From weird sounds in the night, dear Lord, deliver us...

Was it 3am? I woke suddenly to what sounded to me like death screams, or at least very badly wounded screams. "Robert! What's going on out there?"

Our house is at the bottom of a wild hill, the terminus of a long ridge that leads directly into the wilderness. We are in the curve of a mountain stream. Thus, our hill is the trail down to water: deer, elk, bears, coyotes, mountain lions, raccoons, all kinds of wildlife (birds fly in of course) traipse through.

And SOMETHING was having trouble in its traipse. I was up and out of bed and at the window in a flash -- seeing nothing of course. It was nighttime, after all.

"Probably a raccoon," he said sleepily, and rolled over.

He was right, but I had to see it for myself -- visions of a grievously injured creature needing help? What did I think I would be able to do for it, anyway? (Here I insert the welded-in memory of childhood, when I arose in my nightie and raced outside to comb our neighborhood, seeking my cat whose cries had awakened me... do we ever change?)


This time, it being full-on winter, I pulled on my long undies, sweater, fleece pants, right over my silk pajamas, then tugged on my snowboots, coat, hat, mittens -- grabbed a headlamp AND a large-beam flashlight and headed out.

The cries were so distressing, so regular, so high-pitched. I slipped and fell on all fours repeatedly as I clambered up the steep hillside in deep snow. The cries were very close by.

Just there, on the other side of a patch of weed trees! A humongously huge furry thing -- and yes! the tell-tale-banded-tail of a raccoon -- was hunched over something furry. The screams continued.

A short time later, the furry thing underneath was flipped over onto its back, revealing -- yes! the tell-tale-banded-tail of a raccoon! A much smaller one. And the screams continued... despite two bright beams of light focused directly on them. Their backs were facing me, if that made any difference.

I watched in fascination -- until the screaming stopped a moment and the humongous aggressor seemed as if it just might be turning to check me out. I did NOT scream, but I was slip-sliding back down the slope as fast as I could....what HAD I been thinking to venture out so vulnerably? My mind was racing with visions of razor-sharp teeth in my calf from one humongous furry thing....

But that did not happen.

Once I was safely back inside, the screams began anew -- but from farther away, up the hill somewhere.... Robert, who grew up right here, and has been attuned to the natural world all his life, mumbled something about it being a dominance fight. The big guy, all fluffed out for winter warmth (and not ALL as big as he looked), was just letting the intruder know who owns this turf. As an afterthought, he mumbled, "That coon wouldn't chase you. He wasn't cornered." Then he was snoring again.

Robert can do that. He can respond to any interruption in his sleep in perfectly coherent, and correct comments, and be back asleep in seconds. I lay awake for some long time... taking it all in.

The next morning (THIS morning), I showed Robert the site of the fight. No blood, just ruffled snow. He marveled at how close to the fight I had been standing. "Well," he said with a laugh, "you had a front-row seat -- to something that was hair-raising." And off he went to shave and begin the morning.

Come! Celebrate Life with Light, Laughter, Song...and an Enigma

Amid winter's thrall: a fire in the hearth, lights glittering within, reflecting back, and paradoxical yellow flowers to remind us of spring!

And here -- a closeup of just one facet of this improbable radiant jewel of wintertime.... but:

The Enigma! ...for the "woo-woos" among you: Click on the first photo and look more carefully at the reflections in the windows. Yes, in the window on the right, the flight of birds can be explained: a mere reflection of a metal sculpture hanging on another wall. But who is that man with longish-hair in a light-colored gown--just THERE!--between the tree's top and the star in the other window? WE don't know.... but we like it.

Honoring Edith

It is with great sorrow in my heart, tears in my eyes, that I post this photo. Here is Edith, and her beloved son Gustavo (renamed Luis by others). I took this photo in the happy times... when she would drop by our porch every day. Together we watched Gustavo graduate to crawling and toddling -- a mischievously delightful child, dearly loved and watched over by his mommy. Edith was so proud of him, and so proud to BE a mommy, and she took a job in the village doing laundry to support him....

I do not know why she left the village. I presume she wanted to do even better by him -- to earn more money and provide him with a better home than the one she shared next-door to us, with her brother and her grandfather.

I do not know, really, what happened -- though I suspect her birth-father across the road from us knows, along with his wife. It's hard to write this. Did she fall under the spell of drugs and alcohol, the fear of poverty, the prospect of a better life, the tyranny of a lover? The lover, by whom she was pregnant again, DID say he would not raise that boy-of-another-man. Edith was pregnant by this lover, and so she gave up her beloved Gustavo, back to our village -- back to her grandfather (little Gustavo's great-grandfather). He was renamed Luis.

