogs but I’ve never seen anything like it. It is a Chinese Crested.


This is Rodrigo showing one of our Bedlington Terriers.

Last weekend was the annual dog show in San Miguel. Four of Rodrigo’s friends showed up to stay with us, bringing with them more than 20 dogs for show. It actually wasn’t all that bad because they spent the whole weekend at the exposition and the dogs all slept in crates in the van at night.

While dog shows are not really my thing, it was great to see Rod having so much fun. When they all returned to the house after dinner, it was like a Girl Scout slumber party (but with beer). A dog shows has got to be one of the gayest events that is not labeled gay.

Huatulco

This photo is from our August trip to Huatulco. Do you see the face in the rock?

I highly recommend a vacation in Huatulco, just not in the summer. It was unbearably hot and we did little more than sit on the beach, swim, eat and sip cocktails. But it is beautiful, well planned and still very reasonably priced. We stayed at the hotel Zaashila.
http://www.camino-zaashila.com/

Eating Horses

This summer has brought with it many guests from both Mexico and the U.S. Among them, my 11-year-old godson Nathan, and his parents Bob and Bridget. (They live in Richmond, California.)

Having taken Mexicana’s only direct flight from Oakland, a red-eye, the shuttle dropped them off here at the ranchito in the morning. Expectedly, Bob and Bridget were exhausted. Nathan, however, was so excited that he was on fire. “I saw some horses as we drove in. Can we go pet them?” he asked.

So after feeding Bob and Bridget and putting them down for a siesta, Nathan and I ventured out the front gate and I watched while Nathan made friends with a couple of the horses grazing near the property. Thereafter we walked one of the trails off into the countryside with him chattering away the entire time.

“It’s really hot here. I should probably have changed my shirt. I like shirts with long sleeves but with this one I have to wear a shirt underneath because otherwise it shows too much of my chest and I don’t think that looks very nice. Do you have rattlesnakes? What other kind of animals live here? Can we pet the cows? Oh my god, was that a giant wasp? That was. A giant black wasp. I didn’t know that you had those here. I hate Mexico and I used to love it.”

“Nathan, you’ve only been here two hours.”

“I know but those things scare me.”

The week proceeded with Nathan pursuing many projects. These included filling a plastic bag with sand, suspending it from a tree and then stabbing it with my father’s old military knife; attempting to fashion a home made bow and arrow out of random tree branches and stones; disassembling a variety of yo-yos, reassembling them and demonstrating his yo-yoing skills, and multiple trips to visit the horses.

I thought it might be nice if he had someone his own age to play with so I asked our maid Mary to bring her son Rafael out for a visit. Both boys were a little apprehensive given that neither spoke the other’s language. But we thought we’d give it a go.

The first thing that Nathan wanted to do when Rafael arrived was to take him out to feed the horses. (I don’t imagine that Rafael gets as much out of horses as does Nathan. To Rafael, who has been raised around them, they are transportation.) So Bob and I were attempting to ask Rafael what he’d like to do.

“Do you know the verb for “to feed” I asked Bob?

“Um, let me think. Quieres comer los caballos?” he asked Rafael.

“Bob . . .”

“Yes.”

“I’m pretty sure you just asked him if he wanted to “eat the horses”.”

“Ok, I think I’ve got it. Quieres alimentar los caballeros?”

“Bob . . .”

“I just ask him if he wanted to “feed the gentlemen” didn’t I?”

“I’m pretty sure you said “caballeros” when you should have said “caballos.”

As Rafael stared at us with his sweet little blank face, Nathan said, “Come on Rafael” and led him away.

“Do you think he’s scarred for life?” Bob asked.

“No, but given the choice he’ll probably steer clear of gringos in the future. I’m sure he thinks we’re freaks.”

Ethnic Costume

I've been trying to get Rod to acquire and wear one of these costumes. I even told him that we could play cowboy and indian and he could win. He's not going for it.

A Bed for Rafael

(Ok, so the photo has nothing to do with the story but we’re proud of our bumper crop if cherry tomatoes. Rod is now cooking them down into marmalade and the whole house smells wonderful.)


Mary, my maid, is the same age as I. She has four children by two husbands. The oldest is 31. (She had him when she was 15.) The youngest, Rafael, is 11.

A few weeks ago Mary left her second husband, who hasn’t worked in two years, took her youngest son and moved into her oldest son’s home. I found out through snatches of conversation that Rafael has never had a bed. He slept on the floor when they were living with his father’s family and was sharing a bed with Mary in their new home. Any time Mary suggested that they acquire a bed for him, her husband said, “No, he’s fine on the floor.”

An 11 year old boy needs his own bed. More so in a couple of years for reasons that don’t need to be explained. I asked if there was maybe a room that he could call his own and was told that yes, there was a small room that was either empty or could be emptied easily.

I took Mary to a local furniture store and purchased a single mattress and a wooden base and headboard for Rafael. (On another trip to Costco I bought a mattress pad and a set of 400 thread count cotton sheets.) The headboard wasn’t really necessary but it was so inexpensive that I asked Mary if she wanted it. “Si Charles, pero solamente si es economico.” She didn’t want me to spend anything more than the basics and probably would have been delighted with just a mattress on the floor. I decided on the works and as I passed the cash to the store clerk, Mary’s eyes got teary. “Gracias Charles.” I just hugged her and said, “De nada.”

The next day the bed was delivered. Mary explained that Rafael told his friends that he couldn’t go out to play because his NEW bed was being delivered. She also said that he didn’t sleep in his new bed until 6:00 in the morning because he was awake just admiring it. He is now working on writing a thank you note to Rod and me.

I have to admit that making a difference in one small child’s life is really rewarding. I almost feel guilty for feeling so good about the gift.

Mary is one of 12 children and there are at least 150 family members who live in San Miguel. None have ever asked me for a thing and whenever I need help, in a phone call someone is there. Mary was also my father’s primary care giver and his favorite. It was the least I could do.

