Dancin' Fool

 Hey, if he can do it, so can I! Look at that grin, that wagging tail, don't tell me he's just doing it for kibble.

Now it can be told—Yours Truly has become a dancin' fool. Lucky enough to live about a block from the Club Deportivo, where once I bought a year's membership for $15 all the classes and activities are free, I couldn't resist signing up for ballroom dance on Thursdays and line dancing on Fridays. And I'm taking tai chi on Tuesdays, which the instructor also refers to as a "dance." Well, it certainly doesn't feel like a martial art.


Maybe I'm overdoing it, but I have a lot of catch-up to do.  I haven't done any kind of disciplined dancing since I was fourteen and my mom signed me up for Arthur Murray. I'm from the California "get out there and move like a wild thang" school of dance, with a little very unstructured West Coast Swing thrown in. Counting steps, moving in time with a partner, take special motor skills that I'm convinced are good for my brain. The line dancing, in particular, is challenging, especially when I've got my back to the instructor and I'm peering over my shoulder to see what she's doing next. Even more challenging because she taught us nearly a dozen different dances in a ninety minute session! The only one I caught onto right away was the Macarena. But what a workout!


The ballroom class is taught by a professional instructor, and because I don't have a partner, I get to dance with her husband, an affable guy about a head shorter than me, who reminds me of Mickey Rooney. He knows all the steps, so it's like having my own private coach. We've started with Rumba, West Coast Swing and Cha Cha and will be going on to Samba! Can't wait!

Hardest of all for me is Tai Chi. Maybe because there's no music, no beat. But the movements are graceful, and very disciplined, down to the position of the hands. And I love the names of the movements: Parting the Wild Horse's Mane, Picking Up the Golden Needle From the Bottom of the Ocean, White Crane Spreads Its Wings...  Now all I need is some pink silk pajamas!

Chances are I may never have a chance to use these new abilities out there in the Real World, and I have no expectations of becoming an expert, but I'm enjoying the process anyway. I'm having so much fun my face hurts from smiling. And if the band starts up a Samba, and somebody looks my way, I'll be ready to dance. No wallflower, I.

Lakshimi at your service

The serenely smiling four-armed lady sitting on a lotus in a lake of gold coins is Lakshimi, "the Eternal Goddess of Wealth & Prosperity." She was introduced to me by my friend Jan, just when I was feeling a major financial pinch this month and looking for a little serenity of my own. Everything I have undertaken in January has ended up costing more than I was originally quoted, from the ramada and flood control project to car repair and purchase of a daybed in the fervent hope that my son will visit.

I Googled Lakshimi, and was informed that the mere sight (or darshan) of her in the morning would bless me with wealth. I was advised to keep her picture in my purse, and I would "never face shortage of resources." That would be nice. I'm not wishing for fabulous wealth, but I wouldn't mind being able to meet the budget I've spent hours working out. And maybe that trip...

The entire back of my place is now a classic example of Earth in Upheaval. Piles of sand and stones, big holes in the ground revealing water pipes that we somehow have to protect and preserve access to, bags of cement... Not a serenity-inducing scene. 

The ultimate goal is a roof extending over the entire back patio that will carry rainfall over and out into a canal which will pass around my condo and the one next door, and into the arroyo. A stone wall will block water flow from the parking lot (which is seven feet higher than my patio), with a metal gate that can be bolted shut against rising water, and a little bridge over the canal leading from my back steps to the parking lot.

Every time I begin asking myself if I really need all this, it rains—torrentially—and I'm back to mopping and sopping up the flow under my back door with towels. Last night was relatively mild, only a four-towel night.

Anyway, back to Lakshimi. After jumping into an ocean of milk when the gods were exiled, she was reborn and was so admired for her beauty (must have been all that milk) she was chosen to become the consort of Vishnu. She signifies not only wealth and prosperity but light, beauty, love and grace. To obtain her help (better take notes here) requires 100,000 japa or recitations of her mantra and 10,000 ahutis (offerings) of ghee (clarified butter) and samigri (a combination of 36 purifying herbs). Um, is that daily?

