Ocean breezes

 

It is a struggle to find a home when the pension is at subsistence level.  I am not alone with this problem; I know it is worse for seniors trying to live in the States.  I did not even try the States, knowing it would be impossible without additional help, like family support emotionally if not physically.  I had a modest savings account from my years of teaching in China.  I invested it in a non-profit development in Mexican countryside, that proved ephemeral.

I sold my Mexico farm home of seven years for much less than my investment in it.  Since then I have been somewhat subsidized by the new friends I met while the property was on the market.  For almost a year now I have been trying to find a less stressful environment for me and my dog, Junior.

Mostly I hung out in Durango, with the help of these friends. Throughout the years, I had visited Maazatlan as a possible retirement home, because I thought it would be nice to have access to the American culture, through the large number of snowbirds and smaller number of permanent retirees.  Each trip ended with the same conclusion.  There was no place for someone in my income bracket.

Then one day Oscar, one of those new Durango friends, announced that he had found and rented a house in Mazatlan for me and his new girlfriend.  Splitting the rent suddenly made it affordable.

Yet my life was not yet stress-free, nor relatively so.  The house was on a very busy street.  Junior, now four years old, was not used to city living and city traffic.  He was learning that when we crossed these busy streets, he had to watch me for his cue that it was safe to cross. As weeks went by, he became a little cocky, and would sometimes make the decision on his own.  I must say, he was usually right in his assessment, but there was at least one heart-in-the-mouth crossing.

He was developing ‘bad’ habits, like eating discarded food from the ground, and insisting to come with me whenever I got in the car.  He was canny in picking up cues like my carrying a handbag as I headed towards the front door.

The house had no trees growing in front.  It was one door down from the busy boulevard, and on a street subject to heavy traffic accessing the whole development.  Cars would whip around the corner on a red light; there was always danger of my car getting clipped by one of these reckless drivers as I pulled into or out of my driveway.  The public bus stop was in front of my driveway.  Noise, pollution, wall-to-wall concrete best describes life in this house.  I was growing to hate it.

The sharing arrangement lasted two months.  As we got to know this girlfriend, we discovered that she was not wholesome to have around.  Having a passive resistant-type personality, she was sweet to my face but uncommunicative.  Apparently, she would rather have the house without me as baggage.  Behind my back, she would call the landlord and talk trash about me.  She left, at m request, but then the full burden for rent fell upon me.  On a day when, fortunately, Oscar was visiting from Durango, the electricity went out.  He scurried around looking for a failure in the line, but I was still in the dark when he returned to Durango.  Next day I drove to the utility office to sort out the problem.  Turns out, she never paid the bill in spite of receiving money from Oscar to pay it.  I paid it, plus a fine.  Power was back on when I returned to the house.

Oscar had made a deal with the landlord to secure the house for us at a reduced rent.  He promised he would ‘fix up’ the house.  Maintenance had been neglected for some time.  Faucets leaked, the sewage system wreaked, the paint on the walls was blistering from the humidity.  His idea of getting things done usually involves coercing someone who was indebted to him in some way to do the work for Oscar, as long as it took.  This does not usually involve riding down the mountain from Durango to Mazatlan and sleeping over for three nights.  Experience taught me that the results, the quality of the work, could never compare with the job done by a professional.  I told him to hold off on this solution, to give me time to get to know the local market of professionals.  Nevertheless, he arrived late one afternoon, with a worker in tow.  He then took off to attend a prearranged meeting, leaving me alone with this guy.  I was to put him up in the spare bedroom.  This had a king-size mattress, and I had no sheets for it.  What ensued over the next 16 hours is a tale on its own, better treated separately.  They went back to Durango the next day; no improvements had been made.

