Life update 3 years
The last three years in China was fun and educational. In the end, the bakery was a money pit. I arrived back to America broke. Fortunately I had invested what was left of
my failing savings in 2008 into a house in Florida. Do you know about Reverse Culture Shock? Have you experienced it?
In that fog, (was it 2017?) I attempted to sell the
house. In the end I did manage to
extract enough to serve me as a cushion, my medical emergency fund, a bulwark
against my approaching old-age debilitations.
You may recall that I spent 2006 in India. There I connected with a vague acquaintance
from the time when I studied with the Tibetan lamas. He introduced me to a retirement community
designed to bring together Western students of the Buddha dharma in retirement,
the focal point being a meditation hall.
I had sent considerable money to him in Mexico to secure me a lot and
begin to build my house, which I designed.
He had told me that the shell was finished. When I first saw it, the outer brick walls
had been constructed, but where there should be a sliding door there was a
gaping opening, through which a couple of horses and the occasional calf took
refuge from the climate. The floor was
littered with fresh and aged poop etc.
Birds had nested, too.
A big chunk of that medical fund went into finishing off
that house. Far more than was prudent,
given that the infrastructure was of such inferior material. Curtains I made and put over the windows blew
in the breeze. This area is prone to
wind storms, the gusts seem at least 80 mph.
It has knocked down my gas tank (breaking the valve which resulted in a
cold fog as the gas rushed out in the middle of the night). The cement roof has begun to cave in. One day the rain inside the house was so
intense, I left and went into the village to spend the day elsewhere. There was no where I could sit or stand and
not be dripped on. Eventually we painted
a waterproof coating on the roof, and installed a beam across the living room
ceiling to forestall the cave-in.
I live on a hectare of land, between orchards, oat and corn
fields, and pasture land. It is about 6,000 ft high in the Sierra Madres. This valley is perhaps one mile wide. The mountain ridges that enclose it are low,
maybe 800 feet. It runs mostly
north/south, which makes for gorgeous and ever-changing sunrises and
sunsets. The Fall is rainy season, where
the land is lush green and a morning mist shrouds it all in mystery. The rest of the year is dry,
prairie-like. A trickle of a river
meanders through it in a deep gorge where it passes through my land.
It is a beautiful and isolated place to live. If only a community had grown here, it would
idyllic (even though retired Tibetan Buddhists are eccentric people, not the
mellowed out hippies you might wish to find here where weed grows freely). Sadly, the community is a bust. The meditation hall was never built. There is
no spiritual community here. Two kms
away there is a tiny village occupied mostly by widows, very provincial
people. My home is too far for any of
the ladies to walk to. None drive. The widowers ride bicycles, but none are
inclined to risk the scandal of visiting me here unchaperoned. Since we are in
this valley, a small dip of land, the cell phone reception in this small
cluster of homes in the village is zero.
People walk in the street if they wish to use a phone. This inhibits easy intercourse. I can go weeks without talking to anyone.
I did purchase a wifi plan, using its own box and SIM card,
to provide myself with internet at my home.
I get great reception, in this wide-open spot.
One house, immediately adjoining mine, is for sale. For a mere $10,000 US you can own your own 10
meter wide brick house. The brick walls
are painted but not finished, the floor is not tiled. It has a functioning kitchen and bathroom
with gas water heater and well water.
There is another brick house, with a large floor layout,
that is nothing more than a shell. The
fourth house structure is two stories, the roof room being the meditation
room. A Canadian guy paid for its
construction and visits it twice a year.
He is a bachelor, a recluse, very awkward. He doesn’t like to do outdoor work, is not
handy at all with tools; not much support to the ongoing task of maintaining
the land and infrastructure. I have
ongoing problems with the well and water distribution system. I am trying to
tame the land; the ‘orchard’ has twelve surviving peach saplings, at last
count. All other trees I’ve planted have
died, probably for lack of water.
I am a cat person, as you may recall. One of the nearby farms had a lot of cats,
before they got a dog. I took one of
those kittens, an unusual calico with gray instead of black as the third
color. She proved to be sterile (for a
couple of years, anyway). She cycled in and
out of heat but produced nothing.
When I moved onto the land, there was a white dog living on
the adjoining farm. The farmer lives in
town, which is about 15 minutes away.