 

And here she is at her rebirth, dancing on a lotus floating on that ocean of milk, surrounded by... wait, can that be right? Pink elephants? Are we sure it was milk and not piña coladas?

Gimme shelter

Although we've lived in Mexico four years now, we've always been on the boat somewhere on the coast farther south this time of year, so this is my first taste of San Carlos in late January. Yesterday, even though there were patches of blue sky we had winds up to 56 knots that stirred up big dust storms everywhere (I felt bad for anyone who had to work outside). Then last night the rains began, with lightning blowing out power transformers. The lights blinked off so many times, I carried a candle and lighter with me everywhere I went. (Where IS that #%&# flashlight?) This morning a steady flow of water was creeping under my new back door, splashing down from the roof tiles. Plans to build a ramada over the back patio have shot up the priority list a few notches. 

Here's a shot of the surf yesterday afternoon.

Maybe this time…

I've long thought of myself as having a brown thumb, but somehow I keep being drawn back into garden dreams.


Wandering through tianguis (the weekly Guaymas swap meet) on Wednesday I found a streetcorner salesman with lilies and poppies. Plants had been on my mind, and I couldn't take my eyes off the orange lilies in their little red-painted pots, already blooming in clusters of three and four glorious blossoms. Tiger lilies? They did have a few little freckles on their petals. I scooped up just one, to see if I could find a spot in my little yard for it. I'm a timid gardener, with very little history of success in keeping plants alive. And besides, my yard is surrounded with pink oleander, would orange lilies look really gauche there?


Flowers always make me feel rich. I used to buy cut flowers, and when the Capt was traveling and I was home alone, he would sometimes send me flower arrangements, always a thrill. But blooming plants are better by far, because they offer not only their initial beauty but the challenge of helping them thrive and propagate. It's like adopting a new pet.



For over a decade I've either been on the boat for months or lived in an apartment with no patch of dirt, so plants didn't have much of a chance in my life. But here I am, ready to try again, Googling for gardening guidance. Hope springs eternal.

A Viking funeral in miniature

We gathered at a beachfront house Tuesday at sunset to give our friend Tim what he had requested: a Viking funeral. R had told Tim he doubted anyone had a boat they'd be willing to set afire, but I believe our solution would have given Tim a good laugh.


The morning of the memorial there was some confusion over who would bring the ashes, since we couldn't reach the person who had retrieved them from Hermosillo, and he had said he wouldn't be coming, that he had already said his goodbyes to Tim. We were relieved when he delivered the little box.


It was a clear, balmy evening, perfect for setting off to sea. D had brought a little boat made from the wide, flat material removed from  palm tree trunks, about three feet long, with its ends tied into points to make a canoe. We watched her empty a white cotton bag into the boat and looked at the ashes, remembering his gaptooth grin under his big straw hat, his lanky six-feet-plus now reduced to less than a kilo of substance. We arranged white crysanthemums and purple bouganvillea around the ashes and lit a little candle in the middle.  Someone had brought a poem Tim had written and M read it tearfully. Then we carried the boat down to the water in a little procession. No singing, no praying or chanting. Someone piped up, "Who's got the lighter fluid?"


The beach there is a shelf of rock, an interesting array of tidepools but not the sort of place you'd take off your shoes. We gathered next to the water where someone read the Tennyson poem for Tim, and then K doused the boat and its contents with lighter fluid and set it on fire, while the rest of us murmured cautions. Then K lifted the boat and carried it waist-deep into the water while we threw blossoms into the water behind him. When he first let it go, it seemed to stall in the water, and he called back, "He doesn't want to go." Then it caught some current and began floating away. Someone bemoaned the fact that she'd forgotten her camera, and someone else said she thought it might not have been appropriate to take pictures.


Poetry and a few stray tears aside, it was an unsentimental farewell, the kind where Tim would probably have felt right at home. We stood a long time watching the little boat, its fire flickering as the sun set. Then we trooped back up to the house for dinner and tres leche cake.