One day a lady showed up at the door, with her daughter.  As it turns out, this is the actual owner of the house, with the most recent resident in tow.  They were curious as to what had really been going on in their house, and wanted to get to the bottom of it.  They were concerned over interactions between Oscar and the presumed landlord.  They suspected that Oscar was deliberately confusing the old man, and manipulating him.  What ensued over the next few hours was a fascinating conversation, and ended with the ripping up of the old contract and writing of a new.  The old contract did not have my name; only Oscar’s and his new girlfriend.  We ladies took charge, and removed the men and his plaything from the situation.

We ladies had a series of meeting.  They de facto lowered my rent, and I stipulated a five-month commitment, not six months.  I really wanted to get out of that place.  I figured I could get the maintenance work cleaned up by then, and will have found an affordable space, if one existed.

As I have said elsewhere, the center of my new life in Mazatlan is the Christian church, The Vinyard/La Viña. This is most likely where I will find my community, in my again-renewed retirement life.  On Sunday I asked around about information regarding housing.  I was passed along to this American retiree, Douglas,  and his Mexican wife.  He looked off to the distance and said, *finger snap* “I may know just the thing for you.”  We made a date to meet out at Punto Cerritos.

He failed to mention that he was the unofficial but exclusive agent for the property, which I would later discover after I had found a viable option for sale and tried to pursue a conversation with the lady who was eager to sell.  He sent me a message indicating that any future communications between me and her were to go through him.  She and I continue to try to communicate through WhatsApp, though I was having trouble finding her in the app.  She only has a US number. 

This Douglas, in our initial meeting at this for-sale unit, was answering all my questions about costs in terms of dollars.  My brain functions in pesos, so I was constantly converting, and clarifying; this is in pesos, or dollars?  I found the man to be pompous, officious, and annoying.  I did not understand why I needed his intervention.  I guess he is used to dealing with foreigners who are helpless in a Mexican financial environment.

This new opportunity comes in the form of an RV park.  I had heard of it, I had in previous searches over the years come across information about it.  Efforts I had made to learn more, to visit it, were thwarted.  Now that I meet Douglas, it occurs to me why.

 

It is on a twenty-foot bluff overlooking a rocky shore and rough surf.  Regulations stimulate that all roofs much be palapa, like the one in this picture.

The park has about five rows of lots, at their core is a concrete slab or 'apron', four or five per row.  Each unit consists of an RV on one half of the apron, and a concrete slab on the other.  Each seems uniquely designed, although walls to north and south sides seem universal.  The other two sides might have a half-wall barrier, or may be totally enclosed.

About four years ago, the whole place went up in flames.  Nothing was spared.  The unit currently for sale was rebuilt four years ago.  The RV hauled and put in place has no motor.  It will never move again.

It is a beautiful location.  No matter how hot the day, there is always a cool breeze blowing under the talapa roofs.  I have heard that, in the evenings, residents assemble at poolside and socialize.  I have not verified this rumor.  Especially now, as the season closes, there are not many residents remaining.  This is a popular resort for the snowbirds.

To buy out a current resident, the price will vary depending on the degree to which the living space has been developed.  The current prospect is asking $47,500 US.  That is a one-time expense, subject to wipe-out in event of a fire.  Of course, insurance is not an option here.  Then there is the ongoing expenses of garbage, water, sewer, grounds keeping, security guards, pool maintenance, whew.  That amounts to $450 US/month.  Are these people so certain in the exchange rate?  They seem not to consider the fact that it fluctuates.  Anyway, at the current exchange rate, that is 9,000 pesos.  I am currently paying 7,000 pesos in this house. 

There are vacant, undeveloped aprons.  I wonder what it would cost to find an old RV, move it in place, and pay for my own palapa roof.

This is my dilemma.  My quality of life would greatly improve.  Good bye traffic noise, pollution and cement.  Hello ocean breezes, flowers, and corrosive ocean air.