Casita de los Perros

Introducing Casita de los Perros; the mother of all dog houses (kind of).

When one marries a veterinarian who is also a breeder and handler of show dogs, one has to adjust. Especially one who has not had a pet in over 20 years.

So to preserve my sanity and keep the peace on the home front, I embarked on a project to build a space for five of our six dogs (Evita, the rescue dog, gets to stay in the house) on a far corner of the property. Since I was pouring a foundation I thought, what the heck, build on a little more to provide a planting area for seedlings and a place to house the potted plants during the winter months.

I also kept in mind that someone who does not need dog runs may one day buy this property so whatever we build should be convertible to a guest house with just a little work.

We went a little over budget but what the heck. (Click on the images to see them larger.)

Bay Area Visit

After our border ordeal, we picked up our rent-a-car and headed out for Robert and Rudy’s home. It was around midnight and the fog had settled over our destination, the Oakland hills. With visibility limited to a few feet in front of the bumper, I crept along only mildly comforted by the knowledge that Rodrigo had no idea that merely a few feet to our right was a thousand foot drop.

Robert greeted us when we arrived and we sipped wine as I shared our customs and immigration story.

The next morning at breakfast Rudy was pouring coffee. “I left the activities section of the newspaper in your room. Just in case you want see what is happening around town while you are here.”

“I hear there is a kiddie porn convention,” Robert said.


Our Bay Area visit was whirl-wind. We only planned a week and it should have been at least 10 days. In addition to catching up with friends in San Francisco we did the tourist gig for Rodrigo’s benefit. This included staying on Nob Hill, hiking Fisherman’s Wharf, shopping like wild men and of course, eating fresh crab at every opportunity. The end of our trip included a visit to the wine country in Napa Valley.

It was great to share my old environment with Rodrigo and he is ready to return any time. And I believe that it was Stew (a friend for more than 20 years) who said, “Tell Rod that if you do anything stupid and screw up this relationship he is always welcome at our home.”

Porn at the Border

Allow me to briefly set the scene.

It is Rodrigo’s first trip to California and my first trip back after selling the house. We are only traveling for a week, so that I can meet with my tax guy and show Rod around a little. We have arrived at Oakland International Airport and are in Customs and Immigration.

“Are you returning from vacation?” the Immigration official asks me.
“No, actually I’m on vacation. I’m a resident of Mexico but used to live in Oakland.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I’m retired.”
“You’re a little young to be retired.”
“Well, I bailed out of corporate America and couldn’t afford to retire in the U.S. so I moved to Mexico.”

About this time he writes a strange number on my customs form and sends me on.

Once at customs a nice official chats me up while he performs the most invasive search of my luggage that I have ever experienced. He even took the lining out of my suitcase; something that I didn’t even know was possible (Velcro! Go figure!). About this time I’m getting annoyed because Rod has already cleared and is waiting for me in the terminal. And the whole time the official is making pleasant small talk.

Then he opens my laptop and turns it on. “May I ask what you are doing?”
“Looking for contraband, like child pornography. Do you have any pornography on your laptop?”
“Yes.” I say indignantly, like doesn’t everyone?
“Do you know the ages?”
“I don’t have a clue, it is just stuff that my old roommate downloaded from the internet and I never bothered to take off.” At this point I’m getting really nervous. Some of the photos are pretty young. I even have a folder entitled “Jail” because a few of the photos look questionable when it comes to age.
“I think we need to take this offline,” he says and pulls me into a private room with two other uniformed officials.

My heart is in my throat. Rodrigo is outside without any phone numbers or address of the people we are staying with, no credit card, nothing. I’m having visions of being hauled off to jail without being allowed to speak with him, all because I was too lazy to delete some old photos. I also feel violated. Like my privacy is being invaded.

I’m sitting in a small room while three guys in uniform are paging down through my porn. Finally one of them says, “I don’t see anything here that is a problem.” And the other two agree almost too quickly, like “Don’t make us look at any more of this!”

Then they all shake my hand and explain that they are sorry for inconveniencing me. “Please understand that we are not judging you, we are just doing our job. You do understand what we are looking for?”
“The really sick stuff I guess.”
“Exactly. Thank you so much for your cooperation. You can go now.”

My head was spinning as I pulled my luggage together and walked to freedom. Then it occurred to me and I pass this on as a travel tip:

Don’t travel to the U.S. with pornography on your laptop, in the same week that the press secretary for Homeland Security has just been charged on multiple counts for attempting to seduce a minor over the internet.

And be assured I’ve been doing some serious editing. I also think that I will not use the word “retired” anymore and I won’t make it evident that I’m traveling with a handsome Mexican some years younger than me. Talk about setting myself up!

Christmas 2005

“Charles, this is Alan Kent.”
“How are you Alan?”
“I’m fine. I have good news for you. Your truck is now on Mexican roads. You should have your things on Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas.”
“Five days ago you told me that the truck was leaving the border that day.”
“Yes, but now it has.”

Needless to say, I put no stock in the stuff actually arriving on schedule. I didn’t want to have to explain to a three-year-old why there was no Christmas tree on Christmas so I needed a plan B. Frustrated, after looking for an artificial tree in four stores in two cities, I had to go to plan C.

Off to one side of the property, we have a row of five pine trees. I selected the least “Charlie Brown” looking of these and strung it with 400 white lights. I then ran about two hundred feet of extension cord from the outlet on the Barbeque. My plan was that, on Christmas Eve we would say, “I think I heard Santa outside!” Then we’d run outside and see the tree lit off in the distance. We’d run to that end of the property to find the gifts under the tree, load them into a wheelbarrow strategically (and conveniently) placed near the tree, and return to the house to open the gifts. What an exciting country experience this would be for a little girl from the city.

True to his word, for the first time, my stuff arrived at 9:30 AM on Christmas Eve. The back patio immediately became a disaster. Amidst the jumble of boxes and furniture I found my Christmas tree and ornaments. While I did inventory, Rodrigo and his cousin Chelo set up the tree in the living room.

