Four Feet for Christmas

 I hope to add photos soon, but for now, here is a mini novella.  Sit back with a cup of tea, relax, and read about life in the countryside.

Four feet for Christmas

Little Feet is lonely.  Horses are herd animals, and this poor boy is living herdless.  Unless you count myself and my stable hand, Manny.  Or the two small dogs and ten cats, who casually stroll through his stable and mingle their manure with his.  I think it is time to find him a more suitable companion. 

Horses, like golf, is a rich man’s hobby.  Or so I have always thought.  Little Feet came to me through a friend, who then abandoned us.  In discussing the subject of the price of horseflesh here in an impoverished part of Durango, Mexico, I came to decide that buying a horse was actually affordable.  A luxury, yes, but taking a very small bite out of my savings, my ‘emergency medical fund’. 

I am a senior citizen retired on a small social security pension in a tiny village six thousand feet up in the Sierra Madres.  My hectare sits in a small valley, with hills to the east and hills to the west.  What I am learning is that the price of a young colt is about the same price as a new saddle, a few hundred dollars.  That’s from Manny’s dad, a retired horseman himself.  We decided to go on a search, and see for ourselves what is out there.   Manny’s dad noted a few horses for sale in their village, worth checking out.  But first I wanted to go back to the place where Little Feet was born.  I was hoping for a birthdate for him, although we know he is about three years old.

The village as recorded in the title certificate for my horse as his birthplace is about 12 miles north of us.  Yesterday we drove up the two-lane highway to see if we could actually locate the ranch in this tiny village, with the little information that we had.  We reached the sign that identified the village, Arnulfo R. Gomez.  This follows the custom of naming villages after Mexican historical heroes.  We saw a handful of stores, long stretches of adobe wall, and a church steeple.  Fortunately, we saw a man on horseback heading towards us on a dirt side road.  We pulled alongside and rolled down the window.  The brand on my horse’s flank is an M inside a circle.  This is the mark of Martin Ortiz.  With the help of this local cowpoke we located him, finding ourselves in a cluster of men dressed in plaid shirts, dusty jeans, boots and cowboy hats.  We mentioned that we were from Pozole, and one man smiles broadly and identifies me as the person who has Little Feet, Isabel’s horse.  And so it is in the countryside, the grapevine phone network.

We chatted for a bit.  I praised the quality of Little Feet, his calm and easy temperament, for which I presumed to credit good blood lines.  He regretted having to tell me that he sold the sire.  I assured him that was no problem.  I wasn’t looking for a race horse or anything, just a simple companion to make my boy comfortable.  In my mind, I thought that asking for a yearling or two-year old would bring me into an affordable negotiation.  We arranged to meet the next day, and he would show me what was available.

At the dawn of a new day, during Christmas week, I arose to a very chilly morning.  I hadn’t bothered to set a fire in the cast-iron stove, since we would be leaving out early and why waste the wood.

We stopped in Canatlan at the Oxxo convenient store for a cappuccino fix, turned the car heater up to Blast, and we were on our way. 

We arrived at the designated spot a little past ten, driving slowly on the dusty road.  We stopped and got out, and then noticed a parked pickup about 50 meters back.  It fired up and came towards us.   Actually, we weren’t sure at all that we had found the agreed upon meeting place.  This typical village was a unmarked maze of adobe and stucco, the color of the road merging with the color of the walls.  Whirls of dust marked our slow progress.  We had exchanged phone numbers the day before, so we did connect.  The guy who had been sitting in the parked pickup was indeed our contact Rudolfo.  We parked beneath a dusty tall juniper tree, and waited.  First one, then another of yesterdays gang showed up. 

I tuned out while Manny fulfilled the social pleasantries and learned what the next step would be.  We got back into my car, and followed the pickup truck with its two guys and one 8-year-old grandson.

We went back to the two-lane highway and drove another five minutes north.  We pulled off and waited while the guys opened the barbed wired fence that led us into a large pasture.  Ahead of us to the west the vast sweep of valley ended in hills.  As we followed the pickup meandering through the fields, down a narrow ravine and up again, we saw a stream of cows moving from our right to the left, towards the hills.  We looked right towards the highway and realized there was a tunnel under the road, a black hole through which the herd was streaming.  We drove on, passing through one field after another, until from our vantage on a hillock we saw a large lake.  We parked at an iron orange pen with gates and walkways, whose paint had faded and was overgrown with dried weeds.  We waited.  The view was enthralling. Time ticked by.  The old guys started telling us stories.  These distant hills contain a vibrant ecosystem, with wild cats, coyotes, wild boar and deer.  The hundreds of cows, plus whatever horses as needed for work, roamed freely here.  The barbed wire fencing hardly held out the many predators.  The dogs kept guard.  Every being in this wild place served a purpose.

Manny was just as taken as I.  He was filling up gigabytes of his phone camera with videotaping of the herds, the lake and the wilderness.  I saw a few riders off in the distance, on the far bank of the lake. 

When I glanced closer at the far bank, I realized there were a cluster of objects, indistinguishable in the distance.  I saw a pickup truck, a small flatbed behind it, and a cluster of men. Their saddled horses waited quietly nearby.  On the ground just beyond the flatbed there was an odd-shaped lump.  Nothing much seemed to be happening, and my gaze drifted.  When I looked back they all had gone.  The lump, which I never saw moving, was gone as well.

Suddenly a pack of white horse came thundering up the hill from lakeside, followed by two or three mounted herders.  These were the wild horses rounded up for my purview.

They were herded into the pen, and into a narrow walkway where they stood single file.  One of the three whites was albino with pink eyes.  There was the brown two-year old whose picture I had seen the day before, an unremarkable horse.  Then I saw the palomino.  She was still nursing at her mother, who was a white mare with blue eyes.  The tiny colt might have been six months old, the smallest in the pack.  She has gorgeous upturned eyes, with a soft and tender look about her.  She has a long winter coat.  She is not completely golden, but is dappled with color.  Unfortunately, the owner of this one was not in our little group.  My heart was quickly grabbed by this tender babe.  The brown horse, my intended, spooked while in this narrow walkway.  She panicked and tried to back out, pushing the other two horses behind her.  I thought this was not an auspicious sign.  

