1st Mate

Foster love

2012-02-05T09:37:00.000-08:00

Finding a home for Chiquito, the Dachsund mix I took in last summer when he had Valley Fever, looked pretty hopeless. He had oozing sores on his body, he couldn't use his left front leg because the shoulder bone had deteriorated from the disease, and he needed daily medication and baths every three days. I doubted anyone else would want to take a three-year-old dog with health problems.

On the other hand, getting someone to adopt Choco, the miniature Dachsund the Capt rescued in early January, looked to be a piece of cake. He's only a year old, and so cute it's hard to imagine anyone turning him down. And yet three different people who indicated an interest in taking Choco changed their minds before ever meeting him.

By the time Choco arrived, Chiquito's wounds had healed, he was using his front leg normally, and he was a happy, healthy little dog no longer on medication. They quickly became best amigos. But I was feeling some pressure from my neighbors and the Capt to make a decisive effort to find them new homes.

I finally called Alexandra, friend of mine who's involved in a Mexican organization, COAT, that helps find homes in the Hermosillo area for pets through their Facebook page. The results were beyond my expectations: within 24 hours four families were vying to adopt Choco, and a day later a good home turned up for Chiquito. These families live in Hermosillo, about an hour from here. Ale, who was going to visit her Hermosillo family for the weekend, volunteered to deliver them. She met me last Thursday, we quickly rounded up a second crate for Choco so both dogs could ride in comfort and security, and I bid goodbye to my little Doxie friends.

My next-door-neighbor, when told the boys were gone, said, "Well, I won't miss the barking." (Frankly, I won't either. My own Maltese, Chica, barks very seldom.) But the house is awfully quiet without them.

Will I foster again, knowing how easily a foster situation can become permanent? A friend of mine is now up to seven dogs (six of them large adults) and only a couple of them were intentional adoptions. Recently she took in a four-week-old puppy, even though her house and patio aren't much larger than mine. It's so easy to make room for just one more, and so hard to let them go when they have been with the family for a while. You start thinking nobody will love them as you do.

How can we be sure a foster dog is going to get acceptable care? We want to know he'll have a yard to play freely in (as opposed to being tied up for the rest of his life). We want a guarantee he'll get his shots, will get adequate exercise. Some agencies in the US have become so stringent in their requirements they are discouraging people from adopting rescue dogs. Emily Yoffe of Slate Magazine recently published an article, "No Pet for You" on the subject.

I have to draw the line at taking big dogs since my place is so small. But if another little one comes along that needs a place to stay, I know I won't refuse.

Chocolate and The Moze

2012-01-27T16:57:00.000-08:00

I can't let this day get away from me without sharing the news. Today is not only National Chocolate Cake Day, but also Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's birthday. This means, of course, that you might want to celebrate Wolfie's birthday with a nice big chocolate cake. Mmmmmm. I'm sure our boy would approve.

We chocoholics owe our gratitude to Dr. James Baker, for making it all possible. In 1764, he figured out how to make cocoa powder from cocoa beans using two millstones.

Mozart was born Jan. 27, 1756, so he may have been around when the first chocolate cake was served to the Emperor's court. Hope so!

Lacking a whole cake, I'm going to have a cup of tea and munch a little Trader Joe's Pound Plus bittersweet dark chocolate. My absolute favorite. You can have the Godiva, Ghiarardelli and those other pricey ones. We have to drive eight hours to lay our hands on this stuff, so we make it last.

Now if I can just find a copy of my all-time favorite movie, "Amadeus."

Photo: Tom Hulse as Mozart in a still from the 1984 film "Amadeus," from a play written by Peter Shaffer which was based on an 1897 one-act opera by Nikolai Rimsky-Korshakov, Mozart and Salieri, which is in turn based on an 1830 drama of the same name by Alexander Pushkin.

Blog List, lost and found

2012-01-23T09:25:00.000-08:00

Somehow last week I obliterated my entire blog list. I mean, EVERYBODY whose blogs I have added over the past six years. I felt awful, but haven't had time to reconstruct the list. Then I discovered just now that Blogger keeps the info even if I clumsily delete it, and when I go to my Layout it's possible to reconstruct it all without struggling all morning to remember who they were.

Some will be missing from the new list. It's not like I have "un-friended" them, it's just that if they haven't posted in over a year I suppose they have moved on and given up blogging, or they have new blogs that I'll stumble across someday.

Anyway, thanks, Blogger, for making it so easy to retrieve my blogging buddies. I was missing them, so glad to have them back.

We be stylin'

2012-01-22T09:25:00.000-08:00

Once in a while, there's some good news online. So it was that yesterday, the New York Times offered an article about this year's minimizing of makeup: You Can Fall Out of Bed and Look Good.

At last the world has caught up with my non-style. What took them so long?

Stiff coiffures are out, bed-hair is in. You might not be as avant-garde as the model shown here, from a British hairdressers' website. But you get the idea. Sleek is so passé, dahlings.

I tie up my long hair (too cheap to get it cut every six weeks) in an untidy knot on top of my head when I step into the shower. Suddenly that's the new look! I can just leave it that way. I hate hairspray anyway.

Precisely-applied makeup is out. Put away all those applicators, wands, liners and brushes, and use fingertips for a smudged look. Hey, smudged is me all over!

Lipstick should look like you've been sucking on a strawberry popsicle. Maybe next we'll go for bright red tongues, too, like the Rolling Stone logo. Fashion should be fun, after all!

Foundation should only be used on those under-eye circles and other imperfections; the rest of the face should be naked. Wonderful! The bottle should last a lot longer that way.

"Eyebrows should not be trendy," the stylists announce. I feel for all the ladies who have been going to beauty shops to have their brows tweaked. My neglected ones are now the "in thing."

They may have to pass on that eyebrow trend here in Mexico; too many ladies have tweezed their natural brows away and gone with the penciled look. The style has been referred to as "Eyebrows by Sharpie." Some of them look downright scary, which may be intentional: it's meant to get across the idea the wearer is a force to be reckoned with. Don't mess with this mujer.

I'm going to bask in this trend toward imperfection while I can. For sure the pendulum will swing the other way in a few months and everyone will be back to striving for perfection, every hair in place. Then we'll get sick of that and go natural again.

But I'll just be the same me through it all. I'm no slave to fashion. I only ride that carousel horse when it comes my way.

No such thing as a self-made man

2012-01-14T19:28:00.000-08:00

As I've mentioned before in these posts, I've been a dedicated Mac user since 1986. I have a Mac Mini, an old Mac laptop, an iPhone and an iPad on my desk at the moment. But recently I've had reason to feel less thrilled with my Mac products and not because they're failing me. I've learned about where Macs come from, and I'm reminded of the old adage about sausages and laws... that you may not want to know firsthand how they're made.

To understand what I mean, you should look up and listen to a podcast, "Mr. Daisey and the Apple Factory," on This American Life. Mike Daisey is even more enamored of Apple than I, but recently learned more than he ever wanted to know about the factories that make them and just about all the digital electronic gadgets we use. He traveled to Shenzhen, China, where Apple supplier Foxconn has its largest campus, to interview workers with the help of a translator, and to tour some of the factories where related parts are made.

He talked to workers as young as 13, workers whose normal workday is 12 to 16 hours, workers who live in dormitories where occupants sleep in narrow bunks stacked on top of one another, much smaller than any Caucasian could fit into. Instances of worker suicide have become so common that nets have been suspended on the sides of factory buildings to prevent jumpers from killing themselves.

A chemical called n-hexane is used in the factories to polish screens because it evaporates more quickly than other substances, but it also causes nerve damage and muscular atrophy in workers, many of whom are not adequately compensated when they permanently lose their motor skills and can no longer work. These issues that affect the working community could be alleviated, if the profit motive was kept in perspective rather than being the only factor that matters.

Photo: Getty image in today's The Telegraph

You might say these conditions exist in China, we have no influence there. But our companies already have in place auditing systems that investigate working conditions, and can make improving those conditions part of the requirements for qualifying as suppliers. Such audits are made regularly already, but it appears that for the sake of profits, many trespasses are overlooked.

Strikes in southern China have begun to bring about some improvements for workers, particularly wage increases, as much as 30-40%. But Apple supplier Foxconn has proposed a solution that we all knew was coming: use robots for many of the repetitive tasks now being performed by human workers. No salary increases, no work environment improvements, no suicides or chemical injuries. Just pure profit.

Apple and other corporations that sell enormously popular computers and electronic gadgets have made their stockholders and executives fabulously wealthy. But they didn't create this wealth by themselves. They may be smart, well-educated, innovative and energetic, but they are not "self-made men."

Elizabeth Warren, a candidate for Senate, had this message for our corporate leaders:

“There is nobody in this country who got rich on his own. Nobody. You built a factory out there, good for you. But... you moved your goods to market on the roads the rest of us paid for. You hired workers the rest of us paid to educate. You were safe in your factory because of police forces and fire forces that the rest of us paid for. You didn’t have to worry that marauding bands would come and seize everything at your factory and hire someone to protect against this because of the work the rest of us did. Now look, you built a factory and it turned into something terrific or a great idea. God bless. Keep a big hunk of it. But part of the underlying social contract is you take a hunk of that and pay forward for the next kid who comes along.”

Makes sense to me.

The perpetual perro* parade

2012-01-05T18:43:00.000-08:00

Our four-legged family was back to two dogs and the new cat, for a whole week, and things were almost feeling normal again. The cat is still here. Goes outside and always comes back, so we must be doing something right.

But of course normal is not normal in this house. So it didn't last long. This morning the Capt came back from the drydock with a sheepish look on his face and announced he'd brought home "a rescue." I went out to look in his van and there was a miniature version of Chiquito: a miniature Dachsund (appears to be purebred), also male (what are the chances of THAT coincidence?), about a year old. A worker gave him to the Capt, said he couldn't keep him anymore. He's only 19" long (plus the tail) and about 10 lbs. His name is Chaco and he likes laps.

*Perro is Spanish for dog

New Year, New Blog

2012-01-02T08:06:00.000-08:00

On New Year's Eve I started a new blog, with a single theme—music, on WordPress. After a couple of days of tweaking, editing, getting lost and frustrated and learning a lot, it's still a little rough but ready for viewing.

Not that this blog, now seven years old, is going to be abandoned. After all, there are other things in life besides music. Mexico, dogs, cooking, cats, sailing...

I chose WordPress this time because I previously tried to add a second blog here on Blogspot and it was a mess! Posts and comments got all mixed up and I never figured out how to separate them. When my son the Webmaster urged me to try WordPress I did some experimenting and found that while it's not quite as easy to use as Blogspot, there are features I like. Besides, I'm developing a new habit of making myself learn things that look difficult.

So you're invited to mosey on over and take a look, at:
http://www.worldslatestbloomer.wordpress.com

The allure of cats

2011-12-22T08:34:00.000-08:00

Some of us are dog people, and others are cat people. Then there are those like me, who adore dogs and yet we find cats irresistible too. The only solution for us is to have (at least) one of each.

Fostering dogs has become a way of life for me over the past year, and my long-time canine companion Chica seems to have come to terms with the endless parade of strange dogs, from tiny bottle-feeders to a young puppy with a broken leg, a poodle with no social skills and a dachsund with Valley Fever who appears to be a fixture here, since it's hard to adopt out a sick dog, no matter how normal he may appear.

But the Capt and I both still have a yen for the unique company of a cat. We had a male named Pooz when we lived in California, as well as a little Maltese named Sofia, and they coexisted as though they'd never heard they were supposed to be natural enemies. Their interspecies wrestling matches on the living room rug were far more entertaining than TV. When we went sailing, we gave Pooz to a friend who lives on 64 acres, which we always thought would be a great life for him since he so enjoyed ranging far and wide. And Sofia died last year at 13. But now we have another Maltese named Chica, Chiquito the dachsund, the neighbors' Yorkie we babysit, and as of last week, another cat. Female, this time.

I've never had a female cat before and I'm impressed by the difference in her manner. Fé (Spanish for Faith) is the mellowest and most amiable creature I've ever had in my home. She was abandoned when her owner, a neighbor, had to leave in a hurry to help with a family emergency. For a few days I just went to the empty condo to feed her and let her sit in my lap for a while. There were four dogs in my house at the time and I didn't think she'd be happy being so outnumbered.

Finally, one day I took Lucy the poodle to her new home with a retired German lady who's smitten with her, and I brought Fé home. I put her in a crate, took her to the vet for worming and shots, and brought her to my house, crossing my fingers that Chica, Chiquito and Akira would keep the peace. For a couple of days I set up a baby gate in the living room doorway to mark off Fé's territory, and then gradually allowed the dogs into the room. There have been some tense moments, and some jealousy, but for the most part Fé has kept such a low profile they forget she's around until she speaks up. We've even had Chica and Fé in bed with us while we watched a movie.

So the question comes up, are we fostering this cat or are we adopting her? We might be able to find a home for her, though it's a lot easier to adopt out kittens. At some point soon we'll have to decide, but for now we'll just enjoy her company and see how it goes...

Taking my kitchen into the 21st Century

2011-12-15T17:26:00.000-08:00

At a recent get-together of our local cooking club, my friend Linda described her new induction cooktop. It's small and flat, like a tray, can be used anywhere there's a wall outlet (and put away when I need the space), and cooks considerably faster and more efficiently than a conventional stove. Rather than try to explain how it works (with magnets, yet!) I'll refer you to Wikipedia. So I ordered one and brought it home Tuesday night. It's a True-Induction two-burner model. The manual was written by someone for whom English is a second language, but luckily it's a very easy unit to use. They also come in four-burner models, and can be installed in a countertop, but I like being able to move it around.

It requires 110V and needs to be plugged directly into the outlet, not into a power strip. But at least the cord is reasonably long.

Since it works with magnets, my cookware must be stainless steel, enamel or cast iron, and should be flat-bottomed. This leaves out round-bottomed woks, as well as anything made of aluminum, copper or glass. But I was relieved to find that the two pots my mom left me, which date back to when I was a teenager, are both ferrous. And the two cast iron skillets that came all the way from my friend Sue's antique shop in Oregon. Plus, there are round steel plates available that can be placed on top of the burner which will conduct the heat into any kind of pot.

My old stove is apartment-size, hard to clean, with one of those ovens you hate to light because you can't see what you're doing, and only two burners worked on the four-burner stovetop. I had already given up on the oven, in favor of a portable convection oven, so the stove was taking up a lot of wasted space in my little kitchen. Why not do away with it, replace it with something useful, like a dishwasher? The Capt had a hand in that decision, bringing home a used but still functional (I hope!) dishwasher a couple of weeks ago. He does the dishes most of the time these days and so who was I to begrudge him a little help? And now we'll only need propane to heat water, so a tankful should last us a while longer.

So far I've used the new induction cooktop twice, and it is faster than cooking on gas. Linda warned me until I get used to it I'd better keep an eye on what I'm cooking. For instance, water boils in as little as 90 seconds. And so, perhaps it's true that a watched pot boils after all...

Pretty Pelusa needs pampering

2011-11-30T07:38:00.000-08:00

Pelusa means "hairy" or "furry" and it's an apt name for the little rescue poodle I took in to foster last Friday. Unfortunately, her abundant fur was matted, so when I took her to the vet for grooming, health evaluation and shots I asked for a "puppy cut," an all-around short cut.

From early on in life, Pelusa's furry coat got her in trouble. She was owned by a Mexican family who said their children were allergic to her, so they tied her out in their yard for six years and pretty much forgot about her except for feeding her and getting her shots. She behaves as though she has never been petted, never been offered a treat, never been exposed to other dogs, never cuddled in a lap. If you throw a ball for her, she flinches as though she's accustomed to people throwing rocks at her. Her perpetually worried expression makes me want to hold her and reassure her, make her feel safe. She's frightened of my other three dogs and carefully avoids them, especially the Yorkie and the Dachsund, who chased and barked at her at first.

Sometimes having four dogs in the house reminds me of Middle School.

But day by day she is getting braver. Yesterday she barked once at the Yorkie, as though to say "Back away, b**ch!" That was the first and only time I heard her bark. This is not a yappy little dog.

She sleeps on the floor next to my side of the bed at night and during the day on a cushion under my desk, and follows me everywhere I go. Walking her is a bit of a challenge. Because she was tied to a tree all her life, she runs in circles. But she loves to be walked, and I'm convinced she'll "straighten out" (pun intended) eventually. Whoever adopts her is going to have to watch where they walk so they don't stumble over her.

If I had my druthers, I'd place her in a home with only a couple of humans and no dogs. Let her be the adored one after all those years of neglect, with someone who'd never think of tying her to a tree in the yard and forgetting about her.

Today I'm thankful for...

2011-11-24T06:54:00.000-08:00

• This morning's spectacular sunrise.
• God's grace and generous blessings, beyond anything I could have wished for.
• Fall weather, my favorite of the whole year.
• My Captain, still at the helm after 23 years.
• My son's upcoming wedding and the beautiful young woman who will soon be my daughter-in-law. I even get a step-grandson out of the deal!
• Music in my life. Friends to play and sing with, the best guitar teacher in Guaymas, all the opportunities flowing my way.
• Good health. It could change tomorrow but for just for today, I feel great!
• My little dogs, who always lighten my mood and brighten my day.
• Mexico, where I'm happier than I've ever been before.
• Another successful year publishing our antique guide, and remaining contentedly self-employed.
• The return of the Snowbirds. Every day another newly-arrived friend arrives, so happy to be warm.
• My gradual growth in learning Spanish. I'm still far from being fluently bilingual, but progress is what I'm after, not perfection.
• My own home, after a lifetime of renting and dreaming.
• Blogging. I may have neglected this space lately, but I'm back.

~ Happy Thanksgiving ~

Have a party, invite the world

2011-11-23T05:55:00.000-08:00

A few months ago our music group discovered a new way to present a show—online! StageIt.Com offers bands and soloists a unique opportunity to perform live for an unlimited audience. Fans buy tickets for the show (which is NOT recorded, a one-time-only event) and can also tip the artists, make requests and chat.

"It's a way to tour the world without leaving home," says Evan Lowenstein, who founded StageIt. Here's an explanation of how StageIt works, if you're curious.

Peter, Leslie and Bob, doing Leslie's song about Long John the Dentist

We have a sort of "extended family" of musicians here, with Bob and Leslie at the core; they're long-time professionals who've performed and toured with innumerable stars, including the Mamas & Papas. This year they added Peter Pope Jones, a British solo guitarist known for his infectious humor and boisterous voice. Peter's also a luthier, building his own fabulous guitars, and the go-to man for all of us who want to maximize our axes.

Peter Pope Jones kicks off our StageIt extravaganza

And then, this summer on my birthday, they invited me into the fold as well. They produce local shows, do recording in their home studio (recently worked on a CD for Peter, and I got to sing back-up), and perform biweekly at the Fiesta Hotel and every Saturday night at Evie's Restaurant. At both venues, a tip jar is their only source of remuneration. Leslie has been heard to say that she only wishes they'd come to Mexico ten years earlier. But they're not getting rich performing here.

Trailer Trash Royalty singing country songs

The jury's out on whether something like StageIt would make any difference economically, but that was hardly the point. Here was a chance to try something new, work through the learning curve and possibly find a wider audience. And it looked like fun. So B&L set up a webcam at Tilley's Bar, which is actually the front patio of a local couple's home, not an actual bar. Bruce, our host, was celebrating his 77th birthday, so they organized an all-out blast of a potluck party, with four different bands and five soloists (including me) performing and todo el mundo invited.

Bruce (in the red Hawaiian shirt) dances with friends

A couple of popular Mexican groups were included: The Twins, comprised of a large family of musicians with two generations of twin brothers, and Manuelito, one of the cutest and most talented Mexican singers I've heard. Sam Rainwater sang several of his original songs recently recorded on his latest CD, "Dressing for Life," which he'll introduce next Saturday at a party at the Fiesta Hotel.