Two of the shipping boxes had broken. Those containing all my personal files, income tax, insurance, mortgage, etc. It looked as if they’d been scattered down a dusty street. Three-year-old Elizabeth, determined to help, came carrying a cooking magazine and two porno magazines and said something I didn’t understand in Spanish. “She wants to know what kind of magazines these are,” Rodrigo translated. I quickly removed them from her tiny hands and said that they were not interesting and that she should look for others.

One of the movers handed me a cell phone. “Charles, this is Alan Kent. Can you pay the drivers the balance due?”

“Actually, no. I’m withholding $1,000 until you deliver my remaining things that are still in Oakland, at my friend’s house, and remove the boxes for that other guy that my friend has been storing for over a month. Also, I am not happy. Furniture is damaged, stained and some pieces, my favorites, are broken beyond repair. And it appears that I’m missing many boxes.”

“Yes, there are still 10 boxes of books, a chair and some kitchen items yet to come. Didn’t they tell you that?”

“No, they failed to mention anything.”

“Ok, that is fine. I will send a guy to look at the furniture. We deal with repairs all the time. Do not worry.”

“We’ll see.”

I handed the phone back to the mover just as my migraine began to really kick in. However, I resolved that this was Christmas and despite my disappointment with the timing and condition of my furniture, I was not going to spoil everyone else’s Christmas by moping around. The mattresses, bed frame, couch, television, stereo equipment and a lot of other stuff, would just have to sit on the patio for days, until I could find a place for them. Thank god no rain was in sight.

The question, “Can someone carve the turkey while I make the gravy?” was met with blank stares. No one had ever carved a turkey before. “Rodrigo, you’re a surgeon, it is not that difficult.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“Well watch because next year it is all yours.”

After dinner we heard the sound of a bell outside. Santa had arrived. We threw on our jackets and dashed out the back door to see the tree glowing in the distance, and ceremoniously looked into the sky for signs of Santa. Amid ooo’s and aaah’s we trudged across the property to the tree, retrieved the gifts and wheeled them back to the house.

Rodrigo came to me the next morning. “Melissa told Chelo that Santa was a bad boy yesterday, for leaving the gifts so far away.”

So much for two hundred feet of extension cords and the country touch.

My migraine lasted for four days but I powered through a barrage of holiday parties and dinners, unpacking boxes and moving furniture and rugs as time permitted. I have dispersed furniture and electronic equipment amongst friends until we are able to build a casita. Things are beginning to calm but I am still waiting for word on my remaining shipment.

As I sit here typing this, a dog that we are caring for lies by my feet. She smells. She was sprayed by a skunk last night and insists on following me everywhere.

Today I will redeem one of my gifts, a 1.5 hour massage. I need it.

Houses & Dogs

December 10, 2005

Today is my birthday. I woke up trying to remember how old I am. Is it 46 or is it 47? I hope it is 46 because 47 feels too much like downhill to 50. Yes, it is 46. I’ll wait until next year to be depressed.

This morning I was served breakfast in bed. I can’t remember the last time I received breakfast in bed. I’m not sure, aside from a hospital stay when my appendix was removed, if I was ever served breakfast in bed.

The gap in correspondence is because I returned to the states and sold the Oakland house. I was afraid that I’d missed the feeding frenzy of home sales that happened over the summer but I didn’t. The house was on the market for two weeks and I received four offers, all over my asking price.

The most attractive offer, the one I accepted, included a two week close of escrow. So I spent two weeks living off TV dinners and packing over 17 years of living. I couldn’t have done it without the help of Clare, Dean and Rudy. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

During the process I would think, “Should I drag this to Mexico or not? What the heck, it is a 24 foot truck and I won’t come close to filling it so I’ll just take it and I can always give it away down there.” I expected movers with wrapping blankets, a hand truck, etc. What I got was a 15 foot truck, no wrapping blankets and only one guy.

Nearly everything fit but I have no idea in what condition it will arrive. Or for that matter when. It was supposed to take 10 days. It has been three weeks and as of yesterday, my stuff was still at the border in Tijuana. “There is nothing wrong with your shipment,” the moving company told me, “But in the other shipment we are combining it with they found, umm contraband. Is that a word? Contraband?”
“Yes, and not a very good word.”
“Well we expect to have it resolved soon.”

The reality is, I’ve lived three years without all these things so it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it never arrived. But it would suck to spend $6,000 USD for nothing. And I really want my Christmas decorations soon.

But my mood is so good that I’m not letting this bother me. I didn’t realize how keeping one foot in each country was wearing on me. The travel back and forth and always feeling like every trip back to the states was work. Finding new renters, conducting repairs on the house, figuring out what to do with my car (which I ended up giving to my niece), details, details. Letting go of the house was liberating.

Someone asked me if I felt nostalgic, a sense of loss, selling my first home. A home into which I’d poured so much sweat equity. I really think that the moving process is designed to ensure that this doesn’t happen. By the time I was finished I couldn’t wait to get out.

And for that matter, it is in my nature to constantly improve a property. And truth be told, I was done with that house. The future only meant re-doing things that had already been done. Maintenance, upkeep, not fun. Remodel, renovation, creating, fun. And I’ve plenty to do on the house here. The pergola was completed when I got home and I love it. Our architect is now designing a combination dog run, potting shed and green house and the landscaper came this week and is putting together a plan for the whole property that will probably take years.

This will be the first Christmas at the Ranchito. For that matter, it will be the first Christmas in about 20 years, that I’ll spend in my home, not traveling to someone else’s home. I’m really looking forward to the event. Rodrigo’s cousins are coming from Mexico City, with their 3 year old, Karla with Enya, who will be one year old in January, and our orphan friends (those who don’t have any family in the area). We should be about 12 for dinner on Christmas Eve and on Christmas day I’m planning an open house and inviting about 100 people. I’ve been avoiding the subject of New Year’s Eve because Rodrigo wants us to go to Mexico City and spend it with his family (which is huge). I’m not sure that I’m ready for that. I know that my Spanish is not.