As much as Oscar annoys me, sometimes being my Angel, other times my Demon, I want very much to discuss all this with him.  I do not trust the American, Douglas.  I want Oscar to go in there and talk with the actual owners and caretakers.  But Oscar is not available these days.  As often happens, he has gone incommunicado; this can last for a month.  He has, after all, a 'vast' financial empire to maintain.

Trailer Park Punta Cerritos

Av. Sábalo Cerritos 3500, Cerritos, 82112 Mazatlán, Sin.

 

Tale of the lost pony

 

Well, all right then.  The sun has crested the hill.  I’ve done my chores.  I’ve added nectar to the two hummingbird feeders, filled the three bowls with kittie kibble, and tossed a bunch of alfalfa into the corral for the horses.  I’ve brewed a cup of hot tea, and it’s time to tell a story.

As pets, horses can be a big expense.  Aside from the joy of admiring these handsome huge creatures and getting the occasional affectionate face hugs from them, they need to offer more to make it worth it. One should be able to climb up their backs and be carried out into the day.

Patas Blancas has been through various efforts by three different people to train him, in his four years. Lack of continuity has been our downfall.  It is high time that he cooperate and accept the saddle and bit.  In fact, he does accept certain people on his back.  But to give a good ride is yet beyond his reach.  He is willful.  A good horse will not only accept a rider, but will agree to also work together with the rider to accomplish a mutual goal.  Although he is healthy, and in the spring he was even fat, I have been negligent in his care.  I have made a firm commitment to turn over a new leaf.

Each morning at dawn I separate him from his filly, and lead him to a small enclosure.  Knowing a hungry horse cannot think of anything but food, I give each of them a small portion of alfalfa.  I keep the filly in the corral so that she will not be a distraction to him.  I go back in the house for my morning prayers and first cuppa.

My theory is that in fifteen minutes a day, he will slowly learn to understand and accept basic commands.  I lead him in moves around the 25 foot long rectangle, on a rope, and at the end of each revolution he is rewarded with a slice of apple. 

One day I was returning from a shopping trip to town, when I saw a yearling colt standing in the road, at my fence, communicating with my two horses.  I left the gate open, and he wandered in.  I had no idea who he was or where he came from, but wandering free on the road could not be a safe option for him.  I did not put him in the corral with the horses, but left him free to give them time to adjust to each other.

I started putting notices on my Facebook page, knowing that a few local women followed it.  No one responded.  For three days, I wrote reminders that the little guy was still here, waiting for his owner.  I went around asking if anyone knew of a missing pony.  I found out where the center for registered brands is located, in Canatlan, and went there.  The young man took a copy of the horse’s photo and said he would end out a notice to his list.  Days passed, and still nothing. 

Pony walks up to the fence and goes nose to nose with the filly for a moment.  Then suddenly she draws back and whinnies; an unseen message passed between them, and she did not like it. 

When they are all freely grazing around the two acres here, the pony keeps his distance.  When the pair go down the embankment to the riverbed pasture, he follows along behind them at a safe distance.  They all spend hours down there grazing.

They all three come back up and continue grazing.  If the pony gets too chummy, Patas lunges for his neck.  If he gets too close to the filly, she aims a hind kick at him.  I feel sorry for him.  It looks like they are not accepting him.

Sometimes he goes down to the riverbed alone.  I might bring him his morning rations of alfalfa down there, where he won’t have to fight the othr two for it.  The undergrowth is so thick there that I can walk the length of the area and see no sign of him.  He senses my presence, and before long reveals himself to me.   

One rumor had it that a woman at a ranch called La Luz was missing a horse.  Not knowing where that was, I drove to Rancho Seco, the nearest town down the road and heavily invested in horses.  I drove slowly down the dusty roads looking for someone to ask.  One old man sat on a stone under the eaves; I asked him; no.  I drove on a little further, and saw a bent old man leaning on a cane in the street in front of a car and a house.  He said he knew of this place.  As he described its location, towards the town of Sauceda, I knew that was too far a distance for this horse to wander lost. 