The Twins

Manuelito

Sam Rainwater

I was taking pictures with my iPhone and they're pretty fuzzy, but next time I'll shoot with a real camera. We definitely plan to do it again, maybe with a more manageable slate of artists, probably back at Tilley's. And since it's a live show (watch it as it happens or you can't see it at all), I'll announce it ahead of time here and explain how to get tickets. And I've learned there's an app that will enable me to embed a show on Facebook so there's a way to keep it after all (once I figure out how)!

Big Frank gets soulful

Wretched excess

2011-10-31T17:14:00.000-07:00

The nightmare of Jova

2011-10-15T10:18:00.000-07:00

It took a while, but today we heard from a friend living in Barra de Navidad in the State of Jalisco, about the impact of Hurricane Jova this week. We're especially fond of Barra and have sailed there many times over the past ten years, dropping the hook in the popular anchorage. Just before Jova made landfall, I saw a hurricane map that showed Barra squarely in the storm's path and I had wondered all week about my friends there, and my favorite hangouts, like the Sands Hotel where I swam for free in the pool on hot afternoons. Fred sent links to photos and a couple of videos taken by Salvador Cobian during the height of the storm.

Also heavily damaged was Cihuatlan, a small city inland from Barra, on the road to Manzanillo.

My friend Steve posted first-hand reports from Melaque, across the Bahia de Navidad from Barra. His neighbors suffered severe flooding, but even though he lives very close to the beach, Steve stayed more or less dry.

From what I can see, the damage to Barra was at least as bad as what we experienced here in San Carlos when Jimena roared through two years ago. Fred, a British fellow sailor we've known more than a dozen years, tends toward hyperbole, but in this case when he described Jova as "a nightmare," we had no trouble believing him.

1946 travel advisory

2011-10-09T10:29:00.000-07:00

We finally started doing some recording tonight, and here's the tune we've been using to start off our shows at the Fiesta Hotel palapa bar—Bobby Troup's "Route 66." It's unclear why the photo is so fuzzy (pun intended).

More to follow...

Flying by the seat of our pants

2011-10-06T12:27:00.000-07:00

"[Y]ou can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something -- your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life."
-- Steve Jobs (1955-2011) from his Stanford University commencement address, June 2005.

Last night we did a very scary thing, and it went off without a hitch. The Capt and I performed a song we learned only yesterday, even though neither of us had ever heard it before, and certainly hadn't had time to memorize it. It was Michael Frank's song for Antonio Carlos Jobim, "Antonio's Song." One of the coolest things about this song is that the Capt and I sing together on the chorus, a first! We felt we were...um...given permission to have our sheet music onstage when my mentor Leslie announced that she was relenting on the issue. "After all," she said, "if Barbra Streisand uses a Teleprompter now, who are we to have a problem with it?"

I was seriously stressed before we did the song, and afterward I was asking myself why I made such a big deal of it. We will have a regular gig every Wednesday at the Fiesta Hotel (last night we had a full house!) and plan to do some recording too, so I need to lighten up and get some perspective. I am, after all, one of the world's latest bloomers and it's almost ludicrous that I'd even attempt to begin performing at my age (a number which I'll keep to myself, thank you).

And the icing on the cake: our photographer friend emailed the band photos he had taken of us recently, and though I'm sure they were liberally PhotoShopped, I'm very pleased with the results. He posed each of us with our instruments, and I had my acoustic guitar which I had named Kathleen after my mom. It's a definite keeper. They can use it when they publish my obit.

Hmmm, where did that obit remark come from? Well, the Capt's favorite uncle, who introduced us to sailing when he took us out in his boat in Santa Barbara, and probably was a major influence in our moving to Mexico (a good place for boat people), died a couple of days ago of a brain tumor at 87. His obit arrived today (thanks, Jane). The last time we saw Uncle Dave, he and his wife Annie visited us for a day while they were on a Mexican coastal cruise and since we were docked in Mazatlan we met their ship and took them to the beach. Dave was like a little boy playing in the sand. A wonderful way to remember him. Adios y vaya con Díos, Tio David.

The heart bleeds again

2011-10-02T11:45:00.000-07:00

The sensible part of my brain is telling me, "This has to stop." But the compassionate part, what some would call the Bleeding Heart, insists I'm doing the right thing. The Capt concurs. And so I have taken on another dog.

Friday at the library one of my co-volunteers told me about a Cocker puppy with an injured leg that a Mexican had been selling for a hundred pesos (around $8) in Guaymas Norte. Not really wanting a dog (he says there's no room in his life for one), Bruce paid the hundred and stashed the pup at a friend's house temporarily. I told him I'd take it off his hands if he'd first get it to the vet to find out about the injury, get him bathed and de-bugged inside and out, and generally checked to make sure he had nothing contagious that could hurt my dogs. That night, he brought over this little fellow.

The vet, Dr. Martinez, says his leg should be healed in four weeks. An x-ray came along with the dog, and it shows a fractured femur, just a crack that should heal cleanly. He moves around amazingly well considering he's dragging the cast around; I'm not sure I can keep up with him, when it's off.

This is a most anxious-to-please, congenial little guy. Within minutes he had figured out that I was the mommy and began following me everywhere. He does whimper, but doesn't go on and on about it, just enough to register disappointment. Chiquito, the rescue Dachsund with Valley Fever and my own Chica established their seniority within minutes of his arrival, and the pup has accepted his role as bottom dog in the pack. It'll be interesting to see what happens when the feisty Yorkie I dogsit weekdays arrives Monday morning.

My friends in the dog-fostering community assure me it'll be easy to find a good home for him, once the leg has healed, which will occur about the same time that the snowbirds come back to roost. Meanwhile I'll get him house-trained and leash-trained and try not to get too attached to him. With that in mind, I've put off naming him, but I'm getting tired of referring to him as "the pup." He deserves better than that.

A Dear John letter

2011-10-01T11:28:00.000-07:00

We just don't get along. I feel my needs are being ignored and when I need you most, you're consistently not there for me. When you first came into my life, I had such high hopes, such euphoria, but you have been nothing but a profound disappointment.

I'm ready to give up on iPhones, and look for something more reliable.

A New York Times article today ("You Love Your iPhone...Literally") says people are so enamored of their iPhones that "Friends who have accidentally left home without (them) tell me they feel stressed-out, cut off and somehow un-whole. That sounds a lot like separation anxiety..." Or addiction.

Apparently, test subjects (ages 18-25) responded to the ringing of their iPhones with a "flurry of activation in the insular cortex of the brain, which is associated with feelings of love and compassion."
Hah! Fat chance of my developing that kind of attachment to you. When you ring, I can't get any more than four jingles out of you, which means I have to scramble to answer, or call back, and that gets expensive and stressful.

And your ringer button is set right where my thumb touches when I hold you (see photo), so I often accidentally mute your ring. Friends call, and I never know about it until I look at my Recents. After a while, they give up on trying to reach me.
Far too often, when I push the ON button to make a call, your screen stays black. The other day, it turned WHITE. This is after I treated you to a new battery, too.

Then yesterday the voice transmission stopped working when I was making a crucial call, and now I have to turn on the Speaker to hear the person I'm talking to. This means everyone in the room can hear both sides of our conversation.

Granted, you weren't brand new when you came to me, so maybe some of your issues are due to your previous relationship. But I thought (silly me) that an experienced phone could still be as good as right off the assembly line. After all, I'm no spring chicken myself. I knew from the beginning there was no hope of going online with you, because your wifi access was permanently out of service. I was willing to accept that shortcoming, as long as you lived up to all the other expectations Apple promised. But no....

So it's obvious we're never going to bond. Maybe a Droid or a Blackberry would treat me better.

A price on their heads

2011-08-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

Cartoon by artist German Osuna is captioned "Dogs of the World united with the dogs of San Luis Rio Colorado."

People who live in San Carlos and see a homeless dog on the street might leave food for it, or catch it and try to find its owner, get it spayed or neutered, try to find it a home. But if those who live in San Luis Rio Colorado, Sonora, are likely to just shoot it or poison it, and turn it in for a $200-peso bounty. I've seen a photo of the results of this bounty, showing dozens of dead dogs heaped together, but couldn't bring myself to share it here.

Pata de Perro, a Facebook page for rescue pets in Hermosillo, reports a 200-pesos bounty is offered by the mayor of San Luis Rio Colorado, for live or dead street dogs. The mayor refers to these ownerless dogs as a source of waste and pollution. (He cleaned caca off his shoes one too many times?) I'm looking for a protest petition that's being circulated and will be submitted to Guillermo Padre, Governor of Sonora, but I'm not sure gringos are entitled to sign it.

San Luis Rio Colorado is at the border of the US and Baja California. According to one article, published online by Sociedad Protectora des Animales, the bounty will be distributed as credits on water bills or property taxes. This might be a safeguard to prevent youths from going on greed-driven execution rampages. Still...

Supposedly the aim is to rid the town of all dogs or puppies not on a leash or confined indoors or in a yard. But what a barbaric way to go about it! My greatest concern is that this idea might catch on in other parts of Mexico.

The end of a long wait

2011-08-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

My mother went to sleep last Thursday and never woke up. Yesterday she drew her last breath. My sister was with her, and staff in the nursing home and hospice volunteers visited throughout the past two days to say their goodbyes.

She suffered from Alzheimer's for more than ten years and Judy and I learned more about the disease than we ever wanted to know. In the last few weeks she could no longer speak or hold up her head or walk, and sat in a wheelchair by the front door of the nursing home clutching a large baby doll, in a kind of dream state as though she was just waiting to leave.

She is finally free and we both are relieved for her, in spite of our own feelings of loss.

Judy will scatter her ashes at a nearby lake where they used to go to feed the ducks. No services are planned and we're asking all who would send flowers to instead donate to the Alzheimer's Foundation and their local Hospice in her name.

P.S. My mother adored cats. I've been asked to start a Facebook page for cats as I did for dogs, and now it's up, dedicated to Mom. San Carlos Loves Cats. She'd have loved it.

A song for a taco

2011-07-24T08:56:00.000-07:00

Wednesday we played at JJ's, a local outdoor restaurant known for its fish tacos. It wasn't the first time live music had been performed at JJ's, there are always wandering minstrels coming in to do a couple of songs for pesos. But this time we set up as a band, with two guitars and three singers. We had the usual tableful of drunken geezers front and center, plus various familiar faces. A techie friend showed up and stayed for the evening, and by the end of the evening he had volunteered to be our new sound man, a huge bonus.

It was a good place for me to break in a set of seven songs, except that by the time I got started, I was soaking wet. The humidity that night made it feel like a sauna, and the only fan was broken so that it continually drooped, cooling knees but little else. I have threatened to show up in a bathing suit and sarong next Wednesday. The guys complained now and then, but didn't really seem to mind as much as I did.

Photos: We all eventually looked like we'd gone swimming in our clothes, but the guys didn't let the heat spoil their fun. JJ's in the center, wearing his famous apron that says "Many have eaten here...few have died."

Then last night we were at the Fiesta Hotel palapa bar, and conditions were considerably improved, thanks to a breeze that came up from the bay. My set went well, especially when Leslie added her harmony to a couple of songs, and though I forgot lyrics a few times, I was able to finesse past my bloopers to the point that only my cohorts were aware of them (I hope). They are so patient with me! It makes me want to practice more and do better next time.

Making my heart dance

2011-07-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

Every year the city of Guaymas celebrates one of their proudest events on July 13, when the local militia vanquished a fleet of French pirates from the bay. The Battle of Guaymas is celebrated with numerous events, and one of the most spectacular takes place on the malecón, where folklorico dancers put on a free performance. I had to see it, so I contacted my friend Alejandra, who's usually up for an adventure, and we made our plans.

We got there early enough to watch another local folklorico group, Mazzocoba, doing dances from Northern Mexico in outfits that reminded me of the play "Oklahoma." I took photos, well aware that the flying skirts and whirling bodies would yield little more than interesting blurs.

Then we were treated to some old rock and roll by a well-seasoned 70s group called La Ruqueada, which roughly translates to "geezer." They did some Spanish songs including one of my new favorites, "Si No Te Hubieras Ido (If you had not gone away), and offered several golden oldie US favorites including a Creedence Clearwater medley I couldn't resist singing along with.

While we were wandering the area waiting for more dancing to start, we found members of Tradición Mestiza from Hermosillo backstage putting the finishing touches to their costumes and milling about waiting for the geezers to finish. I wanted photos of them in their splendiferous outfits, and Ale asked them to stand under the light.

These folks are trained in the art of being photographed. In a heartbeat they had formed tiers, arranged themselves by height with the Aztecs in their four-foot feathered headdresses at the back, flashing their most beguiling smiles... when I had all the shots I wanted, they gathered me into their group and began taking photos of me with various dancers. I guess as the token gringa I was an oddity.

I couldn't ask for a more agreeable companion for cultural expeditions like this: besides being wonderful company, she has a wealth of knowledge about various regions of Mexico and their history, music and dance. We watched Aztec spiritual dances, followed by regional dances from Campeche, Sinaloa, Campeche, Vera Cruz, Guerrero and others. Most entertaining was the frolicking of the Chihuahua dances, which reminded me again of "Oklahoma." These young people are majoring in dance at the University of Hermosillo, bound for a life of professional performing and touring. I wish them buena suerte y felicidad.

Joyful day

2011-07-11T07:29:00.000-07:00

"Happiness, knowledge, not in another place, but this place, not for another hour, but this hour...
— Walt Whitman

Putting myself in a frame of mind for celebrating, I'm listening to these songs while scrolling through a dozen ecards and Facebook posts from far-flung friends. Later, a guitar lesson and lunch with the girls, and cherry cheesecake.

Alexandro Fernandez (que guapo!) singing my favorite Mexican birthday song, Las Mañanitas, just for me

Stevie Wonder's song for Martin Luther King, Jr. LOVE the chorus on this one, can't help but sing along

The Beatles' birthday song makes me want to jump up and dance

Chillin' again

2011-07-09T08:50:00.000-07:00

About once every six months, we reach a point when we have to drive up to the States. It was all business as usual last week—picking up accumulated mail, renewing drivers' licenses, buying a sump pump in preparation for flooding, arranging for a new mail delivery service that may make it possible for us to make this trip even less often. Hitting Trader Joe's for chocolate and Dr. Bronner's soap.

"Fun" in Spanish is "divertido." Something that diverts one from the daily grind. Anything that might divert us from our schedule was not to be indulged, and that included anything fun.

But fun waylaid us on the road anyway. I'll get to that in a minute.

First, the not-fun part. I planned to take my Ford up and get it registered in AZ, but it was not to be. We got about 40 miles before the air conditioner died. With visions of sweltering at the border for two hours, we turned around and came home to get our other car. So many drivers in Mexico roll down their windows and tough it out all summer, and I don't know how they do it. I would be wilted within a block or two and prostrate in a mile.

Did I mention we were taking not only our dog, Chica, but a couple of puppies? They were going to a fostering organization that works with PetSmart to arrange adoptions on Adopt-Me Saturdays. Bubba and Jazmin are brother and sister, beautiful beagle-like, leggy young dogs with boundless energy. They behaved beautifully throughout the trip, and were so quiet we sometimes forgot they were with us. No barfing, no pooping, very little complaining. You might say we were bringing a lot of fun with us for some lucky new owners, but for us it was more like transporting livestock.

Now here comes the fun part: on the side of the road next to the north lanes of the highway, we spotted a giant black spider! This metallic arachnid constructed from an old Volkswagen bug shell and eight long metal rods loomed almost 12 feet tall. There's a sign in front of it that says "Exeter" and some text we couldn't read at 70 mph. We don't know if the sign was related to the bug; it looked like a political sign.

Later came fun of the white-knuckle variety. On Hwy. 19 south of Tucson we were overtaken by a fierce hailstorm that turned into monsoon rain. From news reports on Channel 13, I learned later that our hailstorm moved west to become a freakish haboob in Phoenix. Here's what the haboob looked like, rolling over Phoenix. End-of-the-world fans were ecstatic.

Coming home two days later we watched carefully for the roadside spider, and I managed to get this somewhat blurry photo with my iPhone. It's out in the middle of nowhere, south of Hermosillo. The only landmark is a shrine to San Francisco nearby.

Who created this wacky bit of roadside kitsch, and why? For that matter, how? I do hope it's securely stabilized up there, and well-fastened to the ground. Imagine, if you will, driving Hwy. 15 in a powerful windstorm, when a huge black spider tumbles onto the road in front of you...

Back home, first thing yesterday morning we rushed my car to a mechanic to deal with the air conditioner. Turns out it was some problem with the compressor, and it cost about $85 to get it working perfectly again. When I picked it up in the afternoon, I cranked it up to Max Cool and chilled all the way to the market, where I grabbed two liters of coconut ice cream. Aaaahhhh.

Some save dogs, some save whales

2011-07-03T06:49:00.000-07:00

A young female humpback saved from fishermen's gill nets in the Sea of Cortez rewards her rescuers with a victory dance. An awesome video (and a good example of why I hate gill nets).

One Dog at a Time

2011-07-01T06:23:00.000-07:00

Cora and Dora

In our community are a number of people, mostly women, who rescue and foster dogs, trap them and have them innoculated and neutered, and seek out good homes for them. There are times when we know of so many needy dogs that we feel overwhelmed, and it's tempting to take the attitude of many of our friends, that it's hopeless, best to look the other way. Dog rescue can be discouraging: some are sick, injured or just not very pretty, some come pregnant or with litters of puppies, some show little promise of becoming socialized enough to fit into a home and family.

The only way to approach this enormous need without burning out is by taking it on "one dog at a time."

Sonia

In summertime there is only a small core of norteamericanos and the population is mostly Mexican. Mention homeless street dogs to a Mexican, he'll either look a little fearful, or shake his head sadly and make some fatalistic remark to the effect that nothing can be done. But we have an organization here that specializes in raising funds to spay and neuter dogs and cats, with the goal of keeping the population manageable. SBPA has no animal shelter, doesn't arrange adoptions or rescue animals. But they are very good at what they do: providing certificates for free neutering to those who can't afford it for their pets, and for people who actively trap feral animals for that purpose. Many of them may end up back on the streets, but at least they will not reproduce. And the lucky ones will be fostered and possibly adopted.

As for the shelter where I volunteered, it lasted a scant four months before the principals involved split up and it was closed down. The dogs were wonderful, but the humans just couldn't get along. What's left are individuals who take in dogs and foster them, hoping to find them "forever homes." Sometimes we succeed, sometimes we end up keeping them, sometimes we think we've located good homes and the adopters change their minds.

Coco

Last week one couple adopted Coco, a beautiful little female and were about to take her on vacation but found out she's having a litter in a week. Now they don't want her anymore, with or without her babies. A woman was fostering Sonia and found someone interested in adopting her. When the prospective owner came to see Sonia, the dog had escaped and is now roaming the streets again.

Still, we've come a long way from the bad old days in San Carlos, when the local police would go out and shoot any street dogs roaming free after the snowbirds left town.

Charlie

This morning I started a Facebook page called "San Carlos Loves Dogs," for the purpose of featuring dogs in our community that are being fostered and are available for adoption. Will it make a difference? Maybe, if enough people know about it, and go back now and then to view the latest additions. We'll be focusing for now on dogs, though I can envision eventually a separate Facebook page called "San Carlos Loves Cats." Why not?

Feliz cumpleaños, cariño

2011-06-21T18:19:00.000-07:00

Today is the Capt's birthday and I noticed that he still looks as good to me as he did in April 1989 on our first date. We actually met on St Paddy's Day and he gave me his phone number, but when I called, his sister (visiting from New York) answered the phone and Oops! I thought she was his wife. Took a while to straighten that out.