Luis was initially horrifically traumatized -- yet he and I resumed our daily joyfulness together -- though now, he would not speak. Nevertheless, daily he came to me, and in pantomime, asked me to play my dulcimer, and then he would roll up in a blanket and lie silently for long stretches of time. He loved my toys, especially the truck that honked....

And then he was gone. But it was GOOD! He'd been adopted in Zihuatanejo by relatives of his who longed for a son. They have two daughters. The mother runs a daycare preschool, the father apparently has a plant nursery. They love little Luis. He loves them. When he visits the village now, he is a normal, active, mischievous, talkative, creative young lad. He remembers me. Posted earlier in this blog is a drawing he gave me (as well as a photo of him drawing it) -- a smiling golden heart. I had always called him "Corazon del oro." He was listening.

One day, Luis was visiting, and so was Edith with her little toddler daughter. Luis showed no indication whatsoever that Edith had ever been his mother... but he was happy and very busy playing. Edith, on the other hand, was utterly changed. No longer the joking, happy, and loving woman -- dear friend -- that we had known. She said not a word when we sat down beside her. She seemed dull and lifeless. Her daughter played nearby, dressed prettily in red velvet. Edith sat with us a short while and then silently got up and walked out of our lives forever....

Not long afterwards, we got word that she had been brutally murdered -- by a gang of men, probably from the bar where she served drinks. It was late at night and she was walking home when they assaulted her. All we know, all I know (I have not asked for details beyond those given me), is that her body was found, naked, slashed brutally about torso and face -- floating in the river.

Her sweet daughter -- there is a happy ending for her too. The father is apparently out of the picture -- but she has been adopted by her blood-grandfather who lives across the road from us and he and his wife have two small kids close to her age. She is completely bonded to them, now -- to a loving and close family. She is happy here. She even loves ME! Walking alone (at age what, 3?) down the village street, she just might catch a glimpse of me in my ramada up the hill -- and she will sing out a happy greeting with a wave to me. I pass by her house -- again, she calls out with a big smile and a wave. She is at ease visiting my playroom... And from time to time, Luis and family drop by as well.

I would love to hug Edith, to tell her that her children are happy and well -- and that she has wonderful children, and that I loved her very much, and that I know her heart was that of a deeply loving mother, and a playful happy soul.

Photos to Augment Previous Entries

This is the most frustrating exercise in futility -- simply trying to add photos to previous blogs. Now I have opted to put them ALL on, but even now, I cannot control in what order they appear, nor have I the patience to upload them ALL at once.

So, gentle reader, enjoy the scroll through rather randomly added photos... Not all that I tagged for uploading even showed up!

To begin with -- the above photo is me, inadvertently dressed to match our house!

And above is the finished bowl -- one of a number of Robert's woodworking projects of beauty.
While here is modernity in Mexico -- listening to Hamza Al Din's "Waterwheel" in a hammock.

A glimpse of this year's (2010) Halloween crowd, in our ramada. Annual tradition, this.
...and a heart-stopping warning! My first day this visit, merely wending my way down to the river, I encountered this cheerful message
"CAUTION! CROCODILES IN THE WATER".
I proceeded watchfully down to the river-crossing only to find mothers calmly bathing their children, not a care in the world. The story is in this blog somewhere.

But here we have two of three intended photos of Robert working on a wooden bowl. The photo of the finished bowl is above this. His work is beautiful, and as you can see from even these two photos -- a great deal of work. Not pictured: seeking out and transporting the logs from which these bowls are revealed within.... no mean feat, believe me.

For instance, one afternoon Robert disappeared with the car to get a log he'd been eyeing along the highway and came home in the deep dark of night. Guille and Sara shared my concern (accident? arrest? ambush?) as the hours ticked by. He arrived grinning, with his prize tree trunk practically tipping the car's nose in the air!


No photo album is complete without at least one beautiful sunset over the sea. Here's one now!

Meanwhile....

The above photo depicts Sunday Tiritas! Every Sunday, Guillermo and Sara, and their three at-home kids (Memo, Sandra, Ariana) come over bringing the feast with them. Guille catches the fish and prepares them with lime juice, and they arrive with fruit drinks and utensils. A great tradition.


Below, you see one of the many beautiful flowers that delight us daily. This one grows IN the stream itself. I have no name for it, but beautiful:

And in keeping of "every man 'neath his vine and fig tree" -- here is Robert holding just-plucked figs from our fig tree, and crouched beside our blossoming jamaica bushes (hibiscus, to you).
And here, another taste of how sweet it is. Village kids love to drop by, even that young some of them are brave enough to come alone: and pick out their favorite toys and play with them in our ramada. Here they play with Noah's Ark.

TORTILLA WESTERN

Okay. Here's a challenge for you. I'll give a rough outline of what is rather a typical script for a western-genre movie/tv show. See if you can translate all that action onto a beach along the great western coast of Mexico--a kind of Tortilla Western. See if you can combine both the world of surfers and of local Mexicans, and the flavor of the wild wild west. Email me your script and we can go from there!