She was like a Maltese, but very bedraggled. She even had a bald spot on her neck, which
turned out to be from scratching fleas.
This dog, which after procrastination I finally name ‘Chula’,
attached herself to me. I tried not to
adopt her, but she tried harder and won.
I cleaned her up, she proved to be very pretty, and the folks in the
village were quite surprised to see how she turned out. I had her for two years, before she got
separated from me in the city of Durango, in a Sam’s Club parking lot. At first I felt relieved of the
responsibility, but after a couple of months I started missing her a lot. She had taken a one-month road trip with me
November 2018, when I drove to Vermont to empty out my storage there. She was a trooper.
Stray females would wander on to the property, lovely dogs
each one, but large animals. I turned
them all away. Then a villager handed me
a tiny white bundle. It would have been
rude to turn her away. Of course, she
could not compare with nor replace Chula.
I named her Peanut. She was a
pup, a bit wild. Not like the sedate
Chula, who already had maturity and a couple of litters behind her when she
came to me.
I felt ambiguous towards Peanut. Then she got pregnant, her
first cycle. Way too young for
pups. She turned out to be a terrible
mother. She didn’t like nursing her pups. The milk dried up after four weeks, she
barely had enough to feed them. They
could wander off in the house and get stuck somewhere, and scream, and she
would sleep on. She never learned to
grab the scruff of the neck to move them out of danger.
When it came time to find her a sire, of the dogs that hung
out here, I chose a black one that had a similar body but long legs and pointed
ears. The week that she was in heat was
a lot of work, beating off the big dogs and isolating the two small ones to
court. He managed to impregnate her, and
so began our nine-week wait.
The owner is employed as the farm manager to a large piece
near mine. He is a cool guy; I think he
lives in Canatlan (the town 15 minutes from here). I don’t know anything more about him. He has a gentle smile and demeanor. Before the pups were born he walked over to
my place and said he would like one of the pups. His dog, the sire, had died from dog-fight
wounds. We hoped for a black one to
replace him.
The pups were finally born.
Three of them came, two boys and a girl, but no black one. Two look like Boxer-colored twins, and one white one. The twins are boy/girl. The white one was the biggest. As they grew, it became obvious that the
white one would have the long legs of the sire, the other two would be squat
sausages like the mother. At the moment,
seven weeks along, the twins really do look like little sausages, but I’m sure
as they get bigger they will develop a more normal physique.
Meanwhile, as they grow older, the white one is transforming
into a heart breaker. She is not white
after all. A feint shade about the color
of champagne is emerging. He is no Alpha
male, he sleeps a lot, and is affectionate.
I thought that would be the dog Julian would choose to replace his, but
now I doubt it. I think that if he takes
any of them, he will choose the Alpha male twin. I hope it works out that way, because I am
leaning towards getting rid of all of them except Champ, my champagne dog.
Remember that gray calico?
When Peanut was two weeks pregnant, don’t ask me how, the ‘sterile’ cat
got pregnant. So now I have her, five
kittens, three pups, a dog and another stray cat. The non-resident neighbor
farmer has a plow team that I also interact with. A beautiful black horse, not trained for riding,
and a skittish jackass. I could write a
long essay about our adventures, but I won’t here.
You write me about the men in your lives; for me, it’s the
animals that share my love.
This life is not fulfilling; I need a small circle of
friends for support. On the other hand,
if I follow the pattern of forebears, I should have about five more years of
lucidity before the Alzheimer’s kicks in. I think to move to either Morelia or
Oaxaca, each deeper south into the Mexican heartland. But then what do I do with my investment
here? Who would buy this house! People in Durango, an hour away, do come this
way to look for a second, country home.
But none have stopped to inquire here at my door. To complicate things,
the hectare is owned by a non-profit association. I am trying to buy my piece of it, but that
is complicated. So I could have to walk
away from my considerable investment. My
monthly pension is not enough to live in a city, I think, without the
supplement of the proceeds from here. If
I am right about having only five more lucid years, do I really want yet one
more stressful move and re-acclimation?
It is unfortunate that after my long and wandering life I
have never acquired a friend to join me here as companion. I think, one good buddy who drinks coffee and
plays board games is all it would take.
So, here I am. If you
ever get to traveling this way, you will find me here.