Here he is playing Red, his guitar.

At the moment I'm baking a cheesecake, his favorite, and the fragrance coming from the kitchen tells me it's almost ready. We haven't done anything spectacular for his birthday today, but I took him out to lunch (he wanted a hamburger). This morning we had a rehearsal for a show we're going to play Saturday, and it went well.

For a musician that's a very good day.

Father's Day gratitude list

2011-06-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

He's been gone most of my life, but today I'm remembering some of the things I loved about my dad, Henry (besides the fact that I thought he looked like Humphrey Bogart).

• Regularly taking the family to Padre Island, the most beautiful beach I've ever seen
• Teaching me to swim
• Taking me on a fishing trip and protecting me when the outboard broke down and we had to be rescued
• Driving me to the skating rink every Wednesday evening for three summers
• Teaching me a couple of words in Dutch (though, sorry, I've forgotten them now)
• Very patiently teaching me to ride my bike without training wheels
• Giving me driving lessons in his old push-button Dodge
• Letting me help him plant a garden
• Explaining to me the function of every tool in his meticulously-kept toolbox
• Telling me, on the evening of my first junior high school dance, that I looked "beautiful"
• Allowing me to live with him and his new wife when my mother and her new husband asked me to move out
• Never, ever, yelling at me. And I know I gave him plenty of cause.

My dad never had a lot to say to me. I don't remember a single in-depth conversation with him, but I believe he did the best he could to be a loving father as he saw it. He didn't have a good role model. His own father, after bringing the family of eight over from Holland, seemed to regard his three boys as potential farm hands and resisted any efforts to make anything else of themselves. He never saw his Dutch grandparents, numerous aunts and uncles again after the age of six, so there were no other adult men to guide him. Under the circumstances, I think he did a pretty good job.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

Love and Seatbelts

2011-06-14T10:54:00.000-07:00

If you know anybody who refuses to wear a seatbelt, send them this.

Desert dog

2011-06-11T14:14:00.000-07:00

Norma, an artist who owns a coop gallery here in town, was on her way home to Miramar on May 28 when she saw a small brown dog trotting along the lonely road. There are no neighborhoods in the vicinity, only open desert and beyond that, the sea. When she pulled over, he came right to her and she was shocked at the gaping wounds on his side and chest. He was dehydrated and emaciated as though he had been out alone without food or water for a week or more.

He was taken immediately to Vanessa, one of the two vets here in San Carlos, where he stayed for three days' observation, given vitamins and infection-fighting drugs. Then Norma took him home, with the hope of finding the owners or a new home for him. She posted flyers and an announcement on the local internet forum, Viva San Carlos.

He's a dachshund mix, with the golden brown brandy color common among dachsies but his legs are a little longer. His eyes are the exact same color as his coat. Norma tentatively named him Chiquito for his admission to the vet's office, but she had no plans to keep him, having already a large dog and two cats. One must know one's limits, she says.

And this is where I come in. I support the concept of fostering dogs, particularly since the canine refuge where I volunteered closed at the end of May (a long sad story better addressed in another blog) and fostering is all that's left here for dogs in need. But my small condo doesn't offer much space for a large dog and there's no question of keeping one outside, especially as summer arrives. But this dog is the same size as my Maltese, Chica.

Chiquito is my first opportunity to learn the skills of fostering. How hard can it be, right? It's just like taking any dog on a permanent basis...EXCEPT the fostered dog often has issues (physical or behavioral) and just when the issues are dealt with and overcome, it's time for him to move on, into his "forever home," as the foster folk call it. It's a bittersweet situation, but most people I've known who foster take great pleasure in knowing the dog's life was vastly improved by their intervention.

So Chiquito came home with me last night. His issues are definitely not behavioral: he acts like a well-trained house dog other than the fact that he's not housebroken. His first act on entering the house was to cock his leg and pee on a t-shirt the Capt had left lying on the floor. This morning he mistook a tower fan for a small tree. But I'm taking him out with Chica frequently, and she's showing him the ropes.

He doesn't bark. When Chica barks, he sometimes makes a "Mmmmf-mmmmff" sound, but that's all. I'm thinking that out in the desert he learned to keep a low profile. He has a innate dignity you often don't see in small dogs.

His meds are finished, except for an ointment I dab on his sores morning and night. Norma tells me one of them was so deep, she and Vanessa could see bone, when he was first examined. I'm profoundly grateful I wasn't there for that. He'll need his shots when he's a little stronger, and then neutering. When he's ready I'll work on arranging an adoption for him. It could be weeks, or months.

He follows me everywhere, sleeps under my side of the bed and seems very anxious to please. I imagine what he must have been through out in the desert, how frightening it must have been, and I have to admire the spirit that kept him alive along enough to find that road, and Norma, and me.

Working girl

2011-06-07T15:39:00.000-07:00

He was quick, he was sly, but I finally spotted the mouse living in my house. I think he's holed up in my stove, using insulation for nesting material, because I never use my oven (well, I'm not going to start now!). This is exactly what happened in my last house. He probably thinks insulation is cozy, but his poor little nestlings are not going to be very comfy in that stuff. Not my problem. My problem is that my oven is going to become unusable.

I have a possible solution right here at home if I can figure out how to utilize it. Akira, a Yorkshire Terrier practically lives with us. I keep her all day while my neighbors are gone (Mom's a teacher, Dad's the principal, the whole family stays at the school 8-12 hours a day). Officially, she's a Silky Toy, the smallest Yorkie you can get. The Capt, out of curiosity, Googled Yorkshire Terrier and found out that they are not foo-foo dogs after all, but were bred to catch mice in English clothing factories. This was way before clothes with holes were considered a cool thing.

Akira — not a foo-foo after all

All I have to do is teach her how to do the thing she was bred for: catching mice. It may get a bit bloody in my kitchen, but we could win this little war. Now, how do you teach a dog to hunt vermin? It should be hardwired in her tiny brain: running mouse = lunch. Do I need to buy pet-store mice for training purposes? Make a stuffed toy mouse, attach it to a string and pull it in front of her? Naah, it needs that mouse smell...

Weather wuss

2011-06-05T21:56:00.000-07:00

Empalme was an important railroad town, and trains still pass by. This antique steam engine marks the entrance to town.

The biggest and best tianguis of the week is every Sunday morning in Empalme, on the other side of Guaymas, and this week we both were on missions to find specific items. Tianguis is a Mexican version of a swap meet/farmer's market, held on the street. We meant to make an early start this morning, but events seemed to conspire to slow us down. I forgot my cell phone, and that meant we couldn't go our separate ways, so we had to go back for it. Then we tried a new route and got lost in Empalme, which is amazingly spread-out. By the time we arrived it was after 10 am and scorching hot.

From the beginning, I wasn't exactly driven by shopper's zeal, and soon I was feeling irritable, not much interested in anything I saw and sweating by the quart. I found a jar to hold utensils on my new shelf, and by then I was ready to start back, shopping for produce along the way. I never buy veggies until I'm on the home stretch, they're much too heavy to cart around. I called the Capt, arranged to meet midway at the ice factory, and started back.

Produce is by far the best deal at tianguis. Bags of just about everything can be bought for less than a dollar, and I was already lugging bananas, zucchini and tomatoes by the time I reached my favorite veggie stand right next to the ice house, run by a friendly fellow named Giapetto. I was collecting peppers, broccoli, pears, a fat pineapple... Suddenly I was feeling dizzy, my vision seemed to telescope down to a pinpoint, my skin was clammy and I had to lean against the counter to keep from falling. I told Giapetto I needed to sit down and one of his helpers brought a couple of crates for me. Then my hands became numb and tingly at the same time. I had a bottle of water to drink, and I probably should have put my head between my knees, but I was already embarrassed enough.

The Capt appeared after a few minutes, and gallantly went to get the car when I told him I probably couldn't walk. Giapetto kept a worried eye on me, until I got up and started shopping again... after all, he had strawberries and apricots, not often I find those this late in the year. This will probably have to be the last tianguis for me until October, I told him reluctantly, so I made the most of it.

In the car, I was shocked at how red my face was, and remained, for the next hour. At home I Googled my symptoms and found it was most likely heat exhaustion rather than heat stroke, but if I hadn't had access to shade and water, if the Capt hadn't been on his way to meet me, the outcome could have been a lot worse.

My friend Susan tells me she has had ten episodes of heat stroke in the past few years, and they seem to come faster and with less warning now. She stays indoors in air conditioning whenever the temperature tops 85 degrees. One might call such caution thermophobic, but having after today, I'm inclined to agree with her.

Today it got up to 105.

A moth in my ear

2011-06-01T12:18:00.000-07:00

Today is a domestic day. I'm inspired by a new wrought-iron and wood shelf unit with hanging hooks our gardener Octavio made for me out of a beautiful shelf the Capt had made a few years ago for our old house. I made a drawing, submitted it to Octavio, and he created exactly what I had in mind! How often does that happen? I love the colonial look of it, and it's so strong, the Capt says I could stand on it (if I were 1-1/2 feet tall). Note that he made a lip on the front and sides to help secure stuff, open at the corners for easy cleaning.

You know what's next, of course. I'll have to scour the bottoms of all my pots and pans.

So I'm cooking, cleaning, moving things around for more efficiency, scrubbing out the fridge (tossing moldie oldies) and all the while listening to The Moth, my new favorite podcast. It's all personal stories, some really hilarious, delivered without notes. (I could never do that...could I? That would be harder than singing without lyrics!)

First I listened to Lewis Lapham, who worked as a cub reporter for the Oakland Examiner in the wild and wooly Fifties. His job started every day with the acquisition of a flask of bourbon for his bosses. Then he would go out with the staff photographer on assignment. If a woman was involved in the story, the photographer (Seymour Snare, "the original Dirty Old Man") would talk her into removing her clothes, no matter how grim or inappropriate the details of the story. Once he persuaded a woman to change into a negligee and pose next to her boyfriend, who was dying of four bullet wounds. This was tame...the narrative gets more outrageous from there on. I share this just in case any of you out there still think morals have gotten any worse in the last 75 years...

Next came Deborah Kiley, famous woman sailor, with a terrifying shipwreck story, complete with booze-fueled stupidities, shark attacks and saltwater mania. Uh-oh...Just when the Capt and I are once again talking about cruising in our spiffy boat.

Nautical pride

2011-05-29T15:40:00.000-07:00

The Guaymenses are abuzz, getting ready for Navy Day June 1, when President Calderon will come to visit, and it's rumored Carlos Slim, CEO of TelMex and wealthiest man in Mexico (one of the richest in the world), may accompany him. Navy Day is a national annual event, and apparently a seaport is featured each year. This year it's Guaymas. We speculated whether Calderon will review the Navy exercises from the comfort of Sr. Slim's megayacht in the bay, but it would probably be more proper from the deck of a Mexican flagship with the admirals and their retinue.

The Mexican Navy, besides being the country's maritime military, also serves the same function as the US Coast Guard, rescuing distressed vessels, pursuing drug traffickers at sea, and protecting offshore oil wells.

Helicopters are thundering over San Carlos, the resort 'burb of Guaymas, and a big townwide cleanup is planned for the day before, to impress Calderon with our civic pride.

The Capt sports a paper suit, head stocking and gloves, plus a respirator mask when he's painting, in 95+ degree heat. Note the dinghy behind him: that's going to need painting, too.

Pride and desperation is what's keeping us at the boat painting project, eight weeks after we started, eons after we lost enthusiasm for the project. It doesn't usually take this long to paint a boat, even a 33-footer, but we have never done this before, we haven't hired Mexican labor, and we're going by trial and error, with the expected mishaps. Gale-force winds most afternoons have slowed us down a little, too.

My responsibilities have been masking, a little sanding, and mixing paint. The masking often feels like giftwrapping, minus the fancy ribbon, and now that I've finished it does look a little giftwrapped, in a funky way. The gale-force winds managed to rip away about a quarter of my work, so the Capt invented a roller device so I could press the tape down more firmly.

Mixing is required because we're using white gelcoat, half-and-half with monomer (a purple liquid that always makes me think of Jim Jones' grape Koolaid), with a few drops of catalyst added just before it's poured into the sprayer. The morning sun is merciless in May, but in my paint-smeared shorts and tank-top, I can catch an occasional breeze. In his paper suit and a full face mask, the Capt feels like he's wearing a portable sauna. Since we're paying the boatyard by the day, he hasn't missed a day on the job since the beginning of April. He gets tired and cranky, but he perseveres.

This week we might actually finish, at least enough to put her back in the anchorage where she belongs. I can't wait to take photos of her, gleaming white in the water. Carlos Slim and the whole Mexican navy couldn't be any prouder.

I've Centipeded myself

2011-05-20T19:09:00.000-07:00

There's a story about the Centipede, who was asked by the Grasshopper how he managed to coordinate and walk on all those 100 legs. All his life the Centipede had gotten around just fine, but when now he had to stop and think about it. And suddenly he was tripping all over himself.

That's me, now that I've started guitar lessons.

My last lessons were back in the Dark Ages, and they focused mostly on learning chords the easiest way possible, and using them in songs. No bar chords, no fancy minor/diminished fifths. But this time instructions cover how to hold my guitar (nicknamed Lulu), how short my strap should be (I never even used a strap before) and where my fretting fingers should be. I've found that of all but one of the chords I've been playing, from A to G and all their variations, I've been playing wrong! Caramba! I'm supposed to keep the fretting fingers close to the strings to speed up my fretting but I have an annoying habit of keeping my little finger crooked as though I'm imbibing High Tea! I'm playing scales (boooorrrrring). I'm barring chords, cringing at the muffled sound. I'm told my customary thumb-strumming is not acceptable; the thumb is only supposed to strum the low E and A, and I have to use the other fingers for the D, G, B and high E. All this time those other four fingers have been on vacation and now they're expected to go to work.

The outcome of all this awkwardness is predictable. I have an endless list of excuses why I can't practice. Negativity is prodding me, telling me the jig is up and I should have known I'd never succeed at playing the guitar. I'm too old, too clumsy. The pads of my fingers are too fat. My instructor Peter, a very accomplished British guitarist and luthier (he makes and repairs stringed instruments) is urging me to come for two classes a week, but I've already missed a session because I haven't practiced enough to suit myself. He's very positive and encouraging, but he's no match for the silly twit in my head that insists it's hopeless. I avoid even looking at my guitar, much less picking it up, strapping it on and playing.

So Lulu hangs on the wall looking lonely and neglected, though she has recently received a tuneup from Peter and sounds better than she ever has before. And I putter around the house looking for busywork, while doing a lot of navel-gazing in an effort to locate and demolish the source of my pessimism, until I realize that the navel-gazing is just another tactic to put off practicing. I have impeded (or centipeded) myself.

I'm just going to take it a little at a time. Put one foot ahead, follow with the foot on the opposite side, repeat with all the other 98 feet...

Photo: Peter in performance. You should hear his version of "It Ain't Necessarily So."

Musings on weeds and puppies

2011-05-04T06:39:00.000-07:00

My brain seems to have hardwired itself to begin waking up at 4a.m. every morning. Not that I mind, now that the spring breezes have subsided, leaving behind a foretaste of the oppressive heat to come in another couple of months. At four, an hour before the beginnings of sunrise, the air is cool, the neighborhood is quiet. It's a good time to walk dogs. (I hear a collective sigh, as my faithful readers mutter, "There she goes again about the dogs...")

I woke thinking about a litter of five puppies in the back yard of a rental house where a Canadian couple are reluctantly packing to go home. They can't take the puppies. Somehow we have to find a place for them to go before Sunday, and it's Wednesday already.

I call them Yoda's Gang, because one of them makes me think of Yoda from Star Wars. Those ears. Those eyes, wise beyond their years. This is Yoda.

In addition to the four shown here, Yoda's gang includes a little white one. Don't know why I'm drawn to white dogs, other than the fact that they're a lot easier to thoroughly search for fleas and ticks. There's a vulnerability about a white dog that appeals to me. And they're easy to see when you're walking with them at four in the morning.

The Canine Refuge where I volunteer is already swamped with puppies, and when I proposed taking Yoda's Gang, I was outvoted. The Canadians and I are all losing sleep over this dilemma.

An email was waiting for me this morning that brought some encouragement: we have an online newspaper here called "What's Up San Carlos," and the publishers want a photo each week for one of our puppies. The owner of Ruby Wine Bar down at the Marina wants to feature our dogs every week. My Spanish teacher emailed me yesterday that a friend wants a puppy. I clutch at every little bit of hope I can get, because I'm feeling overwhelmed. Every day, someone is asking me if the Refuge can take another abandoned puppy or dog or litter. Now I know how it feels to manage an orphanage.

I'm reminded of weeds. One Spanish expression for "weeds" is "malas hierbas." Bad grass. Not pedigreed plants, not the kind you cultivate from seed, or raise from cuttings and pamper with special concoctions, but the kind that pops up on its own in such quantity you despair of ever getting rid of it.

And yet, weeds can sometimes be beautiful. A little vine volunteered in one of my flowerpots, after the flowers I had planted there languished and died. Dwarf grape leaves, fragile tendrils, tiny white flowers and—its defense system—obstinate little green burrs. It flourished vigorously even though I skipped that pot when I watered the others. I finally gave up and adopted the weed, since its will to live was so strong. I have no idea what plant it is. I've decided to give it a place of honor next to my back door. This is my weed.

Individually, weeds can be appreciated for their unique characteristics -- those miniature leaves, delicate tendrils and blossoms like little stars. But if I had a yard full of them, I'd be calling for the gardener to root them out because the burrs would be sticking to my dogs' fur. The weed is simply doing what it lives to do — be fruitful and multiply — but when it reaches critical mass, we no longer appreciate its uniqueness and beauty and reach for the hoe and garden shears.

At the Refuge we have at the moment a garden of little weeds, every one of them beautiful. Some resemble little German Shepherds, Labradors or Rottweilers, others are unabashedly members of a breed we laughingly call Sonoran Shorthair: medium-size, deer-like legs, slender, long muzzles and big brown eyes. Some golden, some brown and a few white or spotted like Dalmatians.

I don't know if we can find good homes, or homes of any kind, for them all. We are committed to giving them a good start, with their vaccinations, and we try to spay or neuter every one before we allow it to be adopted. All this veterinary work can't be done in a day, it requires weeks, and meanwhile we must feed them, dab eye ointment on them, clean up after them with rigorous applications of bleach and detergent. Yesterday the vet came to the Refuge to vaccinate seven puppies. By providing our own meds, we saved considerably on the cost, so we'll be driving to Hermosillo next week to buy more vaccine (a benefit of living in Mexico). A local organization called SBPA supplies us with certificates for free spaying and neutering. We have a lot to be grateful for, and we try not to think too much about the future. So we'll just take it a day at a time, a puppy at a time.

"The passing moment is all we can be sure of; it is only common sense to extract its utmost value from it; the future will one day be the present and will seem as unimportant as the present does now."

W. Somerset Maugham

33 dogs

2011-04-28T20:41:00.000-07:00

For more than a week, the Capt and I have been reporting for duty at the boatyard every morning, working on the Paint Job of the Decade. Originally our sailboat "Bliss" was hauled out for a bottom job, something that's routinely done every year or two, but then the Capt began experimenting with gelcoat, and before he knew it, he had painted the outside hull. So I began campaigning to have the topside done too. This is an old boat (1973), probably has never been repainted and is long overdue. We had always assumed it would cost us thousands of dollars, but it looks like if we are willing to do the work ourselves (who am I kidding, the Capt is doing the real work!) we can afford it. I can't wait to see her all finished.