So! Along the lines of, say, both Bonanza and Gunsmoke -- borrowing aspects from both, here goes:

A stranger blows into town. Hangs back to get a sense of the power structure, the social structure, the weak spots. He aims to make the place his. Ah! the most popular bar in town is run by the most popular/well-known Miss Kitty, a single woman. Great start.

He makes his moves on her, successfully, and thus he moves into the scene at that bar, and sets himself up as the Little Emperor. He picks out the locals among the clientele and systematically alienates them. He figures that they take up room, they are in his way. Get rid of them! Meanwhile he works on courting the passing-through travelers from the stagecoach run. They are the ones with money, of course. And he can charm them out of it! and then they're gone.

On the side, he starts -- oh I don't know -- continuing the alienation of the locals, maybe with the aim of controlling them or getting them to move on... Say, he does this by making a horse lame here and there, rustling a few cattle -- while doing his best not to be seen doing it!

His fatal flaw is his rage. Flies off the handle and seeks violent revenge if and when one of the locals challenges him. Beats up a few in surprise attacks when they are alone (but not always successfully...). He even threatens other business people -- especially other bar-owners -- claiming they are stealing his business.

A feud springs up between this loner and one of the longtime locals --some kind of power struggle-- and the Loner goes after him one night, but his would-be victim hears of it and is thus prepared. There is a stand-off. It seems to blow over, but of course it's just brewing....

This could go on ad nauseum, of course, but in the end --it just HAS to end in the classic western visual... You see, make that longtime local mentioned above to be one of a set of brothers, in a really tight family (Cartwright/Bonanza style). Threaten one, you've threatened them all. Hell, you could even throw in a little twist of lime and say that Miss Kitty is their sister. You could add that it was out of deference to her that they allowed this to go on so long.

One night, after this most recent and potentially violent confrontation, the brothers ALL come over to pay the Loner a little visit, together. Usually they do not brandish arms, but maybe there is one pistol showing. Use your imagination here -- the setting sun behind them as they walk up to the Loner's digs --big silhouettes, individually distinct. What would be the dialogue?

Whatever was said, these brothers oversee the Loner as he packs a suitcase, and they escort him to the edge of town with a clear understanding that he will NEVER return.

I guess you could tie it up with a scene of people happy and at ease once again, going about their errands and play...

End of story, yeah?

So! To switch it to the surfer/Mexico flavor /Tortilla Western -- this loner could blow onto a surf-beach scene, make the same assessments of where the power lies, and take the same actions including making the moves on a beach restaurant woman; maybe he could damage surfboards instead of horses of people who piss him off (specifically the gringo surfers who have made this beach their special regular beach). Maybe he could engage in a concerted and blatant act of stealing every wave in a set: get ahead of the first guy in line, take the wave and then abandon it just a short bit later, too late for anyone else to catch it -- and swing back to the NEXT wave and get ahead of THAT guy and steal/abandon it...onandon.

I could suggest a few other ideas, too, if you'd like... Court cases, testimonies, just more Interest.

Oh! Make the Cartwright-style brothers all local fishermen! In Mexico, ocean fishermen are strong, brawny, no-nonsense, direct men. Keep them as truly blood brothers -- family! That's a Big Deal here. You could have that setting sun scene be over the ocean when they walk up from their boats to finally END the Rule of the Would-be Emperor. I know the visual well, as I am often at the beach at sunset when these boats come in. It is truly a beautiful sight of strength and energy and beauty... A number of the fishermen are friends from our village, as well as..... well, it just so happens that there IS a set of brothers on this beach, and it just so happens that their sister DOES run a cantina on the beach, and... and...

PRECAUCION!! COCODRILOS EN EL AGUA!!

Yeah! That sign greeted us the first day we walked "the back way" wading through the river and wending through the jungly fields to reach the ocean. Daunting thought that: "Be careful! Crocodiles in the water!" (I'll post pix when I'm back Stateside.)

But people were still bathing in the river, washing clothes while their little kids ran all around, so... ´what gives? We learned that there was a big mama croc and her 7, or 8, maybe 10 (depending on who is telling you) little ones. She was holed up in the freshwater pond alongside the river, not IN the river.

"Don't worry," folks said. "She'll stay in the pond." They are actually feeding her, to keep her there -- fattening her for a future pueblo-wide barbecue! We've heard of these barbecues... Guille himself told us how he waded into the water to wage a death-battle with a (purposely) fishing-net-ensnarled crocodile. The croc was rolling and rolling and enraged as he approached and encircled it by the neck -- and with an expertly placed hack of his machete, he dispensed with it.