Handyperson's addendum

Some interesting revelations, gracias a Google:

1) Norm, one of my blessed commenters, recommended Tapcon screws for my brick and concrete walls. They're come in a blue rust-resistant coating, just the thing for a flood-prone house (I've found a lot of rusted screws from knee-level down, thanks to Hurricane Jimena). You still have to drill a pilot hole but you don't need to deal with mollies or wooden plugs. What you do need, according to the Tapcon website video, is to make the pilot hole slightly smaller than the screw so it (duh) has something to grip onto. And you need to clean out the hole really well, using one of those twisty wire brushes and a shop vac. Now all I have to figure out is which heads I want: flat recessed or hex. Probably flat recessed for most of my jobs. And I have to find out if they can be bought in Mexico.

2) Finishing nails don't necessarily come individually in pennyweight sizes. My friend Charlie showed me a pack of them, tidily stuck together like staples for the staplegun. They are called air nails and are for nailguns, though you can use them for manual hammering. I've had a hard time finding finishing nails at the ferreteria, but now I know another sort I can look for. Sin cabeza, por favor.


I know I'm probably the last person on the planet to learn about this stuff. Something new to bore you with. But progress is being made, and fun is being had.

Handyperson in training

Resolution #4 on my New Year's list was to "Learn how to use tools and work with bricks, tile, wood and other materials so I can build and fix things." One would think that at my advanced stage of maturity I would have already acquired these skills, but noooo. I remember 20 years ago when I last had my own place and was teaching myself to use tools. I bought a microwave cart in a box and was assembling it out on my back deck. The Capt, a new acquaintance, showed up about then, and wanted to help. I said an extra pair of hands would be helpful, but I wanted to figure it out for myself from the instructions. Nevertheless, somehow in the process the screwdriver ended up in his hand, and I reverted back to my usual ineptness.


As a little girl, I was warned away from my dad's workshop, out of fear I'd 1) break something or 2) hurt myself. I've had a sort of lifelong phobia about tools and repair jobs, forever asking somebody else (usually the guy in my life) to help (i.e. do it for me). For some reason, my little sister didn't receive the parental warnings, or ignored them, and grew up to be an ace repairperson who won't shrink from any challenge.


I want to be like that. I would like to become ept. (I looked it up, there's no such word. You can be inept, but not ept, so they say. Like you can be ruthless, but not ruth. Hapless but not hap.)


Flash forward twenty years, and here I am in my own place again. I have issues with funky electrical connections, crumbly construction, design flaws that are begging to be set right, with the proper tools and materials.

I can hire workers to do a lot of these jobs, but that entails sitting around waiting for them to show up. As anyone who's hired Mexican labor can tell you, mañana doesn't mean tomorrow. And they don't call if they're running late. 

There's a toilet that wants to flush all day if the handle isn't flipped back up. A new drinking water system I dreamed up that requires altering the pantry. Electrical outlets without cover plates. A bicycle with two flat tires. TWO vehicles needing maintenance. And that's just for starters.

Last time we were at Harbor Freight, the Capt patiently helped me assemble the beginnings of a tool kit, including a bright yellow toolbag, pliers, screwdrivers, a nifty fiberglass hammer and a shiny blue power drill.


Thus equipped, a couple of days ago I took out the shelf in the pantry with the power drill, an historic event my friend Kris celebrated by snapping the above photo. Now I'm going to paint it inside with Kilz to prevent mold, then a coat of white. Then with the power drill I'll re-install the shelf a foot higher (remember, I'm working with cement walls here, not wood. This is not as easy as it sounds.) Finally, I'll set my new water jug, with a tap at the bottom, in place and no more flipping five-gallon jugs upside down for me. It's a startling bright orange plastic, like you see at construction sites, but the tap is a lot better than those lever things that break off, spewing water all over your floor.


Next I'm thinking of refinishing my coffee table and end table (on which some fool carved his name long before I bought it). So it's time to look for a sander and learn about varnish. Can't wait!

Twilight and evening bell

A friend in Colorado sent this memorial poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "for my compadre, Tim."

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have 
Crost the bar.