And then it was over.  The cowboys left with the herd, back down towards the lake.  We got back in my car and followed the blue pickup through the fields.  At the raven Manny was driving too slowly, and we were smelling burning rubber.  The guys got out of the pickup thinking we needed help.  Manny backed up far enough to get a running start, and made it up the steep bank.

We got back to Arnulfo R. Gomez.  We shook hands and gave our hearty thanks, and left our friendly hosts. It was noon by now.  Manny called his dad and we arranged to meet at his village to look at more horses.  We drove south again, passing through Canatlan where we stopped to use the WalMart toilet and grab a bite to eat to-go. 

During the drive I asked Manny if he had noticed the pickup and activity on the far bank of the lake.  He had not. I described the scene to him.  Slowly it dawned on us that this may well have been prey killed by the wild animals; a calf, or a colt.

We drove east and then north again, until we reached Nogales.  We parked under another dusty cedar, and waited.  Throw away your watches when you are moving in these circles.  Eventually Manny’s dad and a friend arrived, and drove us to another large warren of fields.  We waited until the two horses for sale could be rounded up and driven towards us.  We couldn’t get too close; they stopped at the corner fencing in the middle of the fields.  If we pressed them, they would bolt over the fence. 

We saw three horses moving towards us.  One was a small white pony, which was just along for the ride.  The two I was looking at were a brown and a gray.  The brown has a narrow white streak down his face, but is other wise unremarkable. She seemed bored. After checking us out she was not at all interested in us, showing us her back.  The gray, however, was curious.   She would walk in a circle and then look back at us.  She has a broad white face, outlined in gray.  Her coat is a mottled gray, not solid.  Her ears seemed smaller and rounder than the others.  As we got bolder and tried to approach, they ran away.  But the gray stopped at a distance, turned, and continued to watch us with ears forward.

We trudged back along the fields to the car.  Manny’s dad talked about other horses he could round up for the following day, but I felt that I had seen enough for now.  My mind was still on the baby palomino.  I needed to know if she was for sale, and for how much.

We passed through Canatlan on our way home, but it was still Siesta time. I had hoped to buy alfalfa seeds, and to pick up an Amazon package that was waiting for me.  Everything was closed, and I had no patience to wait twenty more minutes.  The clock was ticking again, and I wanted to get back to the comfort of my home. 

On the following day I went into town to buy alfalfa seed.  The first shop I tried had none.  I went to a larger seed warehouse, where I was already known by the owner.  No, he did not have any alfalfa seed.  We stood and chatted for a while, when he told me that normally they would have received the seasonal supply of alfalfa seed.  The agent usually delivered twice a year.  This year the agent had ghosted Canatlan.  He encouraged me to go to Nueva Ideal, I would find seed there for sure.

I left Canatlan heading north, passed El Pozole.  I stopped at Luz de Compasion long enough to pick up Manny, and we continued on together to Nuevo Ideal.  As we were passing through Arnulfo R Gomez again, I asked Manny to call our friend Martin and ask if he had spoken to the owner of the palomino colt.  He had, and the colt was for sale.  The quoted price was just a tad above the conservative amount I had offered.  I said I was definitely interested, and would get back to them. 

One question Manny and I had been discussing was the right age to wean a colt.  I was remembering the years I spent in East Tibet around yak herds.  The yak calves were about the relative size as the palomino when they were forcibly weaned.  Their method was a device that was like a wooden crown of thorns attached to the yak calf’s muzzle, to prevent access to the teat.  Manny called his uncle, who was well-versed in horse rearing.  Manny thought that as soon as the colt was eating on his own, alfalfa and grass, he would be weaned.  But his uncle told him that it was best to let the colt stay with his mother until he was a full year old, to ensure good growth.

We asked Martin when the Palomino would be ready to be sold off.  He said right away, no, he did not need to stay with his mom. 

I want a third opinion. 

Anyway, I thought I would pay half the price now, assuring my ownership of the colt, but leave him with his mother for another couple of months at which time I would pay the remainder and take possession.  Or perhaps pay the whole amount, but take the mother with us until the colt was old enough to be separated from  her.  And then, how would we get the horse?  Surely it was too young and wild to enter a trailer.  So many questions!  I am entering a new world, with much to learn.

We arrived at Nuevo Ideal, turned left at the main intersection towards the commercial district, and looked around for a seed store.  After a few enquiries, we were sent back down the highway a short stretch to the John Deere dealership.  Yes they have alfalfa seed, we could buy a bag of 20  kg for 3,000 pesos.  Uh, was there an option B?

We went back up that stretch of highway and took a right towards the Mennonite settlements.  We found another seed store, and they were willing to open the 20 kg bag and sell us just a few kilos.  We are one step closer to finally growing our own horse feed.  My neighbor Julian had already done a beautiful job on our little field, plowing it smooth with his tractor.  We have begun our collecting of natural fertilizing, packing four bags with it, free for the taking, at the cattle auction pens.  We dumped these onto the alfalfa plot, though it looked like a paltry amount.  Many more bags would need to be collected, if we were to fertilize the feel evenly.

Our main mission accomplished, we went back to the commercial district of NI and I showed Manny the great grocery store that is there.  We bought the fixings for the Christmas turkey dinner, and finally made it back home. 

The following day would be December 23, and I had bravely offered to fix a ‘traditional’ turkey dinner for as many of my English-speaking Mexican friends as wanted to come.

I awoke early, with a list of tasks focused on receiving and dining guests.  As I worked my way through the monotonise chores of cleaning and cooking, I mulled over what had transpired the day before.  Since the young age of the paolomino was a stumbling block, I focused on the gray in Nogales.  I had invited Manny’s father to come and spend the night of Christmas Eve with us.  These two are very close, the son being like a physical clone of the father. 