But meanwhile, discouraging events were taking place at the Canine Refuge where I have been involved as a supporter and volunteer for the past five months. The snowbird support group has dissolved, as we knew it must when everybody headed back to the States and Canada for the summer. Nothing has developed to take its place. Staff has quit and one stalwart Mexican woman has taken up the slack, basically working a 24/7 schedule, caring for 29 rescue dogs, plus for the past two days there were four boarders.

This morning I mucked out kennels with Juanita, and then walked three of the older dogs as best I could. (The one male, Feliz, is so strong I could only trot along behind him and try to keep up.) In just a week the littlest puppies are now on their feet and exploring, beginning to play, almost ready to be weaned. Their mother, Mama Lola, is so sick of them she tore up a corner of her kennel one day to escape. Now a new litter that came from a local orphanage, (appropriate since their mom apparently died), is in the quarantine kennel. They range from a very rubust alpha male to two tiny black runts whose bones stick out.

These little sisters were scooped up from the path of an irrigation truck at an orange orchard near San Jose, and brought to the San Carlos Canine Refuge. They're about two months old, and have been given all their vaccinations and treatments, though they're still too young for neutering. They're both friendly and love attention. They look like they might have a bit of Boxer in their background.

My favorite, Sally, who had the broken leg, is now bouncing around as though she had springs in her feet. I've noticed at least three males have been cutting her out of her pack and chasing her around, and I'm wondering if she could actually be going into her first heat. Time for a visit to the vet, I think.

The good news is that sometimes the Internet helps in our efforts to find homes for these dogs. Sol, the little tick fever survivor that I wrote about on this blog, my Facebook page, the Refuge Facebook page and the local forum, has been whisked off to a new home in Colorado.

So, sometimes there's progress.

O, Say Can You See...

2011-04-25T13:49:00.000-07:00

"We are all born for love...It is the principle of existence, and its only end."
–Benjamin Disraeli

Last year Sue, my friend in Oregon sent me a link to a webcam overlooking an urban nest of redtail hawks, which I revisited frequently as the nestlings hatched, grew and eventually, with some false starts, flew out into the world.

This year Sue has outdone herself, sharing a link to another webcam overlooking a family of bald eagles. The mother, in all her federal glory, presides over a vast nest that needs only some red, white and blue bunting. There are two fuzzy gray babies. You can just make them out, next to Mama's beak.

The eagle family appears on the the Washington State Dept. of Fish & Wildlife website.

Last year's webcam at KGW.com became active again March 28, when a pair of hawks built their nest on the fire escape of an office building in downtown Portland, apparently a favorite nesting spot. When the eggs finally hatched, revealing two cuddly white featherballs, the father showed up with a flowering weed in his beak. "Honey, you did great! I brought you some flowers." The hatchlings' first breakfast: a yummy rat.

It's early to be thinking about Mother's Day, but when I watch these mother birds sitting on their nests and carrying back morsel after morsel of food, or a dog at the Refuge nursing her puppies, I think about how much love it takes to do such boring, tiresome work day after day, only to watch the results fly away with nary a "Thanks, Mom."

A Golden opportunity

2011-04-21T14:34:00.000-07:00

Brandy is a big, sweet-natured Golden Retriever with a problem: his mistress, 92, is going into hospice and he is going to be homeless. Relatives of the owner are thinking of having him euthanized simply because none of them want him, and we want to do all we can to save him if possible.

He's 11 years old, but in very good health--no evidence of hip dysplasia--and has a sweet, playful and affectionate nature. Currently he has a yard to stay in, but his situation is not long-term and very soon he'll need a new home. He's had his summer haircut and grooming, has been well cared for, and he's happy indoors or outdoors. He has been with a doggy companion, but would be fine as an only dog as well.

For more information, email kleonard01@cox.net. Brandy is not at the San Carlos Canine Refuge, which is full to capacity right now, so a couple of Refuge supporters are attempting to help him on our own.

Sol, the survivor

2011-04-20T07:44:00.000-07:00

Sol is another rescued pup waiting for a home at San Carlos Canine Refuge.

When I first saw Sol, our groomer Karlee was using a device that looked like a plastic spoon with a "V" cut into the bowl, to remove what looked like hundreds of ticks from his hide. He lay placidly on the grooming table, staring into space. Someone had found him on a beach and brought him to us. Turns out he had a raging case of tick fever, and more than once in the ensuing weeks we thought we'd lost him.

Sol's all better now, except for a limp in one hind leg that started when he went out for a walk. Every time I visit him, he immediately rolls onto his back, stretches out and invites me to give him a good rub. His fur is long and silky rather than wooly, his tail feathery, and his face shows some shepherd characteristics, though he's not very big at six months old. A couple of days ago Ian, a 13-year-old who lives nearby, came in and took a shine to Sol, and I was so happy to see that particular dog get some special attention. But Ian can't take Sol home, and will have to settle for walking him around the neighborhood.

We're thinking Sol would be happiest in a home with a fenced yard where he can play (but then, what dog wouldn't?) He's amiable and docile with all other dogs, with adults and children, and when barkfests start up he's never the instigator.

I used to always prefer the smaller breeds, the kind you can scoop up and hold in your lap. But Sol is one of the rescue dogs who has changed my attitude. With the right training and attention he could be a terrific best friend.

Sweet Sally's ready for a home

2011-04-18T07:00:00.000-07:00

This puppy was given to the San Carlos Canine Refuge by a fellow who showed up with her at a beach party last month. She was covered in fleas, and shivering in fear and pain, with a broken hind leg. Apparently someone kicked her hard or hit her with a stick. Most of her brief life has been painful and uncomfortable, but that's all behind her now.

She was named after Sally, a Refuge volunteer who paid her vet bill. Her leg has mended and the hair is growing back, she's been treated and vaccinated, and she's turning out to be a mild-mannered, quiet and friendly little dog. I'm hoping to spend some time with her this week, getting her used to walking on a leash.

To help Sally find a home, or to learn more about the Refuge, please visit their website.

Let the Mystery Be

2011-04-16T07:40:00.000-07:00

Most of the snowbirds in our town hastily take wing back to the States just about now, days before the Santa Semana crowds flock in for their revels. Yesterday was the last of the Friday jams I've participated in for the past six months. It was a day to share unfamiliar songs, and we struggled through some tunes we barely remembered or never heard before, laughing at our bloopers, but hopefully developing a few new favorites we can come back to in the fall.

One song that pleased us all was written by Iris DeMent, called "Let the Mystery Be." When I practice alone, I put on Iris's YouTube version, shown here, and harmonize along with her. Her unique sound may be an acquired taste for those who prefer more dulcet tones in their female vocalists, but it has grown on me the same way Bob Dylan's did back in the sixties, and Tom Waits' did in the eighties. Not just a pretty voice. The author of the blog "Just a Song" describes it best:

"...it's as if she were channeling the souls of rural Southern women going right back to when the first Scots-Irish settlers first found their way into the hollers of the Appalachians. It's the voice of an old, old soul, full of the sorrows and the joys of women making the best of life with the bare minimum to work with."

The point Iris makes in this song may seem a bit oversimplified, but it's a good place to start.

It's easier to remember the lyrics of a song if it means something to me. And when I put my feelings into a song it's more of a joy to sing it. This particular one comes close to my own philosophy about religion. Religion has been on my mind lately, maybe because we're close to Easter, maybe because of all the raging controversies regarding what constitutes salvation and righteousness.

Everybody's wonderin' what and where they all came from.
Everybody's worryin' 'bout where they're gonna go when the whole thing's done.
But no one knows for certain and so it's all the same to me.
I think I'll just let the mystery be.

Some say once you're gone you're gone forever, and some say you're gonna come back.
Some say you rest in the arms of the Saviour if in sinful ways you lack.
Some say that they're comin' back in a garden, bunch of carrots and little sweet peas.
I think I'll just let the mystery be.

Some say they're goin' to a place called Glory and I ain't saying it ain't a fact.
But I've heard that I'm on the road to purgatory and I don't like the sound of that.
Well, I believe in love and I live my life accordingly.
But I choose to let the mystery be.

Iris Dement, from the album "Infamous Angel" (1992)

The soloist in the orange tree

2011-04-14T08:24:00.000-07:00

Lucky me. A mockingbird has chosen the top of the orange tree just outside our front door to stage his daily performances. He arrived with the beginning of spring, and has been so faithful in his concerts he must have a nest in that very tree or one nearby. I've decided to call him Caruso.

This morning I got him in my sights and captured him, to share with you. A tricky feat, zooming into the sun (which is why he's nearly a silhouette) and yet with enough detail that we can see on the orange just below him, a brave or stupid or suicidal caterpillar wending its way upward. It's like a scene from Animal Planet when the deer ambles foolishly toward the wolf's lair. "Stop!" you want to shout. "He doesn't see you yet! You can still get away!" But then, if singing is an honorable way to earn one's supper, Caruso deserves this one.

Mockingbirds, according to my brief research, don't compose their own tunes, so their renditions are what we music lovers call "covers" of other birds' songs. They can also imitate other animals, including amphibians. I've paid close enough attention to wonder if they have tiny recording devices in their brains because they seem to do the same routine, in the same sequence, over and over. This annoys some humans, but I find it amusing. Of course, he's not outside my bedroom window.

The nitty gritty

2011-04-07T10:30:00.000-07:00

Our sailboat "Bliss" is in the workyard getting some badly needed repairs and a few cosmetic touch-ups. The Capt has been dutifully showing up daily to do his part, and now it's my turn to get involved. He feels I could do some sanding without causing too much damage, so a couple of days ago I donned my grubbies and reported for duty.

"Come to the Dark Side, Luke"

I'm hand-sanding, since I'm working on narrow wooden trim in the galley, where we don't want to kick up a lot of sawdust and incur extra cleanup. To avoid breathing what sawdust there is, I asked for a mask, and was provided with this serious piece of gear. After two hours in this little facial sauna I thought I'd done a pretty good job on the teak, but nooooo. It was going to require a lot more sanding.

Then the Capt told me I could take a break from sanding in the galley (wow, thanks!)..."and start on the wood in the cockpit." (Uh, OK)

The boys (& girls) in the band

2011-04-05T19:17:00.000-07:00

Saturday's fundraiser for the Canine Refuge went better than expected, including the part where our ten-piece band, the Tecalai Toe Jammers, crowded onto the tiny stage and did nine songs. Six of us were in front, while four (including me) teetered on the back edge of the stage. There I am behind the guy in the baseball cap. Note to self: get a red t-shirt before next year.

A case of the nonstop grins

2011-03-31T08:49:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I'm going to do something I've never done before. A big boost out of the rut where I seem to spend most of my time comfortably wallowing.

I've been jamming with a group every Friday for the past nine months, playing guitar and singing. It's one of the high points of my week, confirming what I've known for a long time: that making music with friends tops the list of things that make me happy. Living the dream, you might say.

I've been lucky in that it's a particularly congenial group of ten men and women, all snowbirds except me. We have a lot of laughs and none of us is obsessively picky or tries to manage the group. Four of us have played together for years, onstage and off, though they've never played for money. We have seven singers, four guitars, a mandolin, an accordion, a percussionist, a slide guitar and an autoharp.

I feel profoundly blessed to be allowed to participate in this group. Sometimes when we're doing a particularly entertaining song, I get a case of the nonstop grins and a rush from my toes to the roots of my hair.

Most of the time we just play for fun, each in turn calling for a favorite tune we do only once, for better or for worse. But when the San Carlos Canine Refuge organized a benefit show and invited us to participate with a half-hour set, we had to get a little more focused. There will be at least 200 people in our audience, probably more.

We're one of five opening acts for the star performer, Jeremy McComb (pictured here, isn't he a cute pup?), who's flying down from Nashville to headline our show.

In the last week we've added two extra rehearsals, spent a lot of time sorting through dozens of songs to come up with nine that we feel are ready for prime time, and tweaking introductions, solos, arrangements, harmonies... Though occasionally the higher expectations plus a deadline have altered our usual laid-back atmosphere, I think the process of refining our music has been good for us. Especially for me, the most junior of the guitarists.

And that's my challenge: I have never before played guitar in front of an audience. None of my cohorts is aware of this, and I don't plan to tell them until after the show is over. (None of them reads this blog, so I'm safe in confessing here.) When all this is behind us, we'll only have a couple more Friday jams together before everyone heads north for the summer.

We'll be doing country/western songs, in keeping with the Nashville theme. If you're curious, here's our songlist. Each of us has at least one solo/lead, and mine is "I'll Fly Away."

Cowboys Of Baja

Folsom Prison Blues

I’ll Fly Away

Throw Another Log On The Fire

Kansas City Star

Gold Watch and Chain

In Spite of Ourselves

Someday Soon

Jambalaya

Report from Sendai

2011-03-29T09:23:00.000-07:00

This eloquent email is from a woman who teaches English in Sendai, Japan, the epicenter of the disastrous March 11 earthquake and tsunami, sent recently to friends and family to let them know she's all right. I'm sharing it as a guest blog. Reading it brought on a tectonic shift in my own priorities and concerns.

Things here in Sendai have been rather surreal. But I am very blessed to have wonderful friends who are helping me a lot. Since my shack is even more worthy of that name, I am now staying at a friend's home. We share supplies like water, food and a kerosene heater. We sleep lined up in one room, eat by candlelight, share stories. It is warm, friendly, and beautiful.

During the day we help each other clean up the mess in our homes. People sit in their cars, looking at news on their navigation screens, or line up to get drinking water when a source is open. If someone has water running in their home, they put out sign so people can come to fill up their jugs and buckets.

Utterly amazingly where I am there has been no looting, no pushing in lines. People leave their front door open, as it is safer when an earthquake strikes. People keep saying, "Oh, this is how it used to be in the old days when everyone helped one another."

Quakes keep coming. Last night they struck about every 15 minutes. Sirens are constant and helicopters pass overhead often.

We got water for a few hours in our homes last night, and now it is for half a day. Electricity came on this afternoon. Gas has not yet come on. But all of this is by area. Some people have these things, others do not. No one has washed for several days. We feel grubby, but there are so much more important concerns than that for us now. I love this peeling away of non-essentials. Living fully on the level of instinct, of intuition, of caring, of what is needed for survival, not just of me, but of the entire group.

There are strange parallel universes happening. Houses a mess in some places, yet then a house with futons or laundry out drying in the sun.

People lining up for water and food, and yet a few people out walking their dogs. All happening at the same time.

Other unexpected touches of beauty are first, the silence at night. No cars. No one out on the streets. And the heavens at night are scattered with stars. I usually can see about two, but now the whole sky is filled. The mountains are Sendai are solid and with the crisp air we can see them silhouetted against the sky magnificently.

And the Japanese themselves are so wonderful. I come back to my shack to check on it each day, now to send this e-mail since the electricity is on, and I find food and water left in my entranceway. I have no idea from whom, but it is there. Old men in green hats go from door to door checking to see if everyone is OK. People talk to complete strangers asking if they need help. I see no signs of fear. Resignation, yes, but fear or panic, no.

They tell us we can expect aftershocks, and even other major quakes, for another month or more. And we are getting constant tremors, rolls, shaking, rumbling. I am blessed in that I live in a part of Sendai that is a bit elevated, a bit more solid than other parts. So, so far this area is better off than others. Last night my friend's husband came in from the country, bringing food and water. Blessed again.

Somehow at this time I realize from direct experience that there is indeed an enormous Cosmic evolutionary step that is occurring all over the world right at this moment. And somehow as I experience the events happening now in Japan, I can feel my heart opening very wide. My brother asked me if I felt so small because of all that is happening. I don't. Rather, I feel as part of something happening that much larger than myself. This wave of birthing (worldwide) is hard, and yet magnificent.

Cindy Burke

Little triumphs

2011-03-15T09:53:00.000-07:00

For about three weeks now I've been sort of fostering a litter of three puppies, which I guess would make them about five weeks old. Theirs is a sad story, if it's true. Reportedly their mom hung out with a bunch of undesirables down by Marina Real, and someone complained about the pack to the local Comisario. The police showed up and shot three dogs, one of which may have been Mom. This can't be substantiated, we only know what the Guaymas shelter employees told us when they delivered the pups to the San Carlos Canine Refuge, where I volunteer.

For the first week we fed them with an eyedropper. I took them home at night and fed them every three hours. Now they're used to a bottle and starting to drink out of a bowl, so I take them home only two or three times a week, to give our night employee a break. I've named them Dulce, Cleo and Bruno.

Dulce is arguably the smartest of the trio, while Cleo is the most affectionate and Bruno the quietest, and most docile. None of them resemble the others: Dulce is black and white with freckled paws, Cleo's pink and white coloring with a black and brown mask makes me think of a pit bull, and Bruno looks like a baby Rottweiler. My friend Greg took closeup photos of Bruno and Cleo during the Nuts for Mutts Walk two weeks ago, and they've already changed a lot since then: brighter, more alert, with more personality. We think they'll be fairly large dogs, which doesn't work in their favor among the majority of adopters who are looking for little dogs. What is in their favor is that they're going to be very socialized. After all, they think their mommy is human.

Our routine: I put about two ounces of milk in a double dog bowl and set it in front of their crate. Then I open the door and they pile out, wandering just a bit before gathering around the bowl and beginning their meal. Watching them connect with the bowl was a triumph that made me feel like celebrating.

Meanwhile I'm warming the formula for the first bottle. Last time I was in the States I bought one of those bottles with the collapsing plastic liner to reduce gas which was a serious problem the first week. Then I let two pups explore, wrestle and discover toys while I bottle-feed the third. To clean up after them I carry the one I'm feeding in a football hold so the feeding can continue, and do the cleanup one-handed. After each is fed he is burped at least a couple of times and allowed to walk around, stimulating more burps. Baby wipes come in handy when their paws need cleaning. I get clean bedding into the crate while feeding the last one, and put the crate on the floor with the door open. This morning they all trooped back into the crate and went to sleep with no help from me. Voila! Crate-trained puppies!

Yesterday at the Refuge Dian, a new volunteer showed up to walk dogs, and I asked her if she'd ever bottle-fed puppies before. "Uh, no." So I sat her down with Dulcie and the bottle. The look on Dian's face when the pup settled into her lap and latched onto that bottle was priceless. I'm thinking we could market the experience for people with hypertension, depression or high blood pressure.

The litter is at the perfect age for training volunteers; they take to the bottle with enthusiasm and burp without much difficulty. The feeding process is demanding, but I confess I'll miss it a little, when they no longer need it, which could be in another week or so. But then, there are always more puppies...

I've developed a profound respect for mother dogs who make themselves available 24/7 for the greedy little guys. And mothers of triplets. How do they do it?

We're nuts for mutts

2011-02-27T20:48:00.000-08:00

Gusty winds, ominous clouds, even a little rain couldn't keep our first annual Nuts for Mutts 5K Walkathon from being a big success. The funds we raised were modest for the effort involved, but there's no way to put a price on the fun we had, more than 70 people all walking our dogs up the main boulevard of town and back to the beach, for live music on the beach.

Eight puppies from the San Carlos Canine Refuge were on display in a pen, and at least four were officially adopted before the day was over. Everyone wanted a chance to cuddle a puppy.

One unanticipated bonus: the presence of all those dogs attracted a fellow a number of dog lovers had been trying to capture for years. He's known as Blackie, and when he was a puppy someone tied a wire tightly around his neck, attaching a heavy stone to it. A local doctor's wife had offered a $1000-peso reward for anyone who could catch the elusive Blackie, so the wire can finally be removed, he can get wormed, spayed, vaccinated and rid of parasites. No one had been able to catch him, in spite of his impediment, but today a lanky cowboy named Pepper spotted Blackie when he showed up curious at the sight of all those dogs, and managed to lasso him. He's unadoptable, but when he's been treated he'll be released back into one of his old haunts, sure to have a better life than before.