The untamed horse now walks after me, looking for food.  He follows me to the stable, and I close the door behind him.  My firewood guy rides up on his motorbike, asking about the sale of my two horses.  We agree on a price, at the moment he has the money but it won’t stay in his pocket long.  I am not ready to part with them.  I show him the pony and ask if he recognizes him.  He does not, but while the guy is here and the pony is enclosed in the stable, we put a harness on him.  First the guy makes a lasso of a thick rope, and tosses it over the resisting head of the pony.  It slides nicely into place, and we have the means to hold him still while we put the harness on him. 

This week the moon is full.  I am awakened by a strange noise, a thud.  I put on slippers and walk outside into the moonlight.  The two horses in the corral are close to the fence.  The pony is just a few feet away, standing by the locked stable where the hay is kept.  I walk up to him and talk with him a bit.  The still night air is magical.  He remains very still, relaxed, aglow with moonlight.  I freely pat his nose, and then his neck.  It was a tender moment.  My filly had been with me a month before she would let me touch her like that.

After a week, I heard that Tocho, here in El Pozole, had lost a pony.  I drove to the last known residence and left a note in the door.  I returned the next day, and found the note untouched.  I knew he had another place, out towards the Sierra.  One time when my horses had wandered off from the river onto the other bank, he had put them within his gates and, after a day, came on his motorcycle to tell me I should keep my horses in check, they were causing damage, the usual tirade.  that day I jumped in my car and followed him the few miles out.  There I saw my horses out in the distance on a slight hill, mixing with the cattle.  There were no damaged fences or crops in sight.  My horses do not rampage.  I called them to me, they ambled down the hillside in their own good time, and walked out the gate I had opened for them.  They returned the way they came, to the riverbed, across, through our fence and up the embankment to their corral.  That’s how I knew that Tocho had another place.

This day I drove back out to that place, as best as I could remember it.  In the dusty roadway there are various tracks leading off into other fenced pasture lands.  I could not find the gate and hillside I had in my memory.  Frustrated, I turned around and headed home.  I had not gone but a few yards when a motorcyclist, passing on the left, greeted me.  I recognized him as the youngest son of Tocho, the youth who had first tried to train Patas Blancas.  I threw my arm out the window and hailed him to stop, as I fumbled with the other hand to switch off the radio. 

I told him I found a pony.  A broad smile melted his face.  “You found my horse!” 

I drove back home, and waited for him.  After a while he returned, with a length of thick rope.  While I waited, I went down to the riverbed side of my property, where the three horses were.  The pony followed me up the embankment, no doubt in hopes that I would have some alfalfa for him.  I got him into the small stable, and closed the door. 

I showed the kid to the stable.  He went inside, and fashioned a halter with the rope he brought.  He removed the harness I had put on him.  While the kid went to bring up his motorcycle, I held the horse still and calm.  I said my goodbyes to him.  He is a sweet pony.  The kid led the horse away behind his motorcycle.  I thought my horse would be happy to be rid of him, this intrusion on his well-ordered life as king of the pack.  I was wrong!

Patas was in the corral as the pony was led away.  He went ballistic!  He whinnied angrily.  He galloped down the length of the corral towards the gate, whinnying noisily.  He galloped back and again, at full speed, to the corral gate, and back again towards the road.  He did it again, dancing and bucking.  It was quite a show.

I think I learned something that day about the nature of the horse.  He had put the colt through days of hazing, teaching him lessons he needed about his place in the herd.  Patas was not rejecting the pony, though it might have seemed that way to me.  As the leader of the herd, he was nurturing him, teaching him the way of horses, teaching him his place in the pecking order.

I am always humbled, when the horses teach me something, increasing my awareness of the nature of these most noble of beasts.  I have waited literally all my life to finally realize my dream to have my own horse companion.  I cherish every day, knowing our time together is so short. 