The dinner went well.  Only two friends showed up, and with Manny, there were four of us at the dinner table.  The meal was simple, basic, and all from scratch.  I baked a turkey without stuffing, mashed potatoes with carmelized onions, giblet gravy and cole slaw.  It feels good to occasionally verify to myself that I am a competent cook.  Joel brought a lovely bottle of Merlot.  He and Lupita discussed the possibility of her locating her planned luxury hair styling salon and spa at his second floor hall, in the center of Canatlan.  He is planning to move to El Paso, Texas in January.  Once again he asked if I would manage the place for him while he was gone.  This time, with my friend Lupita involved, I said yes.

The next day, Saturday, Manny and I went to San Jose de Gracias to pick up Manny Senior.  I had hopes of duplicating the previous night’s meal, with the abundant leftovers.  However, the power went out in the afternoon, and we were all left in the dark.  We did not have nearly enough candles.  They stayed the night in the guest cottage, and I took a long nap in my place with the dog and a handful of cats.  I had fond hopes that I had hear Father correctly at the previous Sunday’s Mass, saying that there would be Mass on Christmas Eve.  I awoke from my nap, got in the car and drove to Canatlan at midnight. Sadly, all was dark and nearly deserted.  I turned around and came home.

Morning dawned without electricity.  I invited the two Manny’s over for breakfast.  I added some flour and eggs to the mashed potatoes and made my version of potato pancakes, served with bacon.  Senior and I had a long discussion during that morning.  In the end, I made up my mind to collect the gray horse on Tuesday, the 27^th. 

We were in a cold spell, nighttime temperatures hovering around 32 degrees F.  The sun came up on time, however, and it wasn’t long before the thermometer had climbed into the 60s, and landing eventually in the 70s.  We drove out to Nogales again, and met with Senior and his cronies.  Junior had asked them to round the horse up for us, to save time.  However, nothing happened before our ten o’clock arrival.  We drove out to the fields, and parked the car.  We walked through a herd of cows and bulls who were waiting to be fed.  There was lots of milling and mooing.  Among them was a gorgeous black gelding, about seven years old.  Apparently he hung with the cattle, and when they needed rounding up a saddle was put on him and he worked.  That’s how retirement looks when you’re a horse.

We waited among the curious bulls for a long time.  Then we saw the same three horses being herded towards us.  I stayed well away as the cluster of men herded the three of them into a roofless adobe room. To me it looked like an old abandoned home.  There was the pretty brown babe with the white streak on her nose, the tiny companion white pony, and the gray that I wanted.  The pony was a sad sight.  She is the beloved pet of the owner’s once-young son, kept around for sentimental reasons.  It lives out in the fields with the wild ones.  Its mane and tail were loaded thick with burs.  I just wanted to spend hours with the thing taking all these thorny things off.  The two horses, being slightly taller, had less of tangled messes, mostly just on the tails.

Now the gray was up close, and we waited once more.  Now we were waiting for the trailer that would take our lovely girl home.  Manny went off to get it.  His dad was owed favors, and so a neighbor had agreed to let us use his horse trailer.  After what felt like a half hour, he returned without a trailer.  The neighbor had responded to Manny by saying, in effect, who the hell are you I promised the trailer to the father not the son.  So then the two Manny’s went back into town and got the trailer, as we waited again. 

Meanwhile, the men clustered outside the adobe walls chatting.  I hung at the edge of the doorway, looking over someone’s shoulder.  Slowly I drew closer.  I had no intention of approaching the colt, but I did want to calm and reassure her.  I stood just inside the wall, and spoke softly to her.  She and the brown had retreated to a corner when they were first driven into the space.  As I talked to her she did indeed begin to calm down, to the point where she left the corner and took a more relaxed stance away from the walls.  I stayed with her, while the guys were freaking out at my taking the risk of being in there with the wild ones.  Soon the soft sounds washed over her, and she was licking and chewing in contentment, or at least relaxed.

The trailer arrived at last, and I cleared out.  I left the six or seven men plenty of space while they maneuvered the trailer into the doorway.  It pained me to see the terror and panic that resulted, first from the owner trying and failing many times to lasso her.  When he finally succeeded the crew cheered.  Then forcing her into the trailer.  Its capacity was four horses; the front half had a roof, the back half open.  She was rearing up, trying to jump out, before they finally got her into the covered area.  They closed that gate and, keeping the rope tied to her, she was secured for the ride. 

That is when the owner and I discussed the price of the horse.  I thought I had been told one price, he was expecting one hundred dollars more.  We compromised, and money changed hands.  As we drove away I was filled with eagerness to get this little lady home, where I could finally get a good look at her.  Instead of heading out of that village, Manny drove us off to a little corner of it where a lady was sitting at a table under a canvas roof.  This was where they would create the document that recorded me as the owner, and Rudolfo as the breeder.  The latter is misleading.  The horses lived in the wild, there was little control over what sire covered what mare.

This step was time consuming as well.  There was discussion back and forth about the breeder’s documentation.  It seemed as if the lady at the desk was consulting an older gentleman who passed back and forth from the covered area to the attached house.  There was also a teenage boy hanging around; I had no idea his identity or function.  Manny

 

 

 

 

Went off in my car, to coordinate with the guys in the trailer presumably.  He came back with a tamale; we were both starving, as it was now mid afternoon and there was no meal in sight.  Lupita had invited me to her house for dinner, another complication that had to be sorted out.  Deliver the horse to Patas Blancas and then return to Canatlan for Lupita’s dinner? Have Manny drop me off, then, and pick me up after dark? 

I was eagerly anticipating watching the first meeting between the little filly and our young stallion. 

Leaving Nogales we had tried to keep the trailer in front of us.  Once in Canatlan, it made a premature right turn.  We had finally decided that I would forego witnessing Patas Blancas receiving his new companion, in order to fulfill my promise to Lupita.  She was expecting another guest around 4:30; it was now around 4:00.  Manny drove me to Lupita’s house and left me there, figuring he could catch up to the slow-moving trailer.  His father was in the trailer, and we presumed he would be able to navigate the way to Luz de Compasion.  Wrong.  Manny got a frantic call from his dad in the trailer.

“Where are you?  Hurry up, we need you.  A cop has stopped us and is asking for the papers for the horse.”