No dog fights. No injuries on the walk other than a few blisters. No conflicts with neighbors or police. For one glorious day we showed ourselves that we could indeed all get along. We had decorated the street with red ribbons yesterday, to mark our route and someone came along behind us and pulled them all down, but we just waited until this morning and put up more.

I've been bottle-feeding a litter of four two-week-old orphaned pups for the past few days (above, Bruiser the alpha male and Cleo the runt female). The lack of sleep has me in a bit of a daze, but I had a wonderful time, and when it was all over the Capt and I came home for a long siesta. Now it's all like a sweet dream.

Miles out of the comfort zone

2011-02-21T07:55:00.000-08:00

It all started when one person formerly involved with our Canine Refuge (where I volunteer) came up with the bright idea of putting on a 5K walk as a fundraiser. I've only even participated in a walk once myself, and have no notion of what is involved in organizing one, not to speak of making money with one. Did I mention that I've somehow been annointed the fundraising chairman for this organization? This is so far out of my comfort zone, I don't know if I'll ever get back.

So here we are, a week from the event, scrambling to get things done. We've had a couple of meetings and some issues have been resolved, but there are dozens more. Did I mention that dogs are coming along on this walk? It's a noncompetitive 5K dog stroll down the main boulevard of town and back, followed by live music, silly dog contests (longest ears?) and—most important—several of our Refuge dogs will be there, sporting Adopt Me vests. I'm praying for a good turnout, an adoption or two, and no dogfights.

The Refuge kennels are full to capacity, with 20 dogs, 14 of them puppies. We visited the dog pound in Guaymas last week and there were two litters of pups in line to be euthanized. Beautiful, bright and, except for two, very healthy. We took them all back to the Refuge, including the two that appeared to have health problems but now seem to be getting better with supplemental feedings. We have no plans to rescue every litter that ends up at the pound. But there we were, there they were with one day left to live, and we couldn't walk out without them. And there are another 20 puppies being fostered here in town, but destined to wind up with us once they've been weaned.

W're calling this event the San Carlos Nuts for Mutts 5K Walk. I'd like to say we have a dandy website to promote it, but our webmaster seems to have endless excuses in spite of the fact that he's being paid to do it. This is particularly annoying since I could have done it myself, using Weebly, as I did for the cooking club. Took me one afternoon to get it online.

I had adopted a puppy myself, which I named Daisy, but plans have changed. The young woman who had fostered Daisy before I took her home emailed me a few days later telling me that if I ever changed my mind, Daisy could come back and would have a permanent home with her. By then my other dog Chica had made it abundantly clear she wasn't happy with the new addition to the family by getting on our bed and peeing on the down comforter, and I was beginning to get seriously stressed. So I emailed G. back and said, "Take her, she's yours." I chalk it all up to my first experience fostering and bonding with puppies, and now I remind myself that I can't keep them all. At present I'm particularly attached to a fuzzy black male named Bear. And so it goes.

That went well, I thought...

2011-02-12T16:52:00.000-08:00

The show Wednesday night went better than expected, with a full house and waiters bringing even more tables out for the people who kept coming. I didn't need to worry about what to wear, it was a chilly evening and I was wrapped in a warm rebozo.

A video will be sent to us soon, which I hope to be able to upload here.

"...music is about as physical as it gets: your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath. We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."
— Anne Lamott

Faking it 'til we make it

2011-02-09T09:36:00.000-08:00

It's been said (I forget by whom) that as we grow older we begin to give a lot of thought to the Hereafter. Mainly because often when we enter a room, we stand there wondering, "Now what am I here after?"

The biggest challenge I face as a singer is remembering lyrics. I've probably spent too much time with a music stand in front of me, comfortably reading along as I sing. I've even done it onstage, more times than I'd like to admit. At the root of this terrible habit is a basic distrust of my own memory. And the result is a loss of contact with the audience and with the true meaning of the song.

Tonight the Capt and I are performing together for the first time in more than two years, at a concert to benefit an orphanage in Empalme. It'll be outdoors on a green overlooking the beach, with four other groups doing everything from old rock songs to Mexican favorites. We'll do the token jazz and blues set of four songs. Here are photos of the groups we'll be honored to share the stage with.

The producers, Bobby and Leslie, are old professionals. Leslie used to perform with the Mamas & Papas and she's made it abundantly clear that relying on cheat sheets onstage is unprofessional and forbidden. Well, duh, of course it is, how silly of me to even wish for my music stand. So I've been running my lyrics through my head almost hourly, every night before I go to sleep (that's supposed to be a learning technique) and while driving. Yet I still manage to botch a word here, a phrase there, every time I rehearse.

I've decided the trick is not to expect perfection of myself, but to learn how to glide on through any mistake and keep going. Most people aren't hearing the song word-for-word anyway, they're busy ordering drinks, joking and greeting friends. Bobby tells me he's having the same difficulty, and almost gave up performing this year, in favor of recording. He loses it on songs he's performed thousands of times! But he'll be onstage tonight too, faking it until he makes it.

Every week I jam with two groups, playing guitar in my entry-level style and doing a lot of the singing: Arturo and the Beach Bums on Thursday and the Toe Jammers on Friday. It's a comfortable way to play songs, music stands in front of most of us, no drunken audience trying to shout over us, plenty of time to make mistakes, do songs over and get it right. But singing onstage is a different challenge, and one I find enjoyable, once I connect with the audience. Many of my Beach Bum and Toe Jammer friends will be rooting for us in the audience tonight, and though I don't expect rapt attention from them throughout our four songs, it'll be a comfort to see them there.

So wish us luck, amigos!

Puppy love

2011-02-05T07:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at the library the main topic of conversation (besides books) was the fact that nobody can remember our little corner of Paradise ever suffering such a blast of cold air as we've had the past three days. Old-timers who've been retreating from NOB every winter for 30 years said they'd never seen it so cold here. Iced-over birdbaths! Thirty-knot gusts! Thermometers plunging to 37 degrees! Caramba! Much fretting over outdoor events planned for the next week, including a concert where the Capt and I may be performing for an audience of a half-dozen hardy souls huddling under blankets. Still, my sister in Oklahoma provided me with a little more positive perspective when she sent me this shot of her front yard.

For the moment, the winds have died down, skies are blue and the sun (yes, that very same sun we hide from all summer) is making a welcome reappearance. I'm going to meet fellow blogger Brenda at a little patio cafe for lunch, and meet her friend who's just started teaching at a school in Guaymas. We'll soak up some rays while we can and then tonight we'll be battening down the hatches once again as another norther rolls through.

I also worry about the dogs at the Refuge, which is now full to capacity. I went to tianguis (the weekly Mexican outdoor market in Empalme) last Sunday with another Refuge volunteer and we found a litter of seven puppies wandering around in the crowd that someone had apparently abandoned, assuming they'd be picked up by someone. We were able to catch four of them and bring them back for medical checks, worming and vaccinations. So now the Refuge has six puppies of various sizes. We've bundled them all up in sweaters made by our local professional knitter Alma. Every night the chiminea is stoked and the puppies are kenneled as close to the warmth as possible.

Two adult females have been recently spayed and are recovering, one a rescue from Hermosillo called Negrita (pictured above) and the other from the nearby Santa Rosa grocery store, so we call her Santa Rosa. And she does have a saintly disposition...

In other news, I fell in love last weekend with a puppy I was babysitting for the weekend while her foster mom was in Tucson. Wink is about the size of a toy Yorkie, only about a month old, but already so bright and responsive, you'd think she was older. Possibly she's part chihuahua, or maybe she's just the runt of the litter. Over the weekend I taught her to do her whizbiz outside, sleep quietly on a cushion next to the bed and walk on a leash. I'd adopt her myself but the Capt is not persuaded, so she will join her siblings on a flight to New York where an agency called Stray from the Heart will find a home for her.

Lisa, who was kept confined for weeks while she recovered from mange and is therefore somewhat shy of humans, has grown back her coat and is looking good. She responds a lot better to human attention.

We have a handsome young male named Rocco who came to us after surgery to remove a wire that had been tightly wrapped around his neck when he was a pup (why? I can't imagine!) so it was imbedded in his skin as he grew. Rocco would make someone a wonderful guard dog or bodyguard for a woman, but he doesn't like children or men. Sometimes I wish we could have a visit from the Dog Whisperer to help us iron out these behaviors that are probably rooted in early abuse. Help us, Cesár!

Our pet project

2011-01-22T08:03:00.000-08:00

In a feat of unabashed boosterism, I'm devoting yet another post to the San Carlos Canine Center, where I've been putting a lot of my energy these days. If you find all this focus on four-legged fur-bearers frivolous, please turn the page and come back another day.

Here's a link to take you to the SCCC's Facebook page, where you can see a slideshow of all the dogs that have been rescued and rehabilitated there. (The website is under construction, so I'll link to it as soon as I get the go-ahead.) Every dog at the Center has a sad story...the litter of four pups found under a Dumpster...the chocolate lab that had been used for breeding until she was exhausted and the owner stopped feeding her...the mama who delivered a litter of seven and lost them all, partly because of her own serious health issues...the two sisters who spent their puppyhood locked up in a garage...

But their lives are taking a turn for the better now. Since they first began three years ago in a high-overhead storefront location, Kristin and Kiko have found new homes for more than 300 dogs, after medical care, neutering. socialization and training. Now that the community has become more aware of the Center, which relocated to an empty lot a month ago, donations of kibble and treats, towels, blankets, concrete, toys and cash have started trickling in to help support their hard work.

Last Monday we had our first Blessing of the Animals at the Catholic Church, with a surprising turnout: dozens of dogs, one cat and a turtle. In Mexico the Blessing traditionally honors St. Francis and brings farmers with their livestock, a sort of land-based version of the Blessing of the Fishermen. Father Javier seemed a little bemused at the sight of all those gringos with their flock of dogs, but good-naturedly waded out into the crowd with his censer and blessed every one, even a couple that arrived late and had to track him down in his office.

Next we're planning a 5k Walk to get dog owners out into the gorgeous spring weather, and then a concert at a local hotel next to the beach. Our concerns are that during the summer, most of the supporters will be back in the States. Their exodus north will begin before Easter. There are a few Mexicans interested in our cause, but not nearly enough to keep the momentum going until next fall.

For now, the Center consists of a small trailer and a number of kennels, so there's no refuge from the heat. So fundraising needs to take place as soon as possible. But here's a plan, created by Kiko, for the center we're hoping to create sometime in the future.

"Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up"

"The best way to get a puppy is to beg for a baby brother — and they'll settle for a puppy every time."

Doggie dramas

2011-01-11T09:22:00.000-08:00

A lot of drama has been unfolding in our lives around the subject of dogs. The new Canine Center held its grand opening last week, complete with ribbon cutting, and now we're concerned with the fundraising that will help keep it open. We are all mindful of the fact that if it had to close, we would have as many as 15 dogs with nowhere to go.

So far, in less than a month, the Center has found homes for a dozen dogs. Yesterday there were only two adoptables left and I went to take photos of them to post here and on the local forum, Viva San Carlos. They're sisters, one a bronze-and-black brindle, the other black with touches of white.

Considering that they spent their first months locked up in a garage, I was amazed at how they've developed since the first time I saw them, only a few weeks ago. Mali, the brindle, used to be hyperactive and pushy, while Luna, the black, was so timid she'd run under the trailer if someone tried to touch her. Now they've both been taught to sit and lie down, they are much calmer and Luna comes up to strangers, still shy but much more amiable. They're sleek and graceful, sweet-tempered and well-behaved. All they need is a place to call home.

Yesterday afternoon a woman named Sheryl emailed one of our members, asking about the Center. She had found a litter of four very small pups under a Dumpster in her neighborhood. So the Capt and I met her in town and took custody of the litter, which we kept overnight and delivered to the Center this morning. They were crawling with fleas, and one had an eye infection.

When we first brought them home, they clung together in a tight knot, watching us with terrified eyes, but by this morning they were exploring (and pooping) everywhere. As you might imagine, we didn't get much sleep last night. We thought they might need bottle-feeding and started out giving them some nutritional paste in a syringe, but they were mature enough for solid food, and when I offered gourmet chow that Chica had refused to eat, they fell upon it as though they'd been starved.

Now they're getting baths and flea treatments at the Center.

But wait! There's more! This morning I drove to Sheryl's house to pick up two more homeless pups, ten weeks old, one male, one female, with black and brown markings similar to a Doberman. She was able to point out the parents nearby; she had found homes for the other four in the litter. I put the puppies into a carrier I had borrowed from the Center, and as I was driving away the parents followed me out the gate, barking furiously. The father, a big handsome fellow, planted himself in front of my car, determined to stop me, but gave up finally and watched as the last of his babies were carried away.

Blanca's Feast

2011-01-09T09:57:00.000-08:00

Blanca had fun trying out the new mandoline slicer we brought her ~ it'll certainly come in handy

Yesterday our cooking club met for our monthly learning session and pig-out. This time it was at Blanca's house high on a hill overlooking the anchorage (I could see our boat from their deck). Blanca's a traditional Mexican cook who spends days on preparation, and we felt hugely blessed to partake of such a feast. Several of us remarked it was the best Mexican food we'd ever had.

Plus we learned some techniques. But most of them, such as making tamales, looked like way too much work for this bunch of gringas.

Go to our new blog, Chop Chop Cooking Club, for more...

Happy now?

2011-01-04T08:38:00.000-08:00

As each new year begins, I always ponder about what would make me happier.

Many people seem to think happiness is too much to hope for in this vale of tears, and we should settle for being contented. Or at least not miserable. But others, like Gretchen Rubin, say that happiness is contagious, and that's reason enough to strive to be happy. And it was Abe Lincoln who said most people are as happy as they make up their minds to be.

Turns out he was right. Here's Dan Gilbert's take on how the brain (or as he refers to it, the "three-pound meatloaf") synthesizes happiness. He puts a lot of things in perspective, with a generous dose of humor. How did Nature get us out of the trees and into the shopping mall?

Interesting, isn't it, how the prefrontal cortex can get bogged down with predictions of how miserable we're going to be, if we don't get what we want, if we lose what we have or don't survive a trauma completely unscathed. Think of all the leaders—Herod, Hitler, Idi Amin, Saddam, Richard Nixon—who have squandered most of their time and resources bolstering their security and control, thinking all that power would bring them happiness.

Kurt Vonnegut's "Galapagos" is based on the theory that we'd be happier without all that extra brain matter, but here we are, stuck with it. So it seems a good idea to make better use of mine, while it's still functioning. I hear my guitar calling...

What, ANOTHER new outfit?

2011-01-03T22:24:00.000-08:00

Nothing like a new getup to start the year right.

I did some shopping, picked some mellow colors, got a new "blogskin" and popped in a few favorite photos. That's our boat in the sidebar. We buddy-boated out into San Carlos bay with our friends Mark and Wendy, so we could photograph each others' vessels with all our canvas up. Now that they've sold "Sol Mate" and gone back to Canada, wonder if they'll be back this way again.

The other shot is our dear departed Salty Dog Sophie, grinning from the bow of my kayak. I wish I had taken her for more kayak rides, she really seemed to enjoy them.

Above is Barra de Navidad anchorage at dawn, my favorite time of day, in one of my favorite places on the coast of Mexico. Sweet memories.

New Year babies

2010-12-29T11:21:00.000-08:00

My son's brindle Boxer, Einstein, is the proud papa of six gorgeous pups. I thought they'd be more naked-looking, but they all have beautiful coats already. The mama is a fawn boxer, very pretty. While he was here, my son showed me a video of the "wedding," from their courtship, flirting, racing around the property together and chasing toys, to the final consummation in the living room.

I know, here I am deeply involved in a shelter for homeless, neglected dogs, and I'm pleased about a litter of puppies. I do hope Einstein's novia isn't going to be bred repeatedly, but I have no control over that situation, and I'm not sorry these little guys came into the world.

Does this template make me look fat?

2010-12-27T08:11:00.000-08:00

On Christmas Eve the Capt and I visited a friend whose house has a spectacular view of the bay, to watch the Lighted Boat Parade. I had assigned myself the challenge of photographing the boats from this great vantage point but the results weren't exactly what I had in mind. I tried the Night setting. The Sports setting. The Fireworks setting. I steadied the camera on the concrete wall, but still the act of pressing the shutter caused a little movement. Oh, well, I thought some of the shots were interesting abstracts anyway... Obviously I need a tripod.

Christmas Day we were at the Yacht Club for dinner. Sounds so la-de-dah, doesn't it? Actually it was the cheapest deal in town: bring a salad or dessert, pay less than $7 per person. No prep, no cooking, no cleanup. Door prizes. Hugs from friends we haven't seen in a while. A Christmas tradition in the making.

Now my mind's on the New Year, thus the change of "outfit" for this blog. And then it'll be changing again after Jan. 1.

Prospero y feliz año, amigos. Have a prosperous and happy New Year, my friends.

Christmas goes to the dogs

2010-12-24T08:58:00.000-08:00

More notes on the progress at the new canine center. We are not calling it a shelter because a legal shelter requires a special license in Mexico, involving mountains of mind-numbing paperwork. Kristin is jubilant over response from local supporters:

Christmas has come to the dogs in a big way this year! They will be having a very nice Christmas dinner thanks to the generous donations we have received. Canned food is such a rarity and I think those shiny cans are just beautiful. They have cookies, rawhides, and new toys as well as new rugs and bedding! They are quite comical to watch when a new toy or bed comes in. It's a mad dash to lay claim to the treasures.

After experimenting with various dog beds, Kristin came up with generous-size steel frames, stretching burlap sacks over them and securing them with heavy-duty plastic ties. Blankets are laid on top. "These hold up better than anything we've tried, and we can just hose them off," she says. Ten of them have been constructed so far.

...and here's a bittersweet story about a chocolate lab and her litter. She has been scavenging from garbage cans because the neighbor who had more or less "adopted" her refused to feed her.

We have been feeding that poor skinny street lab every morning. She came dragging over today with her feet and legs FULL of cactis. I had one of the construction workers hold her down and I pulled them out with pliers... Kiko went over to the owner to get the puppies only to find out they are all gone... Later the workers told me he threw them in the garbage can. They took all of them and they are all in homes. One man said his is eating canned food and the other guy said he has two of them and he and his wife are bottle feeding them.

I dosed the mother with a worm/parasite treatment and hit her with a big shot of vitamins and minerals. She is emaciated and very stressed without her babies... Later she managed to exit the center. I just let her go as she always returns in the mornings. I will get a better hold on her tomorrow. In any event, someone has already spoken for her and she is considered adopted. I have her on a medical hold and she is not going anywhere until she is spayed. I do not spay any animal that is in heat or nursing so it will have to wait a couple of weeks. She should fatten up a little by then. She is a sweetheart. The "owner" claims she isn't really his. He said she just showed up after hurricane Jimena (September 2009), and that is also her name...

Ho, ho ho! Someone delivered hefty bags of kibble yesterday, along with cases of canned food, a real treat for these foundlings

The best news is that today and tomorrow Kristin and her husband Kiko will be able to stay home and celebrate Christmas, after having hired a caretaker over the holiday.

...I am speechless in regard to the support, compassion, and friendship we have encountered this past week. I can't tell you the joy I feel when I look up and see a smiling face at our gate, holding a bag of dog food or a dog bed. It's been a while since these dogs have had a cookie and I laugh out loud at the site of them enjoying them so much.

Camping with dogs

2010-12-21T08:11:00.000-08:00

I mentioned that there was a local movement here to create a shelter for homeless/stray dogs.But a similar center has already been established, that we're going to support, rather than duplicate their efforts. My friend Kristin and her very patient husband Kiko have a small property to which they've added fencing, a trailer, a concrete pad and several other improvements. While our group was having meetings and firing off emails to each other, K&K just went ahead and did what had to be done.