Here is Cinderella at dusk

Blancas and me, signing off

A brief but healing hejira

 

It is April 16.  Were she still with us, my mother would be 108 years old today.  Of more current history, I broke my right femur six months ago tomorrow, one of those life-altering events that can crop up.  “It takes six months to heal,” I was told, so that journey should be over by now.  Then why am I still limping, using a cane, being met by a wheelchair at airports.

I find myself in Irving, Texas, at a Comfort Suites as the guest of American Airlines.  There must be a special name for a day like this; a gift, a hiatus, a crack in the space-time continuum?  I should already have arrived home.  In fact, I should have been home two days ago.  Thanks to the pandemic the airlines are finding it difficult to stick to their usually rigid schedules.  I booked the flight from DFW airport two months ago, and since then airline traffic has surged, causing airlines to scramble.

As you can read elsewhere in this blog, my life over the past three years has known a deficit of social, spiritual and intellectual stimulation.  Not intending to be so literal, my ‘bloom where you’re planted’ philosophy kicked in; I turned my hand to an activity in reach…gardening.  I cultivated strawberries, planted a peach orchard, grew flowers to take to church and tried to propagate future shade trees.  I could not keep that up much longer, for the toll it was taking on my nearly-eighty year old joints.  And then I fell.

Stewing in my juices for six months with limited mobility created a fertile ground for exploring the ramifications of my current situation and future options.  One thing was certain, I missed interacting with friends and family. I miss having a purpose, where I could be of service to my family and community. I planned an exploratory expedition, to see what other options might be out there for a retirement plan, as soon as I am mobile and tickets can be bought.

Factoring into all this is the pandemic and the rollout of vaccinations.  People I consulted here in Durango, Mexico had no knowledge of any rollout plan for here.  Circumstances are such that if I visit my cousin in Florida I would be eligible to get a quick appointment there and be vaccinated.  Because the Moderna requires 28 days between first and second shot, I could only get the first one this way.  I decided to book my trip to take me to Florida at the end of the trip, before heading to Charlotte to board my return to Durango. 

Sunday night late I received a call.  If I want the vaccine, I should arrive tomorrow morning at a destination 30 minutes away, and get in line.  The vaccine has become available for those over 65 with last names at the beginning of the alphabet, A to D.  I did go, and waited all day until 4 p.m. when I was finally poked.  The workers would continue until 8 p.m.

Back in town, in Canatlan, I realized that the road in front of the hospital clinic was taped off and filled with lawn chairs.  The same thing was happening in Canatlan.  I don’t know why I had to drive to get mine, and I don’t care.  I’ve got my first dose.  The end of my trip will come before the required day 28, so there is no need to go to Tampa for the second shot.

Two days later, on Wednesday, I boarded the plane in Durango and began my trip.  First I would visit my sister, in western North Carolina.  We would drive to her son’s house near Raleigh and visit with the large family he has generated.  Another 5 hour drive would take us to another son, my godson Stephen, and after a long weekend he would take me to the Amtrak.  Then my sister and her husband would drive back to their home.  I would take a train from DC to New York and spend a couple of weeks with an old friend at his home in the ‘burbs up the Hudson. Eventually I would wind up back in Charlotte, visiting another cousin for an overnight before boarding the plane for the return trip.  I was due back in Durango on April 14.

As luck would have it, the day we were to drive from my sister’s house to her son’s house, there was a death in the family.  Sarah was my age, she was the cousin with whom I spent summer breaks.  She had been in the hospital for two months, for what was to be a routine outpatient surgery.  It was botched, and it all went downhill from there.  Thanks to Covid, no one got to visit with her and cheer her up.  We got word on Friday.  The wake was one day only, on Sunday, and the funeral Monday morning. 

We headed out to Dennis’s house near Raleigh, as planned.  Saturday evening Dennis’s clan gathered at one of the four grandsons’ home, and it was raucous. I didn’t count noses, but my nephew told me that when his kids and grandkids gather, which they frequently do, they are 18 people.