Which goes to show you that this is indeed horse country; the police are vigilant for horse thieves.

They had missed the turn off the highway and gone the seven miles further down the road to the more familiar hamlet called Rancho Seco.

Manny got there in short order and produced the newly inked ownership documents.

I had a nice dinner with Lupita.  As she had previously clarified for me, Mexican meal times were 2 pm and 7 pm.  Apparently the timing of this meal, which she called ‘meat cake’, was driven by Benjamin’s schedule.  Benjamin is a young man who is very fond of Lupita.  He recently opened an electronics store in Canatlan, and has a busy schedule.  I had met him through Lupita, and we had made an arrangement for lessons in English.  These lessons were often canceled because of his busy schedule.  I was looking forward to seeing him.  I had called him earlier to see if he could drive me home, so that Manny would not have to drive in the dark.  I won’t go into Manny’s driving history here. 

The meat cake turned out to be a variation on meat loaf, wrapped in bacon.  She made mashed potatoes and gravy, too, as I had shown her how a few days earlier.  The meal was righteous, and hit the spot.  Manny is the elephant in the room.  He is an employee, not a partner.  I did not bother to clarify with Lupita whether or not the invitation included Manny.  He was the driver, no more.  He wound up picking me up anyway, in the end.  Benjamin received a phone call during the meal, and arranged to meet someone right away at the Oxxo store.  I called Manny, letting Benjamin off the hook.  Lupita offered the plastic containers I had sent her home with, earlier filled with turkey and fixings for her partner Luis.  She now filled them with a good meal for Manny, who showed up straight away.

Although the sun had slid behind the western hills, it was not yet dark when I got home.  There was ample time for me to stand and gaze at our new addition, and watch the interplay between the two horses.  It was lovely to behold.  Manny joined me to watch television before bed time, and we talked about a name for her.  The name Lucy popped into my head; I had heard it spoken that day in relation to Manny’s family members.  A shot of tequila for him, the last glass of Merlot for me, and we seaparately retired for the night.

At dawn, on a freezing morning, before the sun poked up above the eastern hills, I had my winter coat on and was outside.  There they were, side by side, Cinderella and her prince charming, Patas Blancas.  Now I see that she is a little smaller than he.  I was worried that she would be taller, she looked big next to the miniature pony in Nogales.  Now I am hoping that she does not grow any more, but it is still possible.  Saying a horse is two-years old is an inexact statement, when it is born in the wild.  I have heard that all horses increase their age on January 1, even a horse born in December suddenly becomes a year old.  I am enchanted with her.  She looks like she sat down in an ash pot.  She goes with Patas as if joined by the hip.  That is not to say that the usual gender play is not happening.  If he gets too close to her, she kicks him away.

The sun was already above the hills and warming up the air when Manny came walking up to us.  We discussed the day’s chores.  At least he has one less; no need to muck out the stall. The two horses had passed the night in the corral.  When he took Patas to the lunge area for his groundwork, Cinderella was a little dismayed.  She tried to follow him out of the corral.  Then, as he began his work trotting online in a circle, she ran first one way then, as he rounded the circle, the reverse, along the barbed wire fence that separated them.  Her eyes never left him.

For the past week I’ve started a training regimen for him, walking him on a lead inside the corral.  It is a brief exercise, developing focus and communication between us.  I wondered if Cinderella would be nervous with me in the corral, too.  One day she will let me touch her, but not yet.  As I walked Patas and put him through his paces, she was right beside him all the way.  She was not paying any attention to me, even when I was within inches of her face, but only on him.

Though this tale is coming to a close, it is only just the beginning of my life with Cinderella.  My plan is to spend time in and around the corral each day, getting her used to my presence.  She is learning from Patas, as well, to accept these humans.  I will not chase after her; one day she will come to me, and then her training will begin in earnest.

I look to the future, when Luz de Compasion will offer a western experience to AirBnB customers who enjoy trail riding in the Old West, where John Wayne cranked out classic western movies during the sixties.  Until that day, I live the joy of sharing my life with two of God’s beautiful creatures.

Ahem.  Not to be overlooked, sharing the joy with us are the two dogs and the myriads of cats.

Patas Blancas new routine

               Patas Blancas would be so much easier to deal with if he were gelded.  While I prefer dogs and cats who are sterilized, because they behave better indoors, I feel differently about the horse.  In my fantasies my beloved horse is a stallion, not a gelding.  It is my way, complicating my life by eschewing the easy way out. 

               When Martin was here in January, he helped me out taming the wildness of my three acres.  He did not discuss with me that he had a horse, much less what he planned to do with it.  That is a pity.  If we had discussed it, he would have had time to build a corral and stable for the animal, making a proper home for the animal.  Instead, he left the horse with a neighbor, the guy he worked for during his short visits, and who supplied him with housing.  That was a poor plan, as it turned out. 

               After passing from hand to hand, Patas finally has a home here with me.  Thanks to Tomas, we finally have the infrastructure set up for him.  Tomas is a young man, mid thirties, who went to high school in the States before he and his family returned to Nogales, another tiny village in the district of Canatlan.  Having a worker with whom I can speak English is so much easier.  He anticipates my needs, he gets the subtleties when we chat, about my expectations.  Within a week he and his cousin built a fence around a quarter of these three acres.  My friend Lupita’s husband built the stable a week earlier.  Now Patas has a routine, and like any child, he is responding well to having his day follow a predictable pattern.

               In the morning, as the sun rises, I bring malted grain to the stable where the horse softly nickers to me.  When the grain is consumed, I clip a lead onto his bridle and walk him the twenty feet to the gate of his corral.  He follows docilely, and spends the day roaming and grazing the lovely green growth.  It is rain season, so there is plenty of that.

               As the sun sets, I walk the horse back to the stable where I have laid fresh sawdust for his bed.  I am currently out of hay, so there is nothing for him on his feed tray.  Coincidentally, that means less poop for me to scoop in the morning.  Last night he was at the far end of the field, near the road.  I called him.  He slowly walked the distance, as I stood patiently waiting at the gate.  He let me clip the lead to him, and he calmly walked to the stable.  Soon I think I can leave off the lead.  No more biting, no more trying to push me down.  He seems much happier now, and less aggressive.