Kris was always the go-to person here when people had unwanted dogs. They dropped off puppies in the middle of the night at her Canine Center, where she was offering boarding, grooming and selling pet supplies. The overhead at that location finally became too much and they had to close. The new property, while smaller, was a gift from an inlaw. But things haven't come easily to K&K, as you'll see in this email she wrote yesterday to our organization.

Outreach is part of their efforts, too. Every morning they drive out into the desert to leave food for the feral dogs living there. Often unwanted dogs, even puppies, are abandoned in the desert to fend for themselves. And they don't limit their kindness to the four-legged needy. Here's their story:

We are not actually even open yet but we have had dogs just pouring in. In the past four days we had 7 puppies dumped/dropped at our new lot... The good news is that six of the seven pups have been adopted! (The remaining pup, a female, is pictured here) That doesn't always happen so we are very happy about that. December typically has the highest adoption rate.

This is our current situation. We have several dogs in the shelter besides the one pup. We do not have adequate staff and are not in a position to hire anyone at this time. We have one young man that is basically stuck there 24/7... Most days we have no one to cover for him and at this time we have no one else to cover the night shift. I hate to burn him out and I can see that is coming VERY soon.

Kiko and I also sponsor a church in one of the little towns here. We are doing our best to get over there and do the food bags and that kind of thing so we have been running back and forth doing that.

...I guess our most pressing need at the moment is finding someone who would be interested in just hanging with the dogs for an hour or two at any time of the day. They wouldn't need to do any work other than playing with the dogs. At least that would give all of us a chance to eat a normal meal at least once a day. We are trying to walk the dogs twice a day as well. We have one lovely couple who have been coming everyday and taking them on their afternoon walk. We had never met them before but are certain they are angels.

As far as the construction of the center goes, we are trying really hard to get organized right now. It's just total chaos. We didn't expect to be found out until we were ready to start taking dogs again but the dogs always manage to find us...

When we have water we will need to pour a slab for the washing machine that just died a slow, painful death.

Our neighbor is requesting that we build a block wall to seperate us from him. He has been very supportive and is in fact, our only source of electricity. However when someone goes behind his building it upsets our dogs and they bark quite a bit. We do our level best not to allow the dogs to bark and disturb anyone. This is the reason for the 24 hour staff. Everywhere I look there I see things I need to get done. I think we are already so tired it's hard to determine what to do next.

We do not have power, water, or sewer yet. It's sort of like dog camping. We have had several people drop bags of dogfood off and for that we are deeply grateful. We don't have everything we would like to have for the animals but we are doing our best to meet their basic needs. We care very deeply for the animals and know that there are so many more who are in desperate need of care. We have several stations in the desert and surrounding areas and at this point I am going out at daybreak to feed and water... I hope to be of assistance in getting the spay, neuter, and vaccination clinic going when we are settled.

Tune in tomorrow...

Spiffed up for Christmas

2010-12-19T11:56:00.000-08:00

I'm always slow to get into the holiday spirit, partly because I feel overwhelmed by all the sham for at least a month. Then something kicks in: a certain song (the Hallelujah Chorus works every time), a certain smell (cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom and clove, or else fir trees). ~~An occasional craving for a hot toddy.~~ I can tell the mood is coming on when I start to clean up the house, put up my chili pepper lights and spiff up my blog. I come up with little surprises for the Capt but I can never wait until Christmas Day to spring them on him. That's the trouble with gifting him with something he really needs or wants, I begin to feel cruel for holding it back from him. He needs that fleece vest NOW, he's cold!

What leaves me cold: the frantic visual and aural clamor in stores, Santa Claus in all his manifestations, the usual articles about how to avoid holiday stress and avoid social stigma by buying just the right gifts. Constant reminders that thefts escalate here during the season, because the have-nots all want to provide gifts for their families too. The notion that Christmas is really just about increasing the luxuries and bling in one's life, thus driving us to buy more shiny stuff, rich food and gadgets.

I've gone from avoiding Christmas entirely (easy to do if you're out in the Pacific on a boat with someone of like mind), to throwing myself into a tizzy a few days before the 25th, which is hard on my wallet and inner peace (who did I forget?) Now I'm looking for some balance, and giving myself the gift of a few (carefully selected) new experiences. Learning carols in Spanish. Treating my nose to wonderful spicy baking aromas while reminding myself to give away most of the results.

Would you believe, for instance, that I've lived my whole life without getting involved in Christmas cookie mania? I made up for that yesterday when I invited Maya, 10, over to make gingerbread cookies we decorated with icing. She's been saying for weeks she wanted to repeat our last very successful cookie project, so I dug up some recipes and she brought over her cutters, which she's been dying to use since last spring. I made up the dough ahead of time since it had to chill, and we rolled out a batch. We cut out moons and little houses, fish and hearts, put them on to bake and because my convection oven repeatedly blew the power strip, they ended up baking far longer than they should have. Definitely turned out al dente. But we had a great time mixing up colored icings. She's fascinated with the process of combining red and blue, red and yellow, blue and yellow and all of the above... We tried using the frosting bag I bought, but the frosting wouldn't hold its shape. Tasted pretty good, though. These may be the ugliest Christmas cookies ever produced, but we were satisfied, and the Capt. enjoyed them too (especially since I had to put off making lunch until after the cleanup).

Whenever I used a word she didn't know, she'd look it up on my computer. And vice versa. So I learned that the Spanish name for my favorite color is verde azulado. A handy thing to know.

She had no apron and was wearing a blouse with flowing sleeves, so she took a plastic bag and cut holes in it for her head and arms, tucking the sleeves inside as they do for school painting class.

Qúe lastima, today Maya, her family and their Yorkie Akira leave for Mexico City for Christmas. I'll miss her birthday and worry she'll come back a blasé teenager. I won't get a chance to sing carols with her and teach her "Las Mañanitas" on the guitar. But she has asked to make cupcakes when she comes back, so I'll spend the time looking for recipes, and maybe doing a little kitchen testing. And make her an apron.

Just say yes

2010-12-14T10:40:00.000-08:00

In the interest of a richer, fuller life, I've been promising myself I'll do something I've never done before, anytime the chance presents itself. Opportunities are be abundant just lately, and I've made a point of saying "Yes!" to as many as possible. It's been keeping me pretty busy, but most of the results have been better than expected.

Last week our cooking club launched a Gingerbread Project: we got together on Tuesday (for the basic structure) and Saturday (for the decorating). My gingerbread dwelling was a doghouse that I gave my neighbors for Christmas.

It wasn't an unqualified success. When I was glueing my first attempt together, I was too impatient to wait for the icing to harden sufficiently, and it collapsed in my hands. So humiliating. So Mary built me another one, what an angel!

Then I started a website for the club, and all the details of the Gingerbread Project appear on the landing page.

It was a doghouse because I have dogs on the brain lately. I'm on the fundraising committee for a new community group planning to establish a shelter for stray and homeless dogs and cats. The goal is not just to warehouse the critters, but to immunize, neuter, medically treat (where needed), exercise and socialize them, so we can eventually find them homes. A number of individuals have succeeded with this process, and hundreds of dogs have been adopted in Mexico and the US through their efforts, but there's never been a centralized location here where the animals could be kept until now. There's a shelter in Alamos which we plan to visit after Christmas, for ideas and inspiration.

So this will be another first for me: I've been involved in community activities, but never the fundraising part. ~~To tell the truth, I always avoided it.~~ The prospect is daunting, but considering that our first fundraiser is just over a month from now, there's no time to be daunted. We're planning to organize a procession to the local church for the Blessing of the Animals which always occurs January 17 in Mexico. I hope to have a logo created, leaflets printed to distribute and t-shirts for the volunteers to wear. There are so many firsts involved in this project I haven't even thought of them all yet!

So if I don't get back to this blog for a while, I want to wish all of you...

Feliz Navidad y Próspero Año Nuevo!

Bedazzled!

2010-12-05T06:43:00.000-08:00

Saturday was a day for getting out and meeting friends, getting hugs and new ideas. First we headed over to the monthly mariners' swap meet, where I saw a number of people who've been gone for months, including Stephanie, who's back from a summer in France where they lived in a village devoted to wine-producing. Talk about your French immersion experience! And then...bingo! We found a propane stovetop with a built-in grill to replace the bulky stove and oven on the boat.

Bonus sighting! Linda Lou and her lavish Glass Pond jewelry

Then I hurried down to the annual crafts fair at the marina (a benefit for Rescate, our local medical rescue service). Que sorprisa! There was Linda Lou from Alamos, a blogger I've been following for a couple of years, and never got to meet before. Her table was laden with gorgeous fused glass jewelry she makes in her Glass Pond Studio, and after all this time of hankering for a piece I had a chance to buy one. Uh oh! I was supposed to meet the Capt and some friends at the Marina Cantina for lunch, already running late and here I was bedazzled with choices... they were all so beautiful it was a hard decision!

I mentioned to Linda that I'm working with a group of people to start a shelter for stray dogs and cats here, and she told me there's one already established in Alamos. I'm hoping to interest some of my group in driving down to see what they've developed, get some ideas and find out how they manage to support their shelter. We don't need to reinvent the wheel...

Hiatus

2010-12-01T10:02:00.000-08:00

A couple of my good friends have inquired about my silence on this blog recently, wondering if I'm OK. After five years of steady blogging I've taken a few weeks' hiatus from the computer and taken on some new challenges.

We made two trips up to Errorzona to pick up and later drop off my son who spent two weeks with us. We had lots of beach walks (his boxer Einstein is such a joy to watch playing in the surf), and long talks. It was the most time we've spent together since he left home 25 years ago, and I enjoyed every minute. There's a chance he might come back, rent an apartment and stay here for a few months, since he's a webmaster and can do his work from anywhere.

I took a number of photos with my camera and iPhone, but this is the only one that turned out. The boys, knackered out from a three-mile beach walk.

I signed on with a fundraising committee for a proposed new animal shelter here in San Carlos and suddenly found myself elected chairman. Yikes! Oh, well, I've been promising myself to take on some things I've never done before, and this certainly qualifies.

There have been weekly jams with guitar-playing snowbirds who arrived in the past few weeks, and I put in a request to join yet another group. A British luthier who lives in Guaymas made some improvements to the action on my guitar, and I'm still considering taking lessons from him. While we were in Tucson the Capt bought me a used-but-still-nifty Roland keyboard amp with vocal input. He also volunteered us to do some songs for a concert benefiting one of the local orphanages, next February. Yikes, again!

This morning I was working on "Santa Lucia," an old Italian song from Naples, picking up the correct pronunciation from a YouTube performance by Enrico Caruso. I'll never sound like Enrico, but at least now I understand that a single "c" is pronounced like "ch" while "double c" sounds like a hard "c." This is not for performing, just to satisfy my own urge to sing that particular song. Three summers ago the Capt and I offered a ride to a group of vacationing Italian teachers who had just arrived on the ferry in Guaymas and needed to get to their hotel in San Carlos. I've never met such warm and friendly people! Somehow we got all six of us and their luggage into my little Escort and on the road home we sang "Santa Lucia." If I ever get the song down well enough to record it, I'm going to send my version to Franca, one of the teachers and ask her to share it with the others.

Tonight I'll start rehearsing with the chorus at San Fernando church for the Guadelupana, a celebration of Día de La Virgen de Guadalupe on December 14. This year we're going to sing at a home for elderly ladies as well as at the church. Lolita, the choir director, is one of my favorite people and I always enjoy singing with her group, and trying out my halting Spanish with them.

The Capt and I finished Parte Dos of a series of Spanish courses with Dolores, a very dedicated and amiable teacher, and will go on to Parte Tres in January. We had quite a few lightbulb moments and I actually found myself, now and then, not having to translate before I spoke. Poco á poco...

Gringo in the graveyard

2010-11-03T09:30:00.000-07:00

The spirits in the Guaymas graveyards may be a little displeased today. Yesterday, Día de Los Muertes, families showed up as usual at the city panteon, but the traditional food, booze and music were prohibited. People milled about carrying flowers, buckets, brooms, cans of spray paint (?) and solemn looks, but because disrespectful late-night marauders got rowdy a few years ago, the city government in its wisdom slapped a ban on the fun part and turned a centuries-old festival into a mundane maintenance chore. No mariachis, no feasts of pan de muerte, cerveza and sugar skulls. ¡Qué lástima!

No flowers adorn this once-elaborate tomb, only graffiti

In the early evening I visited the older of the two cemeteries at the invitation of my friend Alexandra, who's from Hermosillo and has no family in Guaymas, but just wanted to observe the occasion, which promised to be interesting even without the usual fiesta.

It was a day for local entrepreneurs to make a few pesos. By the entrance flower vendors were doing a brisk trade. Several young boys carrying buckets and rags stopped Ale and she explained that they were offering to clean tumbas (tombs) for 30 pesos, and would even sing special songs, which was all the music the dead would get to hear this year.

I was a little worried about the spray cans, having seen some tombs marred with graffiti, but then I saw a fellow clinging to the top of a 12-foot-tall capillo (chapel) spraying a statue of Jesus with copper paint. Guadalupes, angels and cherubs got a similar sprucing-up here and there.

Many graves have planters built into them, and though most were full of weeds, a few people had brought flowers to plant. A big cistern full of water in the middle of the graveyard supplies everyone's needs (including the mosquitoes). Some people bring flowers to place on neglected graves of strangers, Ale said.

Shoulder to shoulder stand Jesus and Winnie the Pooh

Some graves the size of one person are inscribed with several peoples' names, and Ale explained that when the second person in a family dies, the first is removed while the earth beneath him was dug deeper, then he was replaced and the newcomer placed on top of him, as an economy strategy.

Everything is built of rebar and concrete (is that why the Mexican word for cemetery is cementerio?). Much of it is covered with porcelain tile in traditional white, jade green, ice cream pink or swimming pool blue while slabs of marble encase the more affluent departed. One child's pink mausoleo has murals of Winnie the Pooh characters on its walls, while another sports an image of Tweetiebird. Many tombs have small locked enclosures where flowers, photos and mementoes can be placed, safe from thieves. I shuddered when Ale said the tiles and sacred figures were often ripped from graves and resold.

Even without music, food and cerveza, visitors to the cemetery managed to make it a social outing, taking their time with the cleaning and decorating, sitting on the tombs (after respectfully asking permission of the departed) to chat.

Spaces in this particular graveyard have been sold out for years and except for the paths every foot was occupied.

A tower looms over the other graves near the back wall, decorated with an anchor, and I wanted to see if a marinero was buried there. The inscription was in English, and almost 100 years old. Frank E. Brady was a sailor on the USS Raleigh when he died in Guaymas and was buried here in 1914.

Frank Barnes' tower

I Googled the Raleigh, and found it was a vessel that served in the Spanish-American War and toured from Guaymas to Guatemala from 1913 until World War I. Frank's friends were long gone, and no flowers adorned his tower. I was curious how he ended up with such an imposing monument in a Mexican graveyard, especially since his rank wasn't even included in the inscription, which suggests to me that the US Navy didn't erect this monument. A mystery! I pictured someone aboard the Raleigh passing the hat among the crew to give Frank a posh eternal home.

USS Raleigh, Frank Barnes' ship

Missing in action

2010-10-26T12:14:00.000-07:00

My Mac and I, usually the best of friends, have been on the outs lately. Thoughts of our relationship tend to bring on a dull headache.

It's not really the computer, but what it brings into my life that has me grumpy. This morning I spent a half-hour ridding my spam mailbox of thousands of spam emails offering me enhancements for body parts I don't own and millions of dollars if I'll only provide all my private information. I try to imagine the sort of person whose job would entail spewing out this useless drivel into cyberspace, but then most of that work is probably done by a machine that doesn't care what information it disseminates. I don't really want to look into it, so I'm grateful to those who do, such as Spamhaus, which has issued a whitelist of the 200 biggest spam-producers in the world so those so inclined can wreak vengeance on them, hopefully without death threats (see below).

Even worse are the pseudo "comments" that start off sucking up to me with lavish praise and then segue into what they're selling, everything from fashion gear to dental appurtenances and photos of subteen Asian girls. And then there are the well-intentioned chain emails that promise phenomenal good fortune if I participate and hint at an evil fate if I delete, from friends I'd really like to hear from, if they could bestir themselves to send a personal message.

Gearfuse

It's not just the spam that's getting to me. A few weeks ago I read a New York Times series on the downside of long-term intensive exposure to digital devices: impatience, forgetfulness, impaired learning... not to speak of the physical effects of all that sitting. I started thinking about how many times a day I check my email and blog comments, like a lonesome little kid looking for attention. When I'm surfing the Net, I've been noticing how my body shuts down, my metabolism seems to be on low-burner and a fog sets in, closing off the world around me until all I want to do is go back to bed.

Now that most of our computer work is done for the season, it seems ludicrous to be so bonded to this machine. I just got my bicycle fixed. The pool, contaminated by the flood in September, has been cleaned recently. More than a dozen empty planter pots await new greenery in my little garden. Cooler weather has been beckoning me outside for long walks. Two dogs watch me hopefully for a hint we might be going out: my Chica and the neighbors' Akira, a Yorkie who spends the days with us so she doesn't have to be locked in an empty house while her owners are away on their 12-hour workdays.

My guitar sits waiting, and I'm reminded of Keith Richards' remark in his new biography, "Life," that every moment spent not learning the blues is a sin. Keith's not a good influence, but he might have a point there. The computer is my source of lyrics and chords for each new song I learn, but only until the song's printed out.

So I'm doing a 180 from my mindset of September, when I was thinking of blogging every day for a month, just to see if I could do it. My blog posts may be somewhat sporadic now, while I'm missing in action, out seeking some balance. I may lose the few faithful readers I had. I may miss out on some astounding news.

So be it. Life beckons.

We get our life back

2010-10-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

Every year since the Capt and I have been together (22 in all now), we have dedicated a portion of each year to a publishing deadline, which usually falls in the fall. (It used to be worse: I remember when it fell right around Christmas!) Without fail, as deadline approaches, there's always an annual series of mishaps to slow us down, jack up the stress level and make us grumpy. This year, we had a flood and then almost-hourly Internet failures and a Vonage phone that would capriciously cut off crucial conversations with clients. This after upgrading our service with TelMex, with additional monthly charges, which was supposed to increase our speed. Carlos Slim gets richer, we buy more frustration.

But last night we limped to the finish line, uploading the entire publication (an annual map guide to antique stores in the western US) via email to the printer in Oregon. To celebrate, the Capt baked a double recipe of Deadline Ginger Cookies, while I bestowed a pedicure on my neglected feet, which still showed traces of flood mud after three weeks.

Now it's a done deal: any errors or typos or "stupids" as I call them are set in print for the year. So be it. When we upload the whole book onto our website next month, we can correct the booboos, which is some consolation.

October 15 is the official beginning of autumn here, and the weather never lets us down. Presto-change-o! Temperatures magically drop to just about perfect. We can sleep comfortably with just a couple of fans. Go outdoors and enjoy the sun on our backs.
Today at the library, where I volunteer every Friday, several snowbirds I hadn't seen in months stopped by and the two hours flew by while we all caught up with each others' lives. Then I came home and walked the dogs, and noticed that the world just seems somehow brighter and more colorful.

Speaking of colorful... I gently scooped up a designer grasshopper and brought him back home where I could photograph him, an exercise in using my closeup lens. He's almost three inches long, decorated in patterns of teal, green, yellow and coral. The Capt grabbed his camera too and we snapped away like a couple of papparazzi. He accommodated us by holding still for a bit, and then went his way, no worse for his 15 minutes of fame.

Notes from the aftermath

2010-10-06T10:40:00.000-07:00

A full two weeks since our casa was flooded, I'm still cleaning up. That's not all I'm doing, we are in the last weeks of an annual publishing deadline and that takes priority, but there are still papers to dry out, objects to clean and surfaces to spray with vinegar in hope of fighting off mold. There are happy discoveries: yesterday my iPod turned up, long after I'd given up hope of finding it. Our checkbooks got wet, but I was able to dry them. The Capt has been able to save all his hand tools, by soaking them in transmission fluid.