Via miscommunication under the same roof, my sister and I both managed to book flights from Raleigh to Newark.  I had to return mine.  Tried that lately?  Paperwork!  I also had to return my ticket for Tampa, for which I got another airline credit.  I couldn’t consolidate the credits, because each market has its most efficient airline; I used United, American and Jet Blue for various legs of the trip. 

 

When we reached Newark Airport my friend and his car were waiting for us at the curb.  Problem was, while we’ve talked and emailed regularly over the years, we have not seen each other in decades.  This strange white haired guy stood looking at me.  I shyly glanced and looked away and glanced again, until I finally asked, “Eddie?”  He drove us through the Lincoln Tunnel through horrendous traffic to Penn Station.  We said goodbyes; I asked permission for a hug.  I felt a skeleton under my hands, as I grabbed him by the shoulders.  I knew he had been losing weight, but this handful of bones shook me up. 

In the excitement of the car trip from the airport to Penn Station, me trying to talk to Eddie and my sister in the back seat giving a running commentary on what she was seeing of the city and on Eddie’s driving, I carted all my bags out of the car.  I meant, however, to leave one suitcase and a plastic bag of vitamins I had purchased last week.  These proved to be as millstones around my neck; in the end I forgot the vitamins in a cousin’s car in Bayshore.

I was pleased to have a traveling companion.  My sister has maintained a number of good friends on Long Island through the years, and so it was a fun adventure.  Except for the funeral, of course.  Only a handful of relatives were there, we have all gotten old; mostly the place was filled with her church friends, her Solidarity Sisters. There was no big family wake.

Once Sarah was safely in the ground Loretta and I went our separate ways.  A friend met her and carried her off, while also depositing me at the correct LIRR train line.

I managed to arrive at Penn Station without having to change at Jamaica.  Then the task was to find the subway to Grand Central Station, and then find the right train to Croton-on-Hudson.  All this, while lugging two stacked suitcases, a back-pack purse, and a cane.  Thankfully, my friend met me at his local station and I was able to relax for the next couple of weeks, more or less.

Eddie introduced me to his food regimen.  He showed me the book by Dr. Gundry.  I read key parts of the theory for this diet, and some sample meal plans.  The author’s bugaboo is lectin.  All lectin is eliminated.  The only grains that don’t have lectin are sorghum and millet, apparently.  All sugar is bad, even food naturally rich in sugar like ripe bananas.  More accurately, the degree of ripeness of the fruit or vegetable determines if the sugar is good or bad. No honey, not even agave syrup.  He uses no salt.  The nightshade family is eliminated.  On the positive side, he uses avocado and olives freely (the saturated fats).  My friend has taken things a step further.  The author includes chicken and fish, but my friend has gone completely vegan.  When he explained some of this on the phone before the trip, of course my burning question was, well what else is left?  He said it was complicated.  I thought it bears some resemblance to the paleo diet, which has helped other friends of mine get their weight under control.  Eddie lost a lot.  Never being a vain person, or could I say never holding much regard for his appearance, he is wearing clothes better sized for a fat man.  His clothes hang on him.  No part of his body is exposed, below the neck and cuffs.  It is painful to love someone like this, because he lives in his own world like a barricaded fortress.  There is no one’s opinion that matters except his own.  His two-bedroom rented apartment is wall to wall with books, music CDs and DVDs (and VHS).  We share the same taste in these areas, and so I listened to great music and watched either classic or hilarious videos.  Because my leg was still tender I did not venture any excursions to the city, the Big Apple.

 I didn’t bother to learn how to use his TV system. He has no Smart TVs.  I watched my Netflix account on my phone a little.  I am glad I did, because when I returned to Mexico I discovered that this series is not shown in Mexico.  The title is ‘the Last Tango in Halifax’.  It originates in the UK, although Halifax is in Canada.  IMDB tells me the series is about eight years old and filmed in England.  I managed to see about two and a half seasons, and enjoyed it immensely.  It is romantic and hilarious.  Jimmy and I talked about relationships and how, once family becomes involved, they can be destroyed.  When this retired widow and widower rekindle their childhood flame, the two families open a Pandora’s Box.