               Tomas’s cousin is well-experienced in horse husbandry.  It was a joy to see the two of them ‘break’ the horse to the saddle.  Tomas held the head firmly in control, while Cousin mounted the horse and held on for dear life as Patas tried to buck him off.  Cousin stayed on the horse, using only a rope across the mouth as ‘brakes’, and rode him up and down the pasture for an hour.  The following day the guys were busy with their work, repairing roof leaks, cutting grass, and did not try to ride the horse.  The following day, however, I asked Cousin to ride him again to further teach the horse.  This time I gave them the unmatched rigging I had, of harnesses and bits.  They put together a rig that fits well and works, and so this time, for the first time, the horse rode with saddle and bit.  It was glorious to see.

               There is an interesting detail of the Mexican saddle that presents a dilemma to me. I don’t know the proper nomenclature for all the parts of the saddle, so I clumsily describe it here.  There is a strap that goes under the horse and secures the saddle.  There is a leather strap coming down to meet it, and allows tightening of the saddle.  The saddles I used in the States have a length of leather with holes punched, to allow the cinching to the buckle on the under strap.  Here that length of leather is very long, and it is wound round and round upon itself until the strap beneath hugs the horse tightly, and the cinch is buckled closed.  I find that it takes more strength than I am capable of, to tighten that strap.  My challenge is to take the saddle to a leather worker, and have it cut down to the size I need to cinch the strap simply, directly.  I suppose that the buckle is not well engineered, so that it might slip out.  Is that the reason for needing to loop the leather so many times around itself?  I do not yet know.

               In Mexico that type of short strap is associated with a ‘Texas’ saddle.  There are other subtle differences, but I have only seen that type on the internet, for sale through Mercado Libre, the online shop for all things Mexican.  Certainly the base of the whole saddle, the seat, is made differently.  The saddles I saw online from Texas have the horn and top edge covered in leather.  Here, it is just a big piece of molded plastic, and the horn is left exposed.  From videos I’ve seen on YouTube, the American  seat base seems to be made of different material and more lightweight.  Whereas a good Mexican saddle can be purchased here in town for about $200 - $250 USD, the Texas saddle sells for $600 and must be ordered.

               I am a master of procrastination, so I need a boot in the butt to get me down to town with the heavy saddle, to find a shop called ‘Miguel y Miguel’, the shoemakers. 

               Just as I was making breakfast today, having just turned on the drip coffeemaker, the power went out.  Here I sit with no power, so I can’t watch my Tuesday favorite TV show, ‘Hollywood Medium’, the Tyler Henry show.  Yesterday I exhausted myself cleaning up the house, the stacked dishes and the muddy floors, and also made a fresh batch of Bran Muffins.  Tomas, the worker, did not show up for work yesterday or today, so I have no one to supervise.  The silence is deafening.  So I head off to town, dragging the heavy saddle with me, and hope that when I come back the power will be on.

               A heaviness has lifted off me, now that Patas Blancas’ life is well moderated, and he is happier. The next challenge in front of me is to actually ride him.  He needs the exercise, and so do I.  Martin tells me he will be here is a few weeks and stay for a month or three.  He anticipates bringing a female horse as a companion for Patas.  Twice the maintenance expense and work, but in time we might have lovely colts to sell.  This justifies keeping him a stallion, too.

               So, without further delay, I am off to town.

PS  I tried adding photos of the saddle.  I will check again later to see if they downloaded correctly, and if not, try again.

Creation and its anthropomorphization

 

I believe in God, the father almighty, creator of heaven and earth.

In the manual laid down for us, tutoring us in relationship to this god, it says “I am the potter, you are the clay”. 

A potter grabs a lump of clay and throws it onto the wheel.  The clay has no idea of what it is meant to become.  The potter has the intention, the concept.

Whatever the Creator is, we its creation are incapable of fully knowing it.  Mercifully, it has spread seeds around in its garden to germinate into philosophies and theologies that create concepts simple enough for our minds to grasp.  The Hindu creator is a flame, with three main functions: creator, sustainer, destroyer.  Their theology recognizes a pantheon of gods who roamed the world in flesh, and that wield specific powers.  The Christian creator is an old man with a white beard sitting on a throne in clouds.  He operates through a unique creation, Jesus the Messiah. Those who successfully follow the ‘handbook’ go on to be recognized as ‘saints’, having realized while in the flesh more of the power of the spirit.  This Christ concept is composed of three functions:  Father, Son and Holy Spirit, or Creator, Destroyer, Sustainer.  Jesus is the destroyer in that He conquered, or destroyed, the power of death.  His teachings tell us to die to self and be reborn to the Spirit, the sustainer.  Those who somehow know not to anthropomorphize the creator call it, simply, the Source.

We live in a creation.  The Hindu word of samsara describes the illusionary nature of it.  It is a world of duality.  Opposites exist, and are the tension that moves us.  Good, bad, success, failure, up, down, angels, devils, alive or dead.  We are spirit in nature, whatever that means.  It is an ethereal concept; spirit has no physical manifestation.  Our fleshly shell obscures the perception of the spirit.  With work, we can thin the veil of obscuration to varying degrees.  At greatest density, we as children are drawn to tales of good, be they fairy tells or Bible stories.  We want to believe in good, unless we are born into a family where all good has died, and total obfuscation dominates.  Our culture leads us to a structured form meant to teach our spirit its true nature; religion.  Some of us are born with a long way to go, at the end leaving the shell behind having never leapt free of the structure.  Others seem to be born with a thinner veil.  It is easier to see the value in the spirit, and so we cultivate it more carefully; greater leaps of faith are possible.  And a rare few can throw the trace of veil off quickly, and live a life of awareness.  We mere mortals cannot conceive of life in that awareness, though we try.  In the presence of holy men, like the Pope or the Dalai Lama, the force of their consciousness can be felt.  A weakening in the knees, a light-headedness, or just a rare warm glow comes over us.  There is something there, and that reaction is probably as close to perceiving the spirit physically as we can come.