Our latest bit of good news is that Rodrigo was approved for a tourist visa to travel in the U.S. So we hope to see everyone next year, on a trip when we can be tourists and I don’t have to worry about home repairs and such. His only experience in the U.S. was Michigan State University during a veterinary exchange program. I’m excited at the prospect of showing him California.

So to you and yours, wishing you very happy holidays from colonial Mexico and the herd here at the Ranchito:

Charles and Rodrigo, and of course, Tisha, Cosette, Hagrid, Evita, Fantine, Phoebe and Fazhou.

Gored by a Bull

We’ve had our first serious accident with a visitor. My longtime friend Demetrious came to visit from Los Angeles and within the first 24 hours of his stay he managed to get gored by a bull.

Now I don’t want anyone to get the impression that we have random bulls wandering the ranchito or the streets of San Miguel. But his visit happened to coincide with the annual Pomplonada, or, running of the bulls. While my friends and I huddled in front of a television to watch the event, Demetrious decided that he wanted to be in the thick of it, and take some photos with his new camera. Near the end of the event I received a call on my cell phone.

“Charles, this is Demetrious. I’m in the hospital. I got gored by a bull.”
“Yeah, right. Listen, are you going to meet us here at the bar or do you want to meet somewhere else?”
“Charles, I’m serious.”
“You’re kidding right? I mean, if you’re kidding you need to stop right now because this isn’t funny.”
“I’m dead serious. I got gored in the leg, twice, by a bull. I’m in the emergency room. Can you come get me?”

After establishing which hospital I walked into the emergency room just in time to see them putting him under, pant leg cut open to revealing two gaping wounds.

Long story short (the long version is his prerogative and he has already written about the experience from his perspective – much more vivid than mine), he is going to be fine. He will have two huge scars on his leg to remind him of his Mexican experience. He spent the night in the hospital, under observation, and was released the next day. Subsequent swelling and pain convinced us that he’d better cut his trip short and return to his doctors in the U.S.

He did get his picture. The rest of us just got drunk.


I ran into an old acquaintance. He and his family used to rent the house on Vergel before I did. We were at a gallery opening when he launched into a tirade about his wife leaving him, and their three adopted children, for an old high school sweetheart. He was on a rant.

“That guy better have his dick insured! She came back to me showing remorse and I told her to forget it. I’d never trust her again. I’ll take my chances.”
“You should do well here. There are a lot of middle aged single women in this town.”
“Yeah, it is like a friend told me, “The odds are good but the goods are odd.””

I thought that was a brilliant description.

Flies and Family

I kill flies. I’ve made it my personal mission, or new career of sorts.

I understand that the flies are part of ranch life. But it is a part that I do not embrace. Normally they are not bad. But one barbeque can summon them from neighboring ranches and they descend like a plague.

I’ve purchased fly swatters in a variety of colors and keep them like a bouquet in a vase. I pass them out to friends when they visit and we sit outside. But my friends lack my skill.

I’ve killed as many as five with one swat. Sometimes I swat the flies while they are on my friends. This has not gone over well.

I like to kill two at once, while they are mating. When this happens I feel that I have not only destroyed their coital bliss, I have also prevented future generations from ever haunting me.

I’m on my second handyman. Eleazar, the first one, vanished in the middle of painting the living room. Alex and Andrea showed up to play a board game and Eleazar bolted for the storage room. We took off to buy some cheese and when we returned, he was gone leaving open paint cans and wet brushes and roller. Hours later he still hadn’t returned.

“What was his name?” Alex asked.
“Eleazar.” I responded.
“I wonder if that is the same Eleazar that was our driver and we fired him for stealing.”
“This guy is young, married and lives in Rodriguez.”
“That’s the guy.”
“What did he steal?”
“He used to go out for supplies and make a deal with the store to up the amount on the receipts and then split the difference with the shop person.”

Clearly he recognized Alex and his car and whatever guilt he had was enough for him to abandon the job. And he seemed so nice, worked well and quickly. One just has to be careful. So now we have Roberto. He came highly recommended from some friends. But now I purchase all the materials myself.

I am learning how big families operate. I was raised as an only child and I find the dynamic is quite different. A few weeks ago seven members of Rodrigo’s family, five adults and two children, came for the weekend. I came home late from a party and expected to find people sleeping on couches throughout the house. Somehow, all seven packed into the two guest rooms. I know that there were air mattresses involved but I still don’t get how they did it.

After a dramatic wailing scene between Santiago, the four year old, and Melissa, the two year old, (cousins who had to be torn from each other’s arms) half the family was headed North while Aunt Chelito and cousins Pancho, Chelo and Melissa were to stay another night before heading back to Mexico City. Rodrigo went off to work and left me to take them to the botanical gardens. Quite a work-out for my Spanish as none of them speak English.

Speaking of speaking Spanish. If one is a beginner in a language, I don’t recommend going through a Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-thru in a foreign country. Trust me, after screaming your order into the crackly little speaker, you never know what will actually end up in your box. Go inside. It helps when you can point.

This weekend I hosted a baptism for my new god-daughter, Enya. Since the father, Maurico, was raised Catholic and is non-practicing, and the mother, Karla, was raised Mormon and is non-practicing, we had a non-denominational service performed by Rodrigo and my 75 year old friend, Reverend Nancy Anderson. Nancy read in English and Rod in Spanish. I had rented a tent and tables to accommodate 40 people and we were filled to capacity. Since the father is a bass player in a rock band, the crowd was quite interesting. I don’t think some had slept in awhile. I hired my maid’s family to cater the event. It was a wonderful day albeit long and draining.