Though we're not likely to be inundated again this season, we went ahead and raised the two-foot stone wall in front of our place a couple more feet, and a strong metal gate is going to be installed. This was part of the plan that we'd put off until next year. Ironically, much of the water seems to have come in from the front door, after we spent considerable time and money fortifying the back.

The stonemason, Ivan, has been toiling in the hot sun for a week and is almost finished, having topped the wall with ceramic tile yesterday. Next we're going to look into getting a pump installed in a concrete-lined pit in the front yard; we may even be able to use one from the boat.

We replaced our now-defunct washer and dryer with a stacking set we bought used, which entailed bringing in electricians to install 220 wiring. Nothing is ever simple, everything requires unforeseen preparations. Part of the learning process.

We've been busy learning about living in a flood zone. I've vowed not to put any valuables on any bottom shelves or in bottom drawers. I'll use baskets to contain objects in low areas, so they can be more quickly swooped up. Next time I hear of a hurricane that's definitely expected to affect us, I'll probably just remove any bottom drawers, since they get warped and need work to fit after they get wet. We are going to fill those 15 sandbags that had been stuffed in the back of our closet, just to impede the high water long enough for all that swooping.

It's also been a time of choosing what I can live without. Forgotten things I spent good money on and never used, as though I bought them for someone else with more creativity and time than I have. Someone living in an alternate universe or dual realities (you can tell we've been watching episodes of "Fringe," the Capt's new favorite sci fi show).

Joshua Jackson as Peter Bishop, investigates on "Fringe" (Fox)

Either I need to make time to take up the activities they represent (what? give up "Fringe?") so I actually put these things to use, or I need to toss away my illusions and lighten my load. I've already started, by giving a huge bag of wet yarn to a friend who knits doggie sweaters and scarves as part of her livelihood.

There's a big box of beads, thousands of them. Fabrics I've hoarded for over a decade. Art supplies in a wooden box that somehow kept them dry, and sketchbooks that sadly got soaked before I ever made a single drawing in them. Dozens of skeins of embroidery thread and several embroidery hoops now in danger of rusting. A whole file box full of songs I used to sing, now a sodden mass of paper. A whole collection of books on the craft of writing, half of which I've had to toss.

Hard to believe, but the paragon of creativity who used all these things was yours truly, at one point or another in her life. This excavation has turned out to be not only one of material objects, but old ideas and urges that just may not fit me anymore. So why are they so hard to give up?

Katrina it wasn't

2010-09-24T19:55:00.000-07:00

...but Georgette brought a lot more than we were prepared for, and two feet of water inside our house damaged a lot more than we expected. I have had homes flooded before, but I've never been IN a flood. It was just so astonishingly fast!

The Capt was out on the boat, replacing a battery so the bilge pump would function and the boat wouldn't sink.

It started as a trickle under the front door which was nothing unusual; we need to replace that door and the threshold. But while I went off to grab a couple of towels, the trickle became a flash flood. Details are a little vague in my memory now, I only recall sloshing around unplugging the computers, grabbing guitars, looking for large bags to carry crucial stuff out. Second-guessing a lot what constitutes crucial. And praying a lot. Shoes from the bottom of my closet, dog dishes and books floated by as I braced the front door shut again and locked it — the deadbolt held! I was furious with myself for not having filled the 15 sandbags we had in the closet, but I'm not sure they'd have made much difference.

Loaded with bags I waded across the parking lot in the downpour to Patricia's casa. She was home with her four kids, and she had some pots on her living room floor to catch drips, but no other worries. She came back with me several times to carry more things. Then she kept Chica the rest of the day, and overnight.

Meanwhile, the Capt was struggling to get back to land in the middle of the storm, and looking forward to being warm and dry, but instead he waded into knee-deep disaster. He recovered pretty quickly and we began the long process of sweeping, squeegeeing and bailing the water back out of the house. What was left was a film of dark brown silt over everything. The bottom two shelves of each bookcase and kitchen cupboard, the bottom two drawers of every dresser and all their contents were covered with a layer of mud. The squeegee came in really handy for banishing that and we wished we had two.

The last two days have been a battle against mold, mildew and rust, with breaks to reconnect computers, phones, sound systems... The Capt was able to save one of our three amplifiers, my computer mouse and a few electrical gadgets I was sure we'd have to replace.

Our next-door neighbors, who are away for the summer, have a sump pump, which we used to pump water out of their patio and as much as we could out of their house. They had no silt. By the next morning it was all gone.

I have plenty to be grateful for:
• The Capt came home safe
• The electricity and water never shut down, even at the height of the storm. So afterward we were able to begin the cleaning and drying process immediately instead of living with the mud.
• My neighbor helped a great deal
• The whole rainstorm lasted no more than a few hours, instead of 36 hours like Jimena last year.
• My fridge didn't take in any water!
• The guitars and computers were saved.
• Our washer and dryer are toast, but we were able to go next door to wash all the clothes and linens that got wet.
• Only a couple of days ago I had moved my family photo albums to a higher (drier) shelf in the bookcase.
• We have flood insurance (she says with fingers crossed)
• I didn't have a terminally ill dog to rescue along with everything else
• The boat didn't sink
• It could have been so much worse.

Flooding in Tabasco, in July

Flooded church in Baja

Georgette: up close and personal

2010-09-22T08:40:00.000-07:00

The rain began in earnest and is still with us this morning, sporadically. Chica doesn't like to get her feet wet; to get her outside I have to carry her a distance, put her down and when she's done her business she races back inside. Such a princess.

At sunrise the whole world turned golden. The sun peeped under the lid of heavy clouds just long enough to gild the air, then everything turned blue, violet and gray as the rains started in again. But there's very little wind, for now. The Capt says that will change.

Georgette, still officially a tropical depression, is 79 miles south-southeast of us at present. Even though her wind speed is down from yesterday at 35mph, we'll get 50mph because she spins counter-clockwise with a NNW movement of 14mph. I don't pretend to understand all this, but if you look at the right-hand edge of her path where it meets land, you see it touches the northwest edge of a little bay next to Guaymas. That spot is where we are.

And wouldn't you know it: we have a full moon again! Interesting how many significant things seem to happen at the full moon.

Our neighbor came over this morning with Akira, Chica's playmate, and urged us to be prepared for major weather. Schools are closed in Guaymas and San Carlos, and the school where she teaches will likely be flooded. If the roads are passable later, she and her husband plan to go help with the cleanup.

Compared with storms we've seen in past years, and especially compared with the major hurricanes this year that have inundated areas such as Vera Cruz, this is not bad. In case of a power outage, we have a generator on the boat that the Capt plans to retrieve. I've got candles, drinking water and a butane stove, and I bought groceries yesterday. I even bought a new umbrella recently. We're lucky to have some advance notice,

I always like to be prepared for company.

¡Por fín, la lluvia!

2010-09-21T12:37:00.000-07:00

At last, the rain cometh! It seems for a month we've been watching lightning beyond the hills, but no rain, and in spite of our awareness that rain could be excessive, could cause flooding in our new home, could leak through the newly-constructed roof of our newly-constructed additional room, we're still glad to see it. While fellow bloggers in Vera Cruz are watching entire colonias vanish beneath floodwaters, we've been sitting high, dry and hot.

This wonderful shot of lightning near the Tetas de Cabra is not one of mine... I don't think my camera is capable of such a shot. It was posted on the local forum, Viva San Carlos.

Georgette is probably responsible for this weather. StormPulse and WunderGround, two weather tracking sites I refer to, both show her as a tropical storm currently just south of Cabo San Lucas, with winds of only 40 mph. Not good for boating, but not a harrowing prospect at the moment. If she affects Sonora, it will be Wednesday around 11am according to both predictions. How do they figure these things out? Beats me.

RIP Sophie Pearl

2010-09-19T12:05:00.000-07:00

Viva!

2010-09-16T20:19:00.000-07:00

It was a night to shout, and I did my best, shouting until I was hoarse. My friend Ale and her husband Ulisses invited to Guaymas Municipal Palace for a celebration of the Bicentennial of Mexico's movement for independence from Spain.

The war for independence was launched at 6AM September 16, 1810 by Father Miguel Hidalgo in front of his church in Dolores. Mexicans still celebrate the that initial call to arms every year by gathering in their hometown's central square, where the mayor or highest ranking officeholder in town stands in front of their equivalent of city hall and shouts, as Hidalgo did, the words that stirred the people and sparked the war for independence. The Spanish word for "shout" or "scream" is gritar, and the reenactment is called El Grito. But we don't get up at 6AM for El Grito anymore because when Porfirio Diáz was president, he moved the celebration back a day, to coincide with his birthday and maybe because he was a night owl instead of an early bird. (Thanks to Mexico Bob for that tidbit).

What Hidalgo said (translated into English) was:

My children: a new dispensation comes to us today. Will you receive it? Will you free yourselves? Will you recover the lands stolen three hundred years ago from your forefathers by the hated Spaniards? We must act at once… Will you defend your religion and your rights as true patriots? Long live our Lady of Guadalupe! Death to bad government! Death to the gachupines (Spaniards)"

Then he shouted something along the lines of "Viva la México!" The revised Bicentennial version of that shout goes like this:

Mexicans!

Long Live the Heroes that gave us our Fatherland!

Long Live Hidalgo!

Long Live Morelos!

Long Live Josefa Ortiz de Dominguez!

Long Live Allende!

Long Live Aldama and Matamoros!

Long Live National Independence!

Long Live the Independence Bicentennial!

Long Live the Centennial of the Revolution!

Long Live Mexico!

After each line, the crowd simply shouted back, "Viva!" Ale and Ulisses filled me in a little more with a little Mexican history lesson about Hidalgo, Josefa Ortiz de Dominguez and Ignacio Allende, and others. These "Heroes that gave us our Fatherland" all came to a bad end. Josefa Ortiz was locked into a convent and the rest beheaded, their heads displayed at the public granary building, called the Alhóndiga de Granaditas, in Guanajuato.

As part of his traditional duties last night, the mayor of Guaymas, in addition to doing the shouting, had the job of ringing a large brass bell and waving a large Mexican flag, which requires quite a bit of coordination, Ale confided.

Everywhere I looked were tiny niñas in red, white and green dresses, their hair done up in braids with ribbons, or sporting little sombreros. When the mayor had finished his performance the crowd began singing the national anthem, and even Ale (who knew several stanzas by heart) was surprised how long the song was. Just about everybody had to wait through the verses and then chime in on the chorus.

I set myself a challenge of improving my night photography, easy enough when I shot stationary objects, like the Municipal Palace, not so easy when I photographed the excellent mariachi band that warmed up the crowd.

My Olympus has a setting for capturing fireworks, so I was able to get a reasonable shot of the castillo (a framework for a series of fireworks) which at its climax spelled out "Guaymas" and included a portrait of Hidalgo. The portrait was rough, but how much detail can you expect with incendiary devices?

My goal for next year: to take sharper fireworks and night shots, and memorize at least the chorus of the anthem. Viva Mexico!

Year of the Dogs

2010-09-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

2010 will always be remembered around here as the year of dog issues. The year Chica, our two-year-old Maltese went from being a fleet-footed, ball-chasing, scampering ball of energy to being a crippled sad-eyed creature old beyond her years. After surgery she's able now to stand and walk on that hind leg, but she still favors it when she runs, and she doesn't run as far or as fast. So much for entering her in the Doggie Olympics, even though she has now learned to toss the ball herself, with quite a bit of accuracy.

It's also the year our other Maltese, Sofia, who's almost fourteen, or 98 in dog years, got sick for the first time. This past week she has become mysteriously ill and is starving herself. She's wobbly and dazed when she's on her feet, which is rare because she spends most of her time in her bed. The vet says she has some kind of stomach infection, and gave her antibiotic injections, following up now with Azitromi antibiotic pills. We're instructed to force-feed her yogurt twice a day to counteract the side effects of the antibiotics, and Pepto Bismol and Nutri-Plus gel that comes in a tube and is supposed to stimulate her appetite and replace the nutrients she has lost. We administer all this in needle-less syringes, inserted through the gaps in her mouth where she has lost teeth. She has no fever, which the vet says rules out tick-borne illness. It's been five days, and I can't help but wonder how long she can go on without eating. Is she going to have to be fed intravenously? Do we want to resort to that?

Chica, Akira and Sofia

As if two dogs in the house weren't enough, we regularly dogsit a Yorkie who lives across the parking lot. She has the misfortune of being part of a family that is seldom home in the daytime because they run a school in Guaymas, which pretty much rules out her ever becoming housetrained. Whenever I'm able to be home most of the day I let them know, and Akira comes to stay with us, so she can spend time with other dogs, get outside to do her business and receive considerably more attention than she would otherwise. She also comes for sleepovers when her people have to go out of town, as they did Friday (forgetting to mention they'd be gone all weekend!) I'm keeping a close eye on her because she's at least eight months old, hasn't been neutered and she's probably due to go into heat at some point. Her owners plan to breed her, but who would take care of her and her pups, if they did? And if they don't actually breed her, are we going to be fighting off the neighbors' two pit bulls (probably also not neutered), which are let loose every morning at dawn? Caramba!

I'm feeling way in over my head, but grateful for friends like Kristin at the Canine Center, who has seen it all and can be counted on for good advice.

Rant of a (former) slave to fashion

2010-09-09T09:13:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel like I was dropped here from another planet, or I'm lacking in some ultra female gene. At 10, I had a dream of being a fashion designer, fired by a vision of launching a counter-trend that would give women permission to be comfortable in their clothes. Then I discovered boys and peer pressure, and submitted to all the insanity that brought on: waist-cinchers, high heels, petticoats, big hair... the full catastrophe. I was over it (pretty much) by the time I reached 20.

A recent WikiHow tutorial about "How to Make Your Jeans Fit Tighter," made my skin crawl. But in my hormone-addled youth, before Spandex, I might have been all for it. I remember once taking up the seams in a pair of jeans I deemed too baggy, and when I was done I tried them on, and was pleased with the results until I sat down(!)

On my Avoid Like Dengue List is ultra-high heels — in fact, if they were socially required like bras are (and don't get me started on that), I'd just stay home the rest of my life or move to the hinterlands. I confess I bought a few pairs, but they always ended up with the dust bunnies in the back of the closet. Haven't women gotten the memo about what those five-to-seven-inch stilettos do to the body? Like tight jeans, they might look attractive on a standing model. But tell her to hurry down a cobblestone street and watch something truly comical. Here in Sonora they go more for sparkly flipflops. Without a backstrap they may not stay on that well, but at least a girl doesn't have so far to fall.

A style that seems to keep coming back like a plague of locusts is the outfit I call the "sausage dress" because it looks like the subject was stuffed into it. Every bump, lump and roll is mercilessly outlined, especially when the wearer sits. It's short enough to make bending over a risky option, and cut low enough in front that what wasn't stuffed inside appears to be spilling out over the top. This style might be a good look for a tiny fraction of women who adopt it, if they don't mind being confused with streetwalkers, but somehow it has be exalted to "must-have" status for young (and sadly, not-so-young) women.

Don't forget decorated acrylic fingernails that appear to render hands virtually useless, lamentably a style that has burgeoned here in Mexico where acrylic nail salons charge under $20 for a full set. I don't know how a woman could even cook with these, much less play a musical instrument, change a diaper or take a photo.

Combine all of the above and there you have it: the opposite of the burka and yet just as slavish, uncomfortable and detrimental to freedom of movement.

All this ruminating over the ways women enslave themselves or are physically oppressed by society began when I saw "The Canvas Prison," a long video about the imposition of the burka, particularly in Afghanistan. Fashion's not the ruler there, but male-mandated laws rooted in deep hatred and fear of women's power of attraction. Mohammed wasn't the one who came up with this ultimate fashion disaster; it's been imposed throughout the ages, most recently in the early 20th century by a ruler who fretted over men staring at his 200 wives. His solution: throw tents over them! And they're still doing it, almost 100 years later!

Miguel's dilemma

2010-08-28T21:12:00.000-07:00

Eight puppies are swarming all over the yard where our friend Miguel has his workshop and storage rental, the offspring of his guard dog Wendy. It's the one drawback to having a female guard dog, unless she gets neutered, which Miguel is not inclined to do.

Papa might be a German Shepherd, from the looks of some of the pups, or a Rottweiler. They're all males, and will probably be bigger than Mamacita, who's a medium-size longhair with no resemblance to them.

Now Miguel needs to find homes for these little guard-dogs-in-training. I know, if he kept them all he'd have a formidable army that nobody would want to mess with. They're a month and two days old, and have yet to see a vet, but they are very healthy and bright-eyed, well-cared-for and socialized.

Now if we can just talk Miguel into having Wendy fixed...

Watching out for bad words

2010-08-28T08:46:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love about learning Spanish: a whole new world of words. I collect words like a little kid collects shiny new marbles.

But as I delve further into the language in my current classes with Loli and Lolita, I'm more aware of the pitfalls of mispronunciation. Saying a word wrong can bring about reactions from mild amusement to hilarity to disdain to outrage — although outrage is rare since Mexicans are a lot more patient with the Spanish of gringos than North Americans are with the English of latinos.

Two of my favorite sources which present me with a new word each day are Dictionary.com and SpanishDict.com (which I mentioned in a previous post). I like the fact that they both give sample sentences and the roots of the words, which help me remember them. SpanishDict also offers idioms or common Spanish sayings too. (Collecting choice idioms is even more fun than collecting words!)

Today's Spanish word is noctorno, easy because it's a cognate, similar enough to the English word to be recognizable. But yesterday's was a challenge, not because it's long but because it's not easy to pronounce: otorgar which means to grant, to award or bestow. I had a hard time wrapping my tongue around the "r" so I had to exaggerate rolling it and I still can't say it fast (not to speak of three times!) But it's a word I want for my collection because the idiom is one we should all keep in mind: Quien calla otorga, which means "Silence gives consent."

My English word-for-the-day was orthoepy, the study of pronunciation, which is precisely what I'm trying to do. If I were to study Spanish without a teacher, using only a book as I used to do ~~because I was too cheap to pay a teacher,~~ skipping my orthoepy and learning incorrect pronunciation, I would be guilty of cacoepy, or mispronunciation of words. Cacoepy comes from the Greek kakos (bad) and epos (word). In fact, if I habitually mispronounce words, I could be called a cacoepist.

How's that for an insult?

Whither Frank?

2010-08-26T19:14:00.000-07:00

Just as the summer doldrums become almost unbearable, it's time for our annual Storm Vigil. Let's have a big hand for Hurricane Frank.

Three hundred thirty-one miles due south of Cabo San Lucas, Frank is spinning its way north/northwest, creeping along at 10mph, with 90mph winds. Frank, rated Category 1 for now, is bringing havoc to the aptly named Islas Socorro ("Help!"), a group of islands 376 miles west of Barra de Navidad and Melaque, two of our favorite anchorages. The main island in the Socorro chain is inhabited by the Mexican navy, and the rest are uninhabited.

The Capt thinks Frank may be headed our way after barreling through Baja. This map, courtesy of Stormpulse.com, shows Guaymas, 20 minutes from us and 682 miles north of Frank's position. I'm still puzzled how the predictors can say where a storm will be landing a week from now, and they've been wrong before. So far it's only been plotted up to 11am Tuesday morning, when it's expected to make landfall on the Baja coast. I'm wondering if it will affect the other San Carlos, in Magdalena Bay, where Jimena caused so much damage last year, much worse than our San Carlos.