Negative stances over particular (or any) religions are a product of samsara. Love/hate duality does not exist in the purely spirit world.  It is interesting to watch Tyler Henry[1], a rare gifted soul, communicate between the two worlds.  Granted, what he is bringing us is a tiny picture of the whole of reality.  Nevertheless, it is clear that we drop this dualistic stance when we leave the flesh behind.  On ‘the other side’, the predominant perception is love.  Negative emotions fall away.

Knowing this, why do we cling so strongly to our love/hate dualistic reactions to what arises in our lives? Why do we allow the dross of this world, the mudslinging, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune[2], to cling to us and toss us into tempests of negative thoughts and deeds? In Shakespeare’s words, it is nobility of mind that permits us to suffer negative blows, rather than react to them.  Is it suffering?  In Buddhism one learns a basic concept.  Suffering is at the root of samsara. They are commonly known as ‘The Four Noble Truths.’ Suffering is a constant to all life on earth.  It is our reaction to suffering that matters.  The causes of suffering are numerous, but boil down to clinging to the ego.  How I am perceived, how much I possess, what will bring me to success and its pursuit.  The third truth is the most difficult to perceive, that there is an end of suffering.  Once that is accepted, one must also accept the path that will lead to the end of suffering, wherever you may find that path.

We study meditation in its various forms to find the way out.  Meditation is not a Buddhist ‘thing’, it permeates all forms of spirituality.  In the Medieval text, The Cloud of Unknowing, Christianity finds deep roots in the monastic tradition of meditation.  Thomas Merton[3] has masterfully shown the East and the West that quieting the mind, dulling the dualistic pull of our nature, is at the core of the quest to know our spiritual nature.  This practice is universal, not confined to any one ‘religion’.  

We would not jump out of an airplane without a parachute strapped to our backs. We would tumble, be batted about by winds, and ultimately smashed by the force of gravity.  With our relatively ignorant human minds we would be equally at danger if we sought to know the creator by flying free.  The spirit world, while at its core is benevolent, nevertheless is fraught with negative forces that, for their own reasons, do not want us to find release into this Sea of Love, this freedom from suffering.  It is necessary to explore the many Paths out there, find the one you are most comfortable with, and stick with it.  None less than the Dalai Lama has said that it is not wise to mix Buddhism and Christianity.  Choose one and stick to it.  You will not be slammed by Buddha or Christ if you do, but rather the difficult path will be made muddier, more difficult, by trying to mix and match.

I have heard that Billy Graham said no religion is perfect, because all religions are manmade.  That is deep.

When I say that I am merely the steward of my life, my possessions, it is an acknowledgment that creation is, at its core, benevolent.  For your clarification, if I must further say ‘God’ gives me everything that I need, and all that I own comes from ‘him’, I am not ceding to the concept of an anthropomorphized source of creation.

I rest in the ‘arms’ of this benevolence.  Bad things happen, there is negative energy roaming this planet.  It is unreasonable that I am privileged to not know helpless poverty and violence, while so many good people know that suffering.  I do what I can to generate positive energy into the universe, express to the creator daily my deep gratitude, and pray that should such suffering befall me I will not be crushed, but will feel the eternal goodness under me like wings bearing me aloft.  I pray the same for you.

 

---

[1] Tyler Henry, born 1996, is a clairvoyant who allows his sessions with individuals to be videotaped and viewed on E! Television Network, as the Hollywood Medium.  Some interviews can also be seen on YouTube

[2] Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1

[3] Thomas Merton, b. 1915, was an American Trappist monk and ordained Catholic priest.

His Name is Pata Blanca

 

Junior, or Gordo, has a real name: Panfilo, a heroic name in Mexican history. He was finally able to cross the border, and arrived safely to his hometown in eastern Indiana.  He could become annoying with his constant chatter, but at heart I loved the big lug.  He came south with his big brother, Chavello, a couple years earlier,  and roomed with him in the house belonging to the rancher for whom the latter worked.  When Chavello returned to the border to continue his work there, Junior was at a loss.  Victim of a blow to the head as a preschooler, his brain injury limits him a lot; he’ll never be able to live independently.  He soldiered on nobly, taking his laundry to Canatlan, using Western Union to collect money from his Stateside siblings, but really he was struggling.  Of his many brothers and sisters, Chavello seems to be the only one who attempts to help him.  Once he was gone, the rancher forced Junior out. 

               It is just as well that he got back home.  His mother, battling cancer for many years, was happy to have her baby boy, 38 years old, 6’2” and 370 pounds, home with her for the last year of her life.

               Chavello came back this spring to Durango to work for a few weeks with the old rancher.  It was lonely for him without his baby brother.  While he was here he made himself very available to help me on my little farm.  He tells me Panfilo calls him, demanding that he not forget to help me.  It was overgrown with native wild sunflower plants, which can grow well over six feet and with very strong stalks.  He quickly wrangled those sunflowers out of my walled garden space, and burned them all.  He tilled the plot and hewed out rows, so that by the time he left, my garden was once again ready for spring planting.  In the open fields, he cut down the bushy sapling huizache trees that were always popping up.  I was sad to see him return to the border.

               One day I was out in my field trying to burn off some of the dry brush around my small peach orchard.  I had a hose at ready, and a rake, but there was so much dry brush that I could not contain it.  The adrenalin flowed as I rushed back and forth around the edges, beating down the flames only to have them pop up again.  The smoke filled the air.  A car rushed up the drive and slammed on the brakes.  In a heartbeat, Chavello had seen the smoke and rushed over from the neighbor’s farm to see if I was in trouble.  We got the fire under control, and of course he admonished me for not being smarter in my burning.  He was right.

               I noticed he had brought a horse with him on this trip.  I told him I would like to take care of the horse; I have experience and I have the space.  But he chose to leave the horse in care of his employer. 