Now Karla speaks English – lived in the states for a period of time. So when she said, “I will come back tomorrow and help you clean up,” I really thought that it would be just her and maybe Enya. We planned to heat up some leftovers for lunch. Instead, down the driveway come Mauricio, his cousin, Karla, Enya, Karla’s mom and Karla’s aunt. We already had Rodrigo’s cousin Gus staying with us. So the day I had envisioned myself lying on the couch and watching movies, ended up being dinner for eight adults. They stayed all afternoon, eating, drinking beer, reading magazines, talking, feeding the baby, etc. I learned later that this is common in this culture. They even have a word for it. “Recalentado” which means to re-heat. But it has evolved to mean, “The day after the big party when everyone shows up to eat the leftovers.”

I’m scared to death as to what Christmas will bring.

A Bat in the Bathroom

During a recent storm, the river behind the house flooded its banks slightly and came to within a few feet of the house. Rod and I surveyed the scene and seeing no impending danger, we found a dry spot in the house and put Bram Stoker's Dracula in the DVD player. As we’re sitting watching the film, something flies past the TV and into the guest bath. I sat there for a moment and thought, "Not another bird in the house!" But then it was moving almost silently. Maybe one of those big moths I've seen. So I walk into the bathroom, turn on the light, and guess what. A bat. How ironic is that? Watching Dracula and a bat is flying around the house. I have no idea how it got in. I’ve purchased a “Bat House” to encourage bats onto the property but I never invited them inside the house. (But the must prefer my house to theirs because their’s remains empty.)

So life in the country continues to offer its challenges. Almost daily we see rabbits hopping around the yard and they are probably the little bastards that are eating away at our vegetable garden. I was blaming them for devastating some of the lillys in the front yard until I saw a line of leaf-cutter ants carrying off the evidence. Later the same day I chased a snake off the front porch as Mary, our maid, watched through the glass doors.

Speaking of Mary, her brother invited us to his son’s tres años. A birthday party for a three-year-old like I’ve never seen before. It was held in a local reception hall and there were about 150 guests, almost all family. And Mary says that it represents only about one quarter of the family. Her mother was there and told us that she is grandmother to 30 grandchildren. The party started at 4:00 and went on until 4:00 the next morning. (We only lasted until about 9:00 PM.) I and my friend Marc were the only gringos at the party and I was a little embarrassed as Mary and Celia (Marc’s maid and Mary’s sister) saw to it that we were served first. There was music, children’s games, piñatas, food, cake, and of course, beer and tequila for the adults. I understand that after we left, there was dancing. (Not because we left, just because it was time.) I very much wanted to kidnap one of the children. I mean, with a family so large, would they really notice?

Ranch Life

“So you remember Sebastian from the party?” Andrea asked as we were lying on the lounge chairs in the back yard, on what we fondly call our periodic “Charles and Andrea love each other day”.

“Yes, he was that good looking German boy, Sophia’s friend from Hamburg.”

“Well you know that he has some big corporate job and quit to take another. He told Sophia that before he starts his new job he has two weeks vacation and wants to do something that he has never done before. So she invited him to stay out at the ranch. He jumped at the chance even though he doesn’t speak any Spanish, and is going to be working out there, helping out. Sophia is still in Argentina with her mom, Regina, so Alex and I took Sebastian out to the Ranch yesterday. You know the spot right before the hacienda, where the river is? Well now the river is completely dry. Not even the soil is wet. So we’re driving up and on the other side of the river, right in front of the hacienda, a dead cow.” Andrea held her arms up, “Legs straight up in the air, all bloated, flies everywhere. And you know Lobo? She had 13 puppies so there are about 20 dogs running all over the place, toys from Mary Elena’s six kids scattered all over the court yard, the bathroom a mess, just horrible.”

“Oh my god. And Sebastian is from one of the most beautiful and pristine cities in Europe.”

“Exactly. But he took it all in stride, kept saying how amazing and beautiful it was. And all I could think was “gross.” You know it is because Regina has not been there for over a month. They need a boss. Someone to tell them what to do. How do you say it? While the cat is away the mice are playing?”

“Close enough.”

So we go inside to introduce Sebastian and get him settled and start taking notes to call Regina. With no rain they’re running out of food and water for the cattle, they don’t know what to do . . . What water is left is stagnant and making them sick. Anyway, we come back out and by now the dogs have gotten into the dead cow. Bloody dogs everywhere. And Poopaw, you remember little Poopaw? She is INSIDE the cow’s butt, head buried inside, tail wagging. Oh Charles, it was so gross. And the smell!”


While life at the ranchito is not as rustic as a real ranch, we’ve had our share of country living. The first big rain storm found us scurrying around the house with bowls and towels, moving furniture, drying dogs. It also left us without power for a few hours and without a phone for four days. Then the critters began coming out.

Ever heard of June bugs? Someone told me that is what they are. These little flying beetles that commit suicide in the fountain and pond and leave a layer of carcasses on the front patio from slamming into the lights. Hundreds of them all appearing in one night. Then the next day swarms of birds had a buffet in the front yard and now there are hardly any.

Rod brought a tortoise home that he almost ran over, about the size of your palm, and we set it loose in the rock garden. He later found a five foot snake in the back yard that slithered off and we don’t know where it went. A few minutes later we watched a tarantula swagger across the patio. Two ducks were in the pond the other morning and there is something that we can hear scurry very quickly across the roof several times during the day and night.

Next?

Barra de Navidad

“Don’t go to Vallarta,” Marcos said, “Vallarta is not a place for a romantic getaway.”

“I think you should go to Acapulco,” Armando said, “Acapulco is great. I remember the days when you could sit down at a table and say to the waiter, “I’d like a martini, a gram of coke and a boy.” And the waiter would say “Si Señor,” and you got it.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the kind of vacation we’re looking for either. We were thinking something more remote, palapas on the beach kind of thing. What do you know about Bara de Navidad? Rod has been there and likes it.”

“Don’t know it,” Marcos said, “But I hear that it’s nice. I like Vera Cruz.”