Stormpulse is a useful weather site, with a discussion page that clarifies what you see on the map. Click on any town on the map and you can see how far it is from the storm. History buffs can dig into the Hurricane Archives all the way back to 1851; I could probably find the one that wiped out my great-grandparents in Southeast Texas. The site has been added to the Hurricane Watch list at right.

Night moves

2010-08-25T07:49:00.000-07:00

Last night the Capt spotted a couple of coatimundis racing through the parking lot, and my first reaction was a resolution not to let the dogs out at night without a chaperone anymore. I've seen skunks here a few times at night, but these coatis are, from what I've heard, more of a danger to small dogs that attempt to chase them. They're members of the raccoon family and inherited that fierce sense of self-protection that could lead them to attack our girls, who have had almost no exposure to wildlife and would probably mistake one for a cat.

I've never had a close encounter with a coati, only running away at a distance, but I looked them up this morning and learned that they can be adopted as pets, though they're likely to tear up a home if left to their own devices. Very hyper and vocal, according to one web page, http://6thgradeanimalresearch.pbworks.com/Coatimundi

Poodle del día

2010-08-24T13:26:00.000-07:00

Kristin at San Carlos Canine Center, affectionately known as Wagmore, has collected yet another foundling dog looking for a good home. This one's a white French poodle, a very small full-grown female with a shy but sweet disposition, though protective of her food (no surprise since she was starving when she was found).

She'd probably be happiest in a one-dog household. She has been groomed and was given the full treatment at the vet. Now she just needs some one-on-one time with a human who loves her. Could that be you?

A touch of cabin fever

2010-08-23T06:28:00.000-07:00

...or maybe it's the full moon.

In summertime, our world tends to shrink down to four walls. It's the busiest season for our publishing business, and much of August and September we'll be bonded to our computers and the telephone, not all that eager to go outside anyway, when the heat feels life-threatening.

But now and then I hear from a friend whose adventures stir up my urge to go roving. Russ and Phyllis, intrepid world travelers who spend most of their time vagabonding in style, have been beguiling me with daily reports of their exploits. Just back from a round-the-world tour, now they've outfitted an RV they call "IVan" and started across the Midwest with their grandson, visiting some places I'd never have thought of as vacation destinations (Ypsilanti? Sandusky?) but they seem to be having a wonderful time. Phyllis has hinted that she'll be starting a blog, but so far she's been too busy living her life to blog about it.

Russ and Phyllis stopped last week in Cedar Breaks, Ohio, which is famous for its roller coasters

And now I'm in touch with Isabelle, a Frenchwoman I first met when she was here in Mexico a couple of years ago. Currently she's in France, soon to return to her boat, a 32-foot Swedish ketch, in Portugal. A mutual friend stopped off at the library and gave me Isabelle's email, and when I wrote yesterday she immediately responded with her blog address. Now I can armchair-travel my way through Europe! Join me, by visiting Isabelle's blog, Nomad's Dream.

Fishing harbor at Le Croisic, France, from Isabelle's blog, Nomad's Dream

We'll publish in less than six weeks, and then we wait three weeks for our annual antique guide to come off the press. I'm daydreaming up a jaunt of some kind, maybe a road trip with the Capt and my son if he can ~~finally~~ get down here. So much of Mexico is waiting to be explored.

But for now, back to work.

Bugs and Blue Flashes

2010-08-21T07:07:00.000-07:00

I was up at 4:15 this morning, reading the New York Times, cooking lentils and white bean soup. This time of year, when skies are overcast and hinting at rain, there's a fleeting moment before dawn when the whole world outside turns an intense lapis blue, and I was trying to capture it with my camera. You could call it the Blue Flash, it changes so quickly. I spied it through the window, grabbed the camera, and by the time I got outside the blue had faded into gray. Oh, well, maybe tomorrow morning.

Giardia lamblia under the microscope, at Wikipedia

The soup is for a friend who has been sick for weeks. Yesterday her lab tests came back positive for giardia, so I was Googling for information. I already knew it was a waterborne parasite, but wanted to know more, for her sake and my own. Giardia is a tough little bug, able to survive in cold water or hot spas and even after it's been treated, usually with metrodanyzol (flagyl), gut discomfort can go on for a long time. Dogs also get giardia, and I'm thinking of having us all tested.

We're not the only ones contemplating menacing bugs. The NY Times reports there's a huge infestation of bedbugs in Manhattan that is causing a social schism between those who have them and those who want to avoid them. A Times Square movie theater had to shut down while their seats were treated, and a Victoria's Secret store was shunned by customers scared of shedding their clothes in suspect dressing rooms. Bedbugs are by no means limited to New York, but are chomping on humans "almost everywhere" according to the CDC.

It's enough to give you insomnia. On the other hand, if you're in the business of selling new mattress sets, you're probably having a record quarter.

Lolita and Loli*

2010-08-18T08:26:00.000-07:00

One of the high points of my week is the Tuesday Spanish conversation class with Lolita. It can only be called a class because she gently corrects us if we stray from proper grammar, and fills in the gaps when we can't come up with the proper word. (Whenever a new word pops into our chat, I quickly scribble it down in my notebook and show it to her to check the spelling.) It also differs from the usual conversation in that at 4:30 the guests dip into their handbags and come up with fifty pesos, which we place discreetly on the coffee table. Somehow it seems gauche to discuss the financial part of the arrangement. But after a couple of years of meeting like this, it feels like a get-together with old friends, very comfortable and sometimes hilarious. In summer, it's only Brenda, myself and Lolita, but in winter three snowbirds from Washington and Canada join us.

What do we talk about for a whole hour? Yesterday Lolita and Brenda talked about how they got together with their mates. I missed some of Lolita's story, since she talks faster when she gets animated, and sometimes I have to confess, "You lost me." But what I took from it was that she met him when she was 12 and he kept her supplied with comic books and chewing gum. (Brenda, you may have more details.) Later on, when they began to show an interest in each other, one of her older sisters was assigned to chaperone.

Brenda's story was that she suggested a seafood restaurant for their first date, after he assured her he liked fish. It wasn't until years later he finally owned up to the fact he didn't like fish at all!

Then I shared una historia muy triste, about the armed takeover of Tenacatita, formerly an ejido on one of the most beautiful beaches on the southern coast, now in the possession of a corporation planning to build a golf course resort. Brenda pointed out that such land grabs are not unheard-of in the US and Canada, too. When a rich man (or city) wants a choice piece of property, nothing can stop him.

I just stumbled on a blog by a gringa writer learning Spanish in Argentina. Her all-female group's approach was to read and write love poetry and letters under the tutelage of a sexy male tutor, hence the name Sexy Spanish Club. Sometimes we just need a little extra motivation...

Today I'm going to enroll in an intensive new Spanish class along with a few friends, all of us hoping to polish our Spanish conversation skills. Loli, the teacher is widely known to be one of the best in this area, and she has developed some new techniques we're all curious to learn about. Will she use flashcards? Videos? Will she put us to sleep and play tapes to train our subconscious?

Tune in tomorrow...
*Lolita and Loli are both apodos or nicknames for the name Dolores.

In the early morning rain

2010-08-16T06:03:00.000-07:00

We've been having biblical skies this weekend, promising a good drenching, but not really delivering much. A couple of cloudbursts, some sprinkles. We're waiting with fingers crossed for the first real deluge, since the bricklayer who did the work on the new roof did a poor job of joining with the existing roof, leaving cracks that allow water into the new room. The Capt did his best to repair it, but now we can only wait and see. He also replaced a rotted section of the front door frame, where water seeped in with every rain.

I love the atmosphere of impending rain, when the breeze freshens and there's a bit of a charge in the air, so energizing after weeks of relentless sunshine. Too much of anything is not a good thing. And the same will be true if we have another tropical storm like last year, when Jimena caused so much damage here in 36 hours of unending rain and wind. We have done quite a lot of construction in hopes of fending off a flood, but we won't know whether all the expense and effort was worth it until it's tested by a good downpour. So we hope for the best, and buy flood insurance.

"But that's a dame, they're all the same"

2010-08-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

Vintage ad from Pop Massive

Last week the Capt was learning to play a new song, with a catchy tune and contagious syncopated rhythm. "Girl Talk" (from the 1965 movie "Harlow") was one of the hits that made Tony Bennett famous. I was intrigued, thinking it would be fun to sing, until he handed me the lyrics. "It's a bit...um...sexist," he remarked."Sexist" isn't even a word that was around in 1965. "Misogynist" might almost fit...it's a song for a man who chooses women for a particular combination of looks, immaturity and lack of intellect and then runs them down for their superficial interests. The last verse—the icing on the cake—turns it into a love song. Humph! I'm thinking of rewriting the whole thing. I may have no choice, can't get the tune out of my head!

They like to chat about the dresses
   they will wear tonight
They chew the fat about their tresses
   and the neighbours' fight
Inconsequential things that men
   don't really care to know
Become essential things that
   women find so apropos

But that's a dame
They're all the same
It's just a game
They call it girl talk, girl talk

They all me-ow about the ups and
   downs of all their friends
The who, the how, the why,
   they dish the dirt, it never ends
The weaker sex, the speaker sex,
   we mortal males behold
But though we joke, we wouldn't
   trade you for a ton of gold

So baby stay, and gab away
But hear me say
That after girl talk
Talk to me...

GIRL TALK
From the film "Harlow" (1965)
(Neal Hefti / Bobby Troup)

A bookworm looks at going digital

2010-08-14T10:26:00.000-07:00

Don't get me wrong. I'm bonded with my computer, and not only because I make my living on it. I love the fact that I can Google facts and keep track of my friends and family. The output of my camera is dedicated solely to the Internet; I haven't printed a photo in months. But with the coming of the cyber age I will miss some things, such as bookstores.

A New York Times article last Wednesday demonstrates how prevalent the e-book has become in the States. I've been out of touch, since there are no English-language bookstores here. Since the Capt and I agreed to limit our trips to the US, my access to books has dwindled to our local library, where I volunteer Friday mornings. But when I lived in California, one of my favorite pleasures was browsing bookstores such as Barnes and Noble and Crown. Not that I could afford to buy many volumes, other than an occasional markdown from the sale tables. I went the book club route for a while, finding I couldn't keep up with it and books started coming to me that I didn't want. Later on I bought my share of books from Amazon.com.

But I liked browsing stores that sold used books, and libraries, accepting the fact that the hot new novel wouldn't reach me for three or four years. I stopped going to movie theaters, too, and settled for movies on TV, or DVD rentals. I'm not bothered by being a half-decade behind the times.

So when I first heard of the Kindle e-reader, I wasn't keen on buying it. Now I'm on the fence. What I like about it is the portability (perfect for boat people, road-trippers and frequent fliers) and the ability to store thousands of books in such a small space. But I'm so used to free and cheap used books, the idea of spending $25 or more on a new novel seems ludicrous to me.

Yesterday at our exchange library a discussion came up about the Kindle e-reader. Bob, one of our patrons, was asking Barbara, a staff member who bought one as a gift a couple of years ago, whether the Kindle was worth the investment. Barbara paid $300 for hers, but the price has gone down and the Kindle is starting to look like a good deal. That the newest unit ($189 at Amazon) now comes with wifi and even 3-G wireless so you can order a book online without your computer makes the $300 unit obsolete already. The newest model will work as an audio book, too. And it holds a vast library of 3,600 books, more than I'd ever find room for in my house. There's a waiting list for the new Kindle, by the way, just to give you an idea of the unexpected demand.

Barnes & Noble bowed to the inevitable and came out with their own e-reader, called the Nook, which is $259 but has space for a million books. All the reading devices on the market are compared here.

The big drawback for me is the expense factor, with e-books even on Amazon going for at least $10. There's no market for used e-books because they can't be resold. Too bad for readers like me, who never reread a novel while there are so many more out there to discover. (I do have a reference collection that I'll probably always keep.) I'd probably delve into free e-books available through services such as the Baen Free Library and Project Gutenberg, if I had a Kindle. Googling "free e-books" yields page after page of sources, not that you'll find Nora Roberts or John Grisham there.

Meanwhile, our little exchange library flourishes, with more used books coming in every week. Our space is limited so we put any duplicates on our sale table, at a peso apiece, to help pay our ongoing expenses. We have a chatty group of patrons, and when the subject of e-books and e-readers comes up, most people say they still like to browse, hold volumes in their hands. And of course, the free trade aspect of coming in with five books and walking out with five we've never read is irresistible. So is the fact that we can freely pass on books to friends we think would enjoy them. It looks like, for the foreseeable future at least, the Kindle and its ilk won't put us out of business.

The huge brick-and-mortar bookstore chains, and the smaller stores that carry predominantly new printed books? It looks like their days are numbered.

Let's you and him fight

2010-08-12T06:40:00.000-07:00

This time of year the Capt and I are often up long before dawn. At five a.m. this morning, it's still relatively cool outside, and I feel more energetic, eager to get things done in the garden. Sofia and Chica have things to do outside, too, so we file out the front door, into a world of bugs. The air is so full of them, I avoid opening my mouth, and keep a hand near my face to fan them out of my eyes. Flying bugs, clumsy bugs that seem to be spinning in circles at my feet, and millions of crickets. with their wall of sound.

Wikipedia says crickets sing by rubbing their wings together, not their legs, and only the males can sing. They have a quiet little courting song to attract the silent females, and a loud one for warning off other males. Their "ears" are located in an odd place, just below their knees. This time of year, with so many of them about, they're all very occupied with warning each other off, thus the wall of sound. And with such a population explosion, I shouldn't be surprised that quite a few of them end up inside my house. If it's true what they say in Barbados, that a cricket in the house brings money, we should be sitting pretty. But then again, crickets have been known to eat clothing, so a cricket in the closet might not be a good thing.

I discriminate when I choose what bugs to kill and what bugs to rescue and relocate outside the house. Without remorse, I'll mash a cockroach or a scorpion, but crickets get a free ride. I use a clear plastic container and a dustpan, and try to avoid damaging their legs or antennae when I scoop them up and carry them out.

Something I didn't know: Wikipedia says crickets can bite, and inflict pain if they chomp on a tender place like, for instance, the webbing between fingers.

In some parts of Southeast Asia and Mexico cricket fighting is popular, with betting, champion breeding and even mafia efforts to control the outcome of fights. I watched a Chinese cricket fight on YouTube, and it seemed to me most of it involved the owners goading the crickets with long, thin sticks to put them in a fighting mood. It's said that good fighting cricket can cost as much as a cow in some parts of China, which seems extravagant considering crickets only live 100 days.

One mind at a time

2010-08-10T07:25:00.000-07:00

In the five years I've lived in Mexico, I've always suspected that sooner or later I was sure to find myself into a situation in which I would need to, or want to, teach English to someone. I've wondered how I'd go about it, how I could make it interesting, how we would wade through the myriad complexities of my native tongue. But somehow I always thought I'd be working with an adult. What I wasn't expecting was that I'd take on a whole family.

Well, not a whole family at once. I'm starting with O, a 7-year old boy and M, his 10-year-old sister. (If I'm successful, I might tackle their 6-year-old twin sisters.) Both have had some exposure to English and since their parents are educators they've been expected to work harder than the average kid. But neither is what you'd call a natural-born scholar, so they need motivation. And it turns out that M, the 10-year-old, has recently gotten a major dose of motivation: her pride is at stake. She's been invited to visit family in El Paso. Cousins who have spoken English all their lives. So in order to not completely humiliate herself, M. is actually asking me for English lessons. I never thought of myself as a schoolmarm, but still...

For one thing, other than raising my son, I have had little experience with children. No grandchildren, nieces, nephews or stepchildren, only one younger sister who seemed to have turned adult when she was about seven. Until I got acquainted with M, I hadn't been all that interested in spending time with niños...not because they especially annoyed me (as they do the Capt) but because I was a little put off by their restless energy and short attention spans. But M and I have an affinity for each other, even with our language difference, that has changed my whole outlook where kids are concerned. And her sensitive, appealing little brother O touches my heart the way my own boy did at that age.

So yesterday we made a start, M and I, using a book from the series called The Babysitters' Club. (We originally tried reading The Swiss Family Robinson, but I think it's a little too difficult for now.) I asked her to keep a notebook of English words she needs to have explained. Yesterday's reading took us into the topic of extended families and we had a discussion about step-siblings, step-parents, and half-siblings. My dictionary says you add astro to the nouns hijo (hijastro), padre (padrastro), madre(madrastra), hermano (hermanastro) to convert them to "stepchild," "stepfather," "stepmother," or "stepbrother." So I'm learning a little Spanish too. Next session, I'll take my dictionary with me, and make my own notes.

My greatest resource is the library, where I volunteer every Friday. We recently received a large donation of children's books and today I'm going to see what I can find for O's age group.

I'm hoping a couple of my friends who've had more experience teaching English can provide some tips on coaching M and O. Conversation sessions may end up being our main focus, but I'm hoping the reading will help develop their vocabulary. When I was O's age I was just beginning a lifelong love affair with books, and by the time I was M's age, I was a full-blown closet reader, fending off parents and teachers who constantly annoyed me by coaxing me to go outside and play. M and O seem fairly typical in that they don't seem to like books very much. I'm hoping I can change their minds, because I believe my lifetime of reading has done more to educate me than any teacher ever did.

Games using language, too, would be useful. I can see I'll be spending a lot of time Googling.

I'd love to hear any ideas or experiences that might help me with this project.

View envy

2010-08-08T13:58:00.000-07:00

I treated myself to a visit with my friend Jan on this lazy Sunday afternoon. She's just returned from a trip to Arizona, where she obtained a couple of items at Trader Joe's for me. It's a treat not only because we get to indulge in some girl talk, but I get kisses from the world's friendliest dog, Teddy, and I can stand and gape at her breathtaking view of the anchorage. Looming over it all are the Tetas, our most famous landmark, magically covered with green after the recent rains. They're called Las Tetas de Cabra because they're said to look like the teats of a goat. To me, the vertical rock on the taller peak looks like a thumbs-up signal.

Today has been one of the hottest of the year, and we're all lying low with the AC cranked on full blast. Here's Teddy, with his rubber chicken, spread out flat on the cool tile floor. Isn't he gorgeous?

Behind the Eight Ball

2010-08-07T10:50:00.000-07:00

S/V "Bliss," with teal canvas and trim, sits waiting for the move to her new mooring "There is nothing, absolutely nothing, half so much worth doing
as simply messing about in boats."

Ratty to Mole in Kenneth Grahame's classic, The Wind in the Willows.

This morning we spent some time messing about in our boat, and while the breeze was light and cool we moved to another mooring, closer to the docks and better maintained. She will stay there until after we go to press, and then we'll haul her out and put her in the workyard where she'll get a long overdue new coat of LPU paint and some other cosmetic improvements.

When the weather isn't so oppressively hot we'll be able to get busy cleaning chrome, sanding wood, finishing the interior woodwork and "putting lipstick on the pig." The plan is to get her ready to sell, although I'm feeling a pang of regret over the idea of making her beautiful only to turn her over to someone else.

Our view: the gap is the gate to San Carlos Bay, guarded by a rock that in profile looks like a Mohawk Indian. To the left is the Caracol.

While I might not be as infatuated with boats as Ratty, I was having fun scampering barefoot around the deck and indulging my inner tomboy.

Our new mooring is Number 8, so we were joking with each other about being "behind the eight-ball."

Someone brought me flowers

2010-08-06T19:00:00.000-07:00

Today I used the iPhone camera to get a shot of a bouquet of bonbon jasmine a kind library patron named Bob brought me today from his garden. I've seen a number of jasmine varieties, but this one's new to me. They're so fragrant I can smell them across the room, their leaves are a lovely, glossy green and Bob says I can buy the plants at a nursery here in town.

Now I'm picturing a couple of Talavera pots planted with bonbon jasmine by my front door, their fragrance wafting on the breeze.

Any of my friends who are allergic to flowers