               After some weeks I noticed the horse was no longer in the neighbor’s field. Apparently the horse kicked him lightly, and that was enough.  The horse was then passed on to another ranch, in care of a young man barely out of his teens.  Before long, I heard that this young man and Chavello were in conflict; probably about money.  Caring for a horse costs.  Again I said to Chavello that he should let me have the horse for care.  Finally, the young man, Chelo, rode into my yard bareback on the horse, with only string for a bridle and no bit.  He left me and the horse in a haughty huff.

               By phone I asked Chavello if the horse had a saddle.  Apparently Chelo was holding it for ransom.  He told me he wanted 1,000 pesos.  A few days after he brought the bareback horse, the price had gone up to 2,000.  This time I brought a man with me, and offered 1,000 pesos.  He released the saddle, which I tossed into my spare room.

               Here I was, at last realizing a dream I’ve held for almost all of my 80 years.  My very own (and Chavello’s, in absencia) beautiful beast, haunches shining copper in the sunlight, white socks on his hind ankles, a ball of white on his face, between his eyes.  Like a shooting comet,  the fiery tail trailing down his long face splattered on the end of his nose.  I sensed that he was young; eventually I learned he is two years old.  You know, that is in horse years.  Actually I feel he has already passed his third birthday.  He is more than ready to be gelded, but Chavello may want to breed him so we put that off a while.

               This all reminds me of a few years back, when Jimmy offered me his potted strawberries.  He had a lot of them, and he had decided to get rid of them.  Without prior notice, he told me to come and take them away.  There I was, on Easter weekend, frantically trying to prepare my first garden bed to accommodate about 40 strawberry plants, half of them with pot broken and roots exposed.  RIP

               My horse has no place to lie his head.

               On my three acres there is plenty of grass and green stuff for him to graze.  He has also found his way over to my next-door neighbor’s field, which is fallow this year.  At least over there he can find shade from the burning midday sun, whereas my acreage has no shade trees.

               I tried to tie him, on a 20-yard rope, to a spot in the field, wrapping the rope around the base of a sapling huizache tree, many of which were popping up again.  As he wandered in the night he would go around and around these low bushy thorny things, shortening his rope until by the time I got to him at dawn, he was immobile.  Once I drove a six-inch spike down into the ground, leaving only enough exposed for a knot.  In the morning I found him stuck to a dead cedar tree.  In his wake he had knocked down the clothesline pole which had been set in concrete, landscape rocks strewn all about, and the spike trailing in the dust.

               I know I need a corral for him, and a stable.  Finding someone who could undertake such a project proved elusive.  Then one day, my new friend and I were chatting in the car on our way to her doctor’s appointment in Durango, when I asked her what work her husband did.  He’s a construction contractor, she said. Prayers answered, I arranged for him to come out to the ranch and build me a stable out of the old wood boards and poles that were stored here.  In four days it was done.

               Before this could be completed, though, I awoke one morning to find Pata Blanca’s morning cereal untouched.  I searched the grounds and nearby copse for him, to no avail.  My heart fell.  At last I had to tell Chavello.  He had various theories, certain that someone had taken him in the night.  My dog did not rouse me, however, so I was fairly certain no one had entered the grounds. Finally, the next day, he suggested that I should check Rancho Seco.  Well, I’ve heard that name many times, as if it is a landmark or something that I should surely know.  Jose Luis was just starting to build the stable, so I asked him about it.  Turns out, it is the next dusty outcropping of buildings down the dirt road towards the north.  The end of the trail, just a little further than I had ever walked.

               I jumped into the car and rushed over there.  It couldn’t have been more than 8 miles, if that.  I wandered the dusty streets, until at last I found him!  Three men were just dispersing from proximity to a corral, which looked like a stock loading bay. Inside an inner gated enclosure I saw, to my great relief, my very agitated horse.  With their permission I went inside.  His coat was slick with sweat, his inner butt cheeks white with sweaty froth.  It took him a while to slow his frantic pacing and really look at me, and smell me.  I stayed with him a few minutes, until he was calmer.  I rushed back home where I grabbed a bucket and bottles of water, and grain.  I also grabbed the stout 20-yard rope, and a thinner training rope of 10 feet.

               Before going back to Rancho Seco I looked for a neighbor with a horse trailer.  My nearest neighbor, Oscar, who originally had cared for the horse, was not home.  Then I went to the elderly gentleman I had recently come to know.  He has two riding horses, and a trailer.  When I got to his house he and his teenage son were heading for his car, about to go somewhere.  I asked for the use of the trailer, but of course, I could not haul it behind my Toyota Rav4 SUV.  He said I didn’t need a trailer, I could tie the horse to the car and ‘tow’ him that way.  Oof.

               Pata sucked all the water down, and crunched the oats.  Slowly I became conscious of my surroundings; the mares on the other side of the stone wall from this corral.  This is what had drawn him.  When I had first arrived, the horses had been loose and grazing in the field.  By the time I got back the second time, the horses and three colts were tied up to a tree at the stone wall.

               After the horse has drunk and eaten, I put his halter on.  I tied the rope to the back of the car, attaching it to the loop where the door catches when it closes.  I tried to shorten the rope considerably, it slid easily through the metal loop.  I hooked the other end of the rope to his halter, but he was still quite agitated.  I tried to get in the car, but he followed me around the car until his rope, trailing behind him, was under the driver’s side fender.  Then he panicked, feeling stuck, and reared up.  As he rose, so did the rope and the complete front quarter panel of my car, ripping through it like paper.