“I don’t want to go to Vera Cruz,” Rod said. So plans were laid for Bara de Navidad.

“You’ll be going through Guadalajara,” Victor said, “So you should stop and check out the Icipali furniture place. My mother and sister are also living there and could show you around.”

We packed up the SUV, turned the house and little car over to Christine and gave her instructions for the staff and the animals. “We’ll be back on Friday evening, after the girls and the gardener have left. So I’ve left envelopes in the buffet with their names on them. If you could just put them out on Friday. I’ll pay Mary on Saturday.”

So off we went, at the crack of noon.

The drive to Guadalajara is about three hours and took us through plains of blue agave fields (the cactus used to make tequila). Rod had us scheduled to meet with Jose Antonio, or “Gordis” as Rod calls him, an affectionate name for a fat person, who is another dog breeder and handler. Most of the evening they spent rattling on about different dogs and gossip about different kennel club members. I didn’t mind not understanding much as had the conversation been in English I probably would have been equally bored. Gordis then took us to the Icipali furniture factory where I ordered furniture for the front patio.

The next morning Victor’s mother, sister and two nieces, ages 6 and 8, met us at our hotel. After a brief discussion as to where to have breakfast, we set out to a popular spot a couple of blocks away. The 6 year old walked up to me and took my hand and didn’t let go all the way to the restaurant. When we arrived at our table, her mother asked her where she wanted to sit. “Next to him,” she said in Spanish. Before the meal was over she was in my lap, her sister standing next to my chair as we pointed to things and traded words in Spanish and English. I wanted to steal them both.

After breakfast we kissed the girls goodbye, eliciting promises that they would come to San Miguel soon, and continued on. We crossed plains of dry lake beds throwing up dust tornados, past the impressive Colima volcano (which has since erupted and still is) and began to see roadside stands selling fruit and candies. And then as if someone had drawn a line on the landscape, we entered the tropics.

Bara de Navidad was like a time warp, like stepping into a beach community from the 60’s. A lagoon on one side and bay on the other, and then in contrast, a huge five star resort, Grand Bay I think it is called, sat perched on the peninsula. The town only has two main streets, one on the lagoon side and one on the ocean side. On the lagoon side we ate dinner over the water and watched blow fish snack on scraps tossed to them by customers. Our hotel looked out over the bay side where hardly a soul was on the beach. It was strange for me to see so much empty sand in such a beautiful setting.

“I noticed when we were at the bar that you didn’t talk to the other Americans that we saw,” Rod said, “Don’t you like your culture.”

“I heard those guys talking by the pool today,” I replied, “One of them said, “The only thing that could make is place better is more naked chicks.” That’s not exactly my culture and I don’t think we’ve a lot in common.”

We decided to live large for an evening and made reservations at the best restaurant at the fancy resort. At the water taxi station, security called to confirm our reservation and then we were given tickets for the return. After crossing the lagoon inlet we were greeted at the dock and passed through pristine gardens, multiple water falls and swimming pools and reached the elevator where we ascended several floors to the restaurant. It felt strange being surrounded by such elegance. Also, being low season, we were practically the only people at the resort and were the only people at the restaurant. We kept giggling as waiters fluttered around us (having no one else to serve and nothing else to do). And I have to admit, it was one of the better meals that I’ve ever had.

On the drive back temperatures reached 107. We stopped at roadside stands and sampled strange fruits that I’ve never seen or tasted before. Everywhere people were gracious and in good humor, despite the heat. We spent the night outside Guadalajara and after shopping the next morning, we returned to San Miguel.

Shortly after we arrived at the Ranchito, Christine returned from her teaching job. “You’re cramping my style,” she said, “You’re early.”

“It’s five o’clock,” I thought to myself. Then I noticed the envelopes for the staff on the buffet. “Why haven’t you paid the girls and Fidel?” I asked.

“Because it is only Thursday,” Christine replied.

Rod and I looked at each other in disbelief. “No it’s not,” I said, “It’s Friday.”

“Umm, Hello! I ought to know. I have to work tomorrow.”

“We could have stayed another day at the beach!” Rod said, “Take me back.”

The opening of Rodrigo’s new clinic was last Friday night. The day before I asked him to call my father’s doctor and invite her. She, her husband and son came to the party and presented us with two coffee mugs. On the front was the logo for Rod’s business and the name of the clinic, and on the back of one cup his name, mine on the other. Her husband had driven by the building that morning, copied the logo and made the cups before coming to the party. I continue to be impressed by the kindness and accepting nature of this community.

Death of the Father

I looked at my watch. 5:00 PM, Wednesday. A little more than two years ago, 5:00 PM on a Wednesday would have meant that I was sitting in my office prioritizing my Franklin Planner task list for the next day, and contemplating my walk to BART. Today I’m speeding across the Mexican countryside in my pathfinder, returning from a neighboring village. The back of the 4 X 4 is loaded with building materials for my ranchito. Dozing in the passenger seat is my attractive, 28 year old Mexican boyfriend, his slender light brown hand resting on my thigh as the Three Tenors blares on the CD player. Surreal. It is hard to believe that a life can change so dramatically, so quickly.

Months have passed since the paragraph above was written. It seems that when happiness comes, the balance of grief is not far behind.

First, let me thank everyone for your kind words of condolence after the death of my father. While I wept at my screen, it was really therapy. Since his death, I’ve been in a rather poor space. A sort of fog that then became an illness. After antibiotics, antidepressants and lots of bed rest, I’m a little better now. But the grieving is far from over and I have good days and bad.

Dad came to me with fluid in his lungs, after a fall in Eureka that cracked one of his ribs. Shortly after he arrived, he developed bronchitis. We cured that but his energy and breathing never recovered. And then his mind began to play tricks on him.

“Amigo, who were all those people here last night?”
“What people dad?”
“There were all these people dressed in black, wandering around the casita.”
“Rod, Christine and I were watching a movie down stairs, otherwise no one was here.”
“It seemed so real.”