Eddie drove me to Newark to catch the last domestic flight on my itinerary.  I flew to Charlotte, where Jimmy met me again at the airport.  Originally this was meant to be a truncated visit.  My original plan had me arrive in Charlotte from Tampa at 8 pm, and return to the airport at 3 a.m. for a 5 a.m. departure to Dallas and Durango.  Thanks to all the itinerary changes and glitches, I arrived midday Sunday and departed early Friday.  This first cousin once-removed is about twelve years younger than me.  Once when he was 17 years old I spent a week or two babysitting with him and four of his five siblings in Escondido, California.  We got to be good friends.  I made a few attempts to help clarify what a removed cousin is; don’t know if it ever sunk in.  His mother was my first cousin. I am delighted with the prospect that, if I am granted low-income housing by the Hendersonville housing authority, I will get to visit with him at least once a month.

During my earlier visit with my sister she had suggested that I fill out an application with the Hendersonville Housing Authority for one of their rent-controlled elderly housing units.  There wasn’t enough time to fill out the form and submit it, but we did visit the office and obtained information.  That office is only open on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.  So on Wednesday morning Jimmy drove me down to Hendersonville, a two-hour drive, and I spent time in the HHA office.  I submitted the completed application and had an eligibility interview. On the earlier visit the nice lady at reception had told me I was just the demographic they were looking for.  On the later visit I learned how much rent money I would have to pay, which would include gas and light.  Suddenly new possibilities appeared.

Now I am back home in El Pozole, in the County of Canatlan, in the State of Durango in the Sierra Madres.  I still have no hot water from the solar boiler on my roof, don’t know why.  The lovely hot showers I enjoyed over the past three weeks are just a memory.  My entertaining brood of kittens have scattered, and no longer feel permitted to come in the house.  On the one hand, the house will remain cleaner, no cat fur and bird feathers everywhere, no clutter pushed down from tables, no tissues torn apart across rooms.  But also no joy of watching their antics, flying and leaping, crouching with tail twitching, and sprawling along my legs sleeping.  The mother of the clan has not yet made an appearance, along with one black and white son.  The other son from that litter did show up today, unafraid to come inside, seeking my lap and comforting strokes.

My delightful mid-sized dog whom I call Baby Lalo was waiting for me when I got back.  His fur was dusky with rolled-in dirt and stunk of garbage.  I had left him with a friend, but he would go back and forth between her house and mine.  There were nights when she did not know where he was.  I suspect he was eating out of my neighbor’s garbage pit.  The first order of business was to bathe him.

I have to get into town to pay taxes, to get my second Moderna shot, and to consult with a town official about making my home marketable.  Technically I do not own the land my house is on.  Apparently the law permitting foreigners to own land was not passed until after this place was conceived, so this non-profit scheme was devised to get around that.  Now it needs to be sorted out so that I might get some reimbursement for my large investment, and move on with my life.  This is proving to be a complicated and lengthy process.

Compared to previous years, my acres look sun-dried and bleak.  Before I left, my little peach orchard was in bloom; I thought I would have peaches for the first time.  I toured them today and was surprised to find no buds, no tiny fruit, but branch tips dried and crinkly.  My friend tells me there was a bit of a hail storm while I was gone, knocking the buds off the fruit trees.  A disappointment for me, a financial disaster for citizens of El Pozole.  Our main income is from apple and pear trees.

I return refreshed.  I will struggle against slipping back into my normal apathy.  I will actively pursue a buyer for my house, be a responsible pet owner, and be more outgoing in seeing how I might serve my little community.  A brighter day is coming.