               One of the workers, a mature ‘chaparro’, Shorty, came to my aid while the young men worked in the field again.  They were dressed in dark blue shirts and jeans, while he looked more like a cowboy with a checkered shirt, worn jeans and cowboy boots.  He took charge, untied the horse, and told me to drive south just a dozen yards or so, until I was well past the mares.  He walked the horse to me, discarding the large rope and attaching the shorter one.  He sat in the tail of the car, the rear door yawning above him, and held the free end of the rope, and we began the long slow journey back to my house.  I kept my eye on the rearview mirror.  We started out at a walk, about two miles an hour.  I am thinking about the hoofs of the horse; three of the four hoofs have no shoes, and we are on an unpaved road strewn with sharp pebbles and rocks.  The horse speeds up a little, trotting.  I checked my speedometer, about 10 MPH.  Is he limping?  Is that his normal gait?  He slows to a walk again.  Then the wrangler yells out “whoa” and I hit the brakes.  He jumps off, as the horse attempts to rear.  We have reached a cattle grate, and the horse will not cross it.  That is its purpose, and there is a gate alongside he has to walk through.  Back in the car, he tells me to continue.  I creep along.  The horse is trotting, and then he slows to a walk.  The man jumps off momentarily, while I tap the brakes and he catches up. This road seems to go on forever.  I am taut with tension, watching behind me, in front of me, the side mirrors, keenly attentive. 

               At last we arrive at Luz de Compasión.  The wrangler, maintaining control of the horse, stays with me a little longer, while I arrange to tie the horse down.  Then I drive him back to his ranch.  The two dogs that ran alongside us all the way to Luz now decide to hang around, and not return home. 

               I fail to get the kind man’s name, nor phone number.  He tells me he knows a farrier, for tending the horse’s hoofs, but I fail to get that number, too.  I give him pesos to thank him for his time, and he returns to the field to regale the other workers with these events.

               After a worrisome day and a half, my horse is back home.  But now he is riled up, maybe it’s the testosterone, and he no longer wants to continue our lessons in the lunge ring.  We go around a time or two, but then he bolts, pulling the rope out of my hands.  Of course, a good lunge ring will have a fixed pole at the center upon which to attach the lunge rope, but our horse ranching infrastructure is still nascent.  Day after day I take him back into the lunge ring, but now his new behavior is set.  I switch to a lightweight but sturdy chain which is long enough to hold on to, I do yank him back each time he bolts, but I can see retraining him will be a monumental task fit for a younger person.

               I’ve gotten him a good snaffle bit, appropriate to introduce to a young horse.  He is more than ready for this step, except for all the stop-and-go in his training.  A couple weeks ago I called this old gent with the two horses, and invited him to come over and give me some tips.  While he was showing me how to put on this second-hand saddle, we discovered that it was missing a couple of little straps.  We fixed that with string.  When he or I put our foot in the stirrup, not so much to mount him as to introduce him to this new weight, he cocked his rear leg ready for the kick.  I managed to quell that reaction for the moment, but training him to the saddle will be another tough adventure.  I only hope that the owner will come down from the border next month and take care of these behavioral issues.  Chavello talks about bringing a filly to live here, and starting our own little fold.  This is a pipe dream, unless he decides to stay on the ranch full time. 

               Now that Pata has his very own house, the new stable, we have some new routines.  I only feed him oats and hay in that place, and at night.  As the sun lowers behind the mountain, he knows to walk into the stable and await his meal.  I lock him in.  In the morning as the sun rises I go out to see him, and I am still swooning at the new sound of his nickering when he sees me.  He struggles against me as I put his halter on, and then I swing wide the gate for the day.  I try to leave him to roam during the day, getting his fill from the pasture.  The halter is in place in case, for some reason, I need to grab him and stake him to his 20-yard rope. 

               Panfilo says he would like to come down to help out with the horse.  I think that is a lovely idea.  Time will tell if it is in the Lord’s plan for us.

               There you have it, an update on the latest changes to my country lifestyle. 

                

              

Good health

 I have had this coat in my closet for years. Occasionally I would try it on. It takes up so much space in my closet; why bother.  It was a joke, no way could the two sides meet in the middle. 

Now, 25 pounds lighter, I have a brand new stylish down jacket going into the winter. Reward and incentive to continue eating low-carb.

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.

 

 

 

Wriggling out of the COVID squeeze

 

Italy.  I feel that I’ve been trying to fit a round peg in a square hole my entire life. 

When I see Ruth in contrast to her sisters, I see what a strong and clear influence genes can have.  Her sisters inherit the WASP traits of their father.  Ruth is 100% Italian.  So much so, that a DNA search for relatives turned up her uncle, my brother, as her half brother!  Getting to know her Italian relatives seems to have been a revelation.  She found her round hole.

 

So, what would it be like to live among my blood relatives in Italy?  Would I find a more welcoming environment in the piedmont of my father’s roots, or the hot island climate of my mother’s. Where would this round peg fit most comfortably?

 

Thanks to COVID-19, satisfying this curious itch will be delayed.  Italy has the marvelous and unique (among EU) policy of welcoming home the children of their diasporas.  My 100% Italian blood guarantees me the right to apply for (and hopefully receive) Italian citizenship.  I have downloaded the forms, and gathered the necessary information ensuring my 100% pasta-affinity, right back to great-grandpa Pietro Anziano whom I will never know, because he never emigrated.  All I need is to sit before an Embassy administrator, turn over my paperwork, sign, fork over $300, and then voila! I can apply for an Italian passport and travel to Italy.  During the pandemic, Italy is closed to bearers of American passports.

 

The only hitch is, until the pandemic is over, the Embassy isn’t taking any appointments.

 

Well hey, you say, just wait a little longer and the dam will break. 

 

As 2020 wore on, psychologist and sociologists have increasingly sounded the alarm.  Sheltering in place is detrimental to your mental health.  You could go crazy, suicidal, spending too much time alone and without the warmth of human embrace.

 

Welcome to my world.  For the past three years I have lived alone here on this plateau, surrounded by cows and apples.  For a while at least, I had the companionship over the fence of a horse and a mule.  The farmer finally sold them off in the Fall.  I miss my buddies!  Now I see that it should not be such a surprise that my internal monologue has been growing more and more bizarre.  Thanks to the virus, my eyes have been opened and I am moved to action.  I have waited too long!!  While I further await the opening of my path to Italy, I am putting my house up for sale or rent.  This is a complicated process, because I must first gain ownership of the land my house sits on.  That process should keep me busy for a while. It's complicated.

 

The only better gift the pandemic could give me is death-by-virus.  But since I have extremely limited contact with other humans, at the supermarket, that’s not going to happen.  And there is your glimpse to how bizarre is my inner world.