And another day:

“Mary, get that information they left. Look in the drawers. It was printed on a tee shirt.” Dad said in English to his nurse who speaks none.
“Dad, what are you looking for?”
“This morning two personal trainers got out of my shower. One was a beautiful blond and the other a dark man. They rested a bit, probably because they needed to after the shower, if you know what I mean. The man told me about a gym membership with only a few more spaces left. I think it might be a good deal. The information was printed on a tee shirt that must be around here someplace.”
“Dad, I’m having a hard time believing that two personal trainers took a shower here.”
He looked at Mary and smiled. “She knows more than she’s telling.”
Mary smiled and looked a little confused.
“Here’s the deal. No matter how good the program was, we’re not signing up. You’re not in any shape to go to a gym. You can’t even get up and down the stairs. I want you to start walking on the roof and getting your strength back. Once you’re in shape, we can look into going to a gym and I’m sure that what ever deal they were offering, we can find a comparable one once you’re ready.”
“O.k. Amigo.”

Shortly thereafter we moved Dad downstairs. The weather had warmed up plus the casita was rented so we didn’t have any choice. He only made it down the first few steps and after that, Rod, Mary and I carried him to his bed. His legs just gave out. He had not a lick of energy to spare.

We now had an oxygen tank (which after days of looking all over San Miguel, found the requisite regulator two blocks from the house in an unmarked new business), a humidifier and around the clock nursing care. We didn’t like the attitude of the first doctor so we did some research, with the help of a retired U.S. doctor now living in Mexico, and found a geriatric specialist. Dr. Jessica had a great bedside manner, looked him over far more thoroughly than the previous doctor, and agreed to take the case.

He was sleeping a great deal. I told one of the nurses that it must be pretty boring, sitting there while he is sleeping and they should all feel free to step out of the room, read a book, watch T.V., whatever. Rodrigo translated, “Sometimes he reaches out for their hand in his sleep and they want to be there for him.” At night, one of the nurses slept on a mattress on the floor next to his bed.

“Sometimes I can’t tell them apart”, Dad told me (they’re all sisters), “But the one during the day gives the best massage.”

We put Dad in a chair while we placed the water mattress on the bed. “When can I get back in bed?” he asked.
“All you’re doing is lying in bed. That is why we need this special mattress. You’re getting bed sores.”
“Well I think I deserve it today.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I found 20 jackets for the Australians.”
“World War II,” I thought to myself. And as we lifted him back into the bed he said, “You can just put the lamb here in my lap.”
“What lamb is that dad?”
“Susan was here earlier with a lamb.”
“Well, we don’t have any lambs here right now but I can provide you with a very affectionate cocker spaniel if you’d like.”
He smiled, “That’s ok.”

The night he died, two nurses, Rodrigo and Christine were there. We went into the room. He was sleeping but every breath sounded labored. “I don’t really know what a death rattle sounds like,” I said, “But if you were to ask me what he is doing right now is pretty much what I’ve always imagined.”
“Yes” was all that Christine said.

We were sitting in the kitchen moments later when one of the nurses rushed in and told us to call the doctor immediately. We ran to my father’s bedroom and I saw the head nurse (Celia) with a stethoscope on his chest shaking her head. I fell to my knees and grasped his hand as he exhaled his last breath. I wept like a Greek widow. (In fact, if Greek widows want grieving lessons, I can provide them.) I didn’t care who was there, who was listening, whatever. This was the man who was my pillar in life, the man who had come back from every former death scare and continued to be my father. I kept thinking, “We’re not done! You haven’t lived at the house I’m building for you!” Celia held his mouth closed as I wept and wailed.

The rest of the night is kind of a fog. It was nearly midnight on a work night as friends began to fill the house. I looked over as Cynthia and Victor lifted their pant legs and compared pajamas. Cynthia’s were a flower pattern while Victor had little space men. The doctor arrived, the men from the crematorium, Rodrigo handled it all as I stared into my wine glass. The other nurses arrived.

The next morning the doctor came back with all the requisite paperwork. I was a jellyfish in bed. Rodrigo took care of everything.

That afternoon Marcos called. “We’re with your dad. They are about to cremate him. Do you want to come?”
“No. I want to remember him like he was. I don’t want that image.”
“I understand. And I want you to know that Mary is here. She has never left him. She hasn’t slept all night.”

And that night people came with food and support. The nurses requested photos of Don Carlos that I printed off of my computer. The next day they delivered his ashes in a simple wood box. It seemed so light compared to the man that we carrier to bed only a few days before.

A few weeks later Rodrigo and I went to see his new nephew in Cuernavaca, and to meet his parents. I had a little meltdown when I realized that we were going to have to visit the family for a third time. “We’re not going to see them tomorrow so we need to have dinner with them tonight.”

I’d already endured two meetings. There was the initial meeting and then the “comida” the next day where everyone ran to visit with the new baby upstairs and left me alone downstairs. No one in the family speaks English and my Spanish was barely good enough for a wine conversation with the ex-monk father while the bible-pounding Catholic mother served the meal. But then I had a revelation of sorts. I’m whining about meeting the parents while Rodrigo, at 28 years old, has dealt with dying, death, doctors, funeral homes, etc., all for me, and has not missed a beat. I’m stressing over meeting the rather un-excepting family. Let’s put things in perspective.

When we got to the hotel I closed the door and fell to my knees. “I need to beg your forgiveness. After all that you have done for me I was so selfish. I know that this is important to you and I have been a bad partner. Please forgive me.” Rodrigo pulled me to my feet. “Don’t ever do that again. I know what you’re going through. You don’t need to apologize.”

Where are we now? As I was leaving the ranchito, Mary, my father’s primary caregiver whom we’ve hired to manage the house, said something in Spanish to me about my father’s ashes.
“Rod, can you come here for a minute. I don’t understand what Mary is saying about dad’s ashes.”
Mary repeated what she’d said to Rodrigo.
“She wants to say goodbye to his ashes.”
I took the box out of my bag and set it on the table. Mary bent down and kissed the box, “Adios Don Carlos”, she said while patting the box. I then fell apart for a spell.