Tim's golden legacy

 Cover: Jim Cochran

Our friend Tim, who died New Year's Eve, left behind a legacy for everyone who enjoys reading, and Team Tim has now made it available as an e-book, at SmashWords. In the past year he had finished writing a thriller he called Maya Gold, and brought it to me during the late summer when, unfortunately, I was up to my eyebrows in deadline with our own annual publication. But I delved into it enough to see it had some promise, and the Capt created cover art for it.


I remember a hilarious session one afternoon when the Capt Googled the title Maya Gold to make sure there were no conflicts.


"Tim," he said, "I don't think you want this title. I've found five other Maya Golds, including two books, a TV show... and a Hungarian stripper!" Tim roared with laughter. 


"How about if we change it to Mayan Gold?" the Capt suggested.


"But that's improper usage," Tim protested. "Everybody in Yucatan knows you don't say 'Mayan' but Maya." Still, he agreed to settle on the name change.


I was about 75% through the manuscript on the first pass, to identify areas that needed work and clean up the grammar, spelling and punctuation. The Capt had finished the cover design, which Tim approved enthusiastically. Then Tim got sick, and the rest of his story has been covered in this blog. He's gone now, but while in the hospital he decided he wanted Mayan Gold to be published as an e-book, and one of the Team got busy figuring out the logistics. I finished the first edit, and we settled on the SmashWords online service, which allows us to publish the novel with no upfront costs, make it available for reading on a number of different digital formats including Kindle and iPhone as well as a computer screen, and make it exceedingly cheap. Not just affordable, but cheap.

I've already set up a Wordpress blog to introduce it, at http://tnichol.wordpress.com.  The blog will be a tad rough until I figure out the convoluted bells and whistles of Wordpress, but already contains an excerpt, part of Chapter One that I know Tim particularly enjoyed writing — about sailing a catamaran using ancient Maya navigation. Check it out! Or take the plunge, go buy the book at SmashWords!

Familia de La Semana

I must be doing something right. A family in Boston saw a rescue dog on this blog a few months ago, and had her flown north to live with them, and someone else in the States saw another dog here and decided to be his sponsor. So bear with me while I share yet another story of a family that needs sponsoring and adopting. This abandoned mother and offspring were rescued off a busy roadside in San Carlos. Gives a whole new meaning to the term "litter."  I'll let Kristin tell the rest:

We picked up the mother and seven puppies this afternoon. They have had their flea and tick treatments and are being treated for worms and parasites for the next three days. All are in good condition other than being completely flea bitten. Mother is not very comfortable with people, most likely with good reason.

She is completely exhausted and has some health issues caused by nursing so many puppies. It is painful to even watch her nurse them and I will try to bottle feed them to give her a break. They are eating softened puppy chow.

This is the strangest litter of puppies I've seen. I am half convinced that these are not all her puppies and it is possible that two seperate litters were dumped with her. She has been nursing all of them and is a very good mommy.

They are not ready to be separated from the mother at this time. We guess their age to be 6-7 weeks and considering the amount of stress they have been through, they won't be ready for several more weeks. If you are interested in any of them let us know and we will hold them for you. Please identify them by their collar color.

 Kristin can be reached at dogdazeofsancarlos@hotmail.com

The Osprey takes flight

He not busy being born is busy dying.
Bob Dylan

At 10pm last night, while the rest of us were gazing hypnotized at the full moon, reminiscing about the ups and downs of 2009 and chilling the midnight champagne, our friend Tim Nichol quietly made his escape from this life. His flight was made considerably easier when his doctors finally relented and prescribed morphine. His breathing had become steadily more difficult, and he told us all, with increasing impatience, that he was ready to go. On his request his belongings had already been packed up and removed from his room. When friends came to visit yesterday, he made a point of saying goodbye. "I'll see you on the other side," he promised.

His cremation will be in Hermosillo, his ashes brought back here to San Carlos and a memorial gathering will be held. He had asked for a Viking funeral. Sunday night we will meet to make plans and sort out his last expenses. 

Vaya con Díos, amigo.