Still, when returning from a great ocean day and tranquilly spectacular sunset -- as we did almost every evening -- yeah, still we would shine our little headlamp all over the river and along the banks, and the little trail beside the holding pond. We were looking and hoping NOT to see any glittering yellow eyes reflecting back at us. Never have yet.

But we've seen HER now. She is big. Looking like a dark log some distance below the murky water.... that is, until her nose slowly emerges for an exchange of air and then quietly slips back into the water without a ripple.

As for her kids... well, that is why we were walking around the pond that day. We heard that one of her kids was dead and Robert grabbed his machete. We found it -- by the smell of course. And Robert hacked off it's toothy head with a mighty machete stroke. In time, the skin will fall away and the skull will join the various others in our collection.

Clearly, we have lost our fear of the croc... not our caution, but we're not really daunted by them.

Speaking of mighty machete strokes... and of Guille. I wish I had a video of Guille's mighty slash and catch from this very morning! Upon his advice, we agreed to let him take down the 16-foot tall male papaya tree in front of our porch -- the one mentioned in previous blogs as being our "television." Male papayas put out endless quantities of flowers -- which attract a circus of flying creatures most notably hummingbirds. We would sip our coffee and enjoy the show. But after awhile, they grow too tall and that is all they do -- grow taller.

SO! This morning, Guille stopped by, stood next to the towering papaya tree -- drew his arm back and then in one mighty stroke with his machete, completely severed the trunk. THEN! with his left hand, he deftly caught the upper 12-foot trunk before it ever hit the ground -- and carried it out to our compost pile. So smooth.....

Dia de Los Muertos

In Oaxaca, when I visited there, the five days at the end of October/early November were deeply moving, personal connections with those who have died... Day(s) of the Dead. One day for children, one day for old people, one day for those murdered, and the like. On this, their special day, the spirits can return to visit the living.

Homes each had a specially prepared altar with memorabilia of the departed (their actual skulls, back when the Spanish first arrived--but the Conquistadores put a stop to that, so now you see small sugar-skulls with a nametag pasted on, instead). Offerings of the departed's favorite foods are placed there, as well.

It is a happy time. And marigold petals are scattered from the "offrenda" in the house, out the door and all the way to the gravesite when feasible. The spirits can smell the fragrance of marigold and thus find their way back home...

And their graves? They were the scene of celebration! Music, feasting, and celebrating on this one time in the year when all are reunited. All night long, the cemeteries are scenes of laughter, and happiness.

The most touching memory I have -- was when one of the Durango high school students I was shepherding around noticed a lone woman, perhaps in her 60s or more, sitting quietly on the cement grave covering of her departed husband. The young girl approached the woman, and as she did so, the woman's face lit up with joy and she held out her arms to welcome her. "Sit, sit..." she said in Spanish. As the young girl sat beside her, the woman gently reached out to hold her hand in a gentle but firm embrace... The young girl reported feeling such love pouring from the woman's heart. They sat like that, holding hands together, for quite some time.... til the woman felt fulfilled, I guess. In her heart... in that woman's heart... her lost beloved husband had come to her, through the guise of the young woman.

It is an ancient custom and it is primarily Oaxacan. Our villagers, here in the state of Guerrero, only passingly acknowledge the Day of the Dead (mostly simply putting flowers on graves -- I have not noticed an offrenda in any home, nor do they stage parties at the gravesites) And the days that fall on weekdays are holidays in town, such as today.

But they cannot escape the commercialism of America's bedraggled Halloween. The trappings of our Halloween are everywhere, and "Trick or Treat" is the theme of the day. They know nothing (nor do most Americans) of the Celtic origins of the tradition -- a tradition not that different from Day of the Dead. For the Celts there is that one day when the veil is thin and spirits can pass through. Ah, the tales I tell and most favorite is from the epic of Finn McCool. But I digress.

SO! Once again, knowing kids would be coming for sweets, we decorated our ramada with black and orange crepe, put on some sort of frightening attire that scares small children -- and sat beside a big bowl filled with American candies. It is always a delightful time of play with costumed kids and costumed gringos! (pictures posted when I return.. probably inserted here) Our house was always the most active, and favorite destination.

BUT!!! This year, we were trumped, and happy to know of it. Across our road, and down a short way, is a huge two-story cement house (built to house multiple families of the same lineage... that is to say, married brothers and married sisters each with their own families). Only one such family has moved in to a section of the ground floor so far...

....which leaves the entire upstairs available for a Ghost-House of Horrors!! We didn't get to visit it, being busy at our own place, but I was delighted to hear the screams and screeches as the kids explored room to room and got scared by ghosts and goblins. At least that is what we think was happening.

And all is well, and all manner of thing is well, and the waves delight, and the fruit trees abound, and friendships warm the heart.