Now I’m off the antibiotics, off the antidepressants and am taking care of business. I’ve brought my dad’s ashes to the U.S., done my taxes and, as the trustee, I am working on settling the estate. I only gave myself 10 days in the U.S. Otherwise, fax, email, etc., will have to suffice.

Rod and I are living at the ranchito with six dogs and one cat. (He is not only a vet but a handler and a breeder.) Building and infrastructure challenges persist, as does the random brush fire. The rainy season is around the corner. It can’t come soon enough for me although I know that it will present yet new challenges.

Fire and Fortune

Before returning to the states, I had hired a personal assistant. Alejandro (yes, the one who trashed my apartment last year) owed me money and I thought that I could deduct what he owed me from his weekly paycheck. It had occurred to me that I was relaying too much on my bi-lingual friends to help me with the construction project so I thought that this made sense. (He does prattle on in a metaphysical, existential kind of way but I’m learning how to tune him out. He is after all, only 21 years old and spent the last six months banging chicks in Cancun and now he has to tag along with a middle-aged gringo.)

Both Alejandro and I thought it might be a good idea to get a Mexican driver’s license. When we asked what it would take I found out that I’d have to take a written test, in Spanish. So Alejandro asked if they had a book that we could study from. Yes, they did. One, only one, which they reluctantly loaned to us so that we could go take copies. (I think I’ll deal with this next year.)

I was driving back from the ranchito with Alejandro and Brian when we passed a restaurant where someone was being taken out on a stretcher and stuffed into an ambulance. “Don’t eat there,” was Brian’s comment.

Alejandro’s job with me was probably the cushiest job he ever worked. It turned out that aside from the occasional translation services at the ranch he mostly helped me shop. Sometimes I’d have him make me breakfast. The day before I left for the states I gave him two weeks’ pay and told him, “Your job for the next two weeks is to find yourself another job.”

After a brief stay in Oakland my cousins and I collected Dad at the San Francisco airport. I explained at the ticket counter that he needed a wheelchair and that he was traveling alone. They gave me a gate pass so that I could meet him. He teared up a bit when I asked him about leaving Eureka. Apparently my nephew had gotten very emotional at his departure and it clearly affected Dad. This is very tough on the family as at 92 years old, there is the prospect that they will never see him again.

That night, at the Mexicana ticket counter, the agent recognized me. “I’ve checked you in before.” I explained that I have traveled back and forth a great deal and that now I was taking my father down to live with me. He looked over my shoulder at my father in his wheelchair and promptly bumped us up to first class.

I returned to the house on Vergel to find that Evita, my dog that I saved from the wilderness, had learned several things while I was away. How to bark, how to howl, and that there is a cat that walks across the wall at one end of the courtyard that she clearly wants to eat. Exhausted from the trip I wanted nothing but to sleep. The dog kept barking and jumping at the wall. To elevate herself she hopped up on the edge of the fountain and was running laps around it when I heard the splash. I beat her to the door just before she dragged her soaking body into the house.

Dad is settling in fairly well. The problem here is that the temperature at night has dropped to freezing and the heat sources in the house are not sufficient to keep him warm. He was spending most of his days in front of a heater. My sister and niece arrived before Christmas. “He has this sore on his butt that you have to dress every day,” my sister explained.
“I’m not doing that,” I said.
“You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it. I’m not doing that. I’ll hire someone to do that.”

One day Dad said, “I need the bandage on my butt changed.”
“I’ll send my sister right over.” (I ended up doing it.)

Christmas was very casual. Seven month pregnant Karla came over with her husband Mauricio and we had a great traditional gringo dinner. Karla told Dad that he shouldn’t eat too much garlic because it will make him fart. Then she told us about a tonic that her mother made for her using herbs and Karla’s own urine. “She made a tonic for Mauricio too.”

I looked at Mauricio. “Dude, you’re drinking your own pee.”

“It’s good!” he said.

One night my niece Susan was sitting at the computer while I sat in a chair with Evita in my lap. My father was sitting in his chair across from me. Susan asked me if Evita’s vet bills were expensive. I explained that Rodrigo, my vet, wanted to support my effort to save her and I had a hard time getting him to accept any money. Then I said, “And then he became my boyfriend and now it is impossible.” Dad got a big smile on his face.

Marcos called a couple days ago and asked if I’d been out to the ranch. “Not today,” I told him.
“Then you don’t know about the fire?”
“What fire?”
“There is a brush fire out in that area. It has been burning all day. Your house is fine but as we speak, your yard is on fire.”

I rushed out to the property with my sister and niece. Sure enough, one entire side of the property and around the back had burned. But just the grass, all the trees were fine. However, there were still hot spots, a couple of fence posts were on fire and a grass fire was spreading up towards the back of the house dangerously close to a pile of lumber. My sister and I spent the next several hours dragging a hose around the property while my niece stood on a dirt pile and watched a fiesta and horse race at the neighboring horse ranch.

Dad has bronchitis right now and it has me a little worried. The doctor has been here twice and she says that he is improving. His breathing is extremely labored but she says that it is to be expected. We moved him up to the casita where it is warmer and he is much more comfortable. He can’t leave, however, as he can’t handle the stairs down. I feel a little like I’ve locked him in a tower like poor Ruppenzel and he doesn’t have any hair to let down.

Last night Rodrigo and I got back to the house after dinner and we went up to check on Dad. Despite the fact that it was 1:00 in the morning I could tell that he was awake. I went in and sat on the edge of the bed. Rodrigo stood in the doorway. Dad seemed a little disoriented and was explaining something about forgetting his mantra. “But I found my book and now I remember it.” Then he looked over at Rodrigo. “Thank you for taking care of my son,” he said. (I almost cried. What changes our lives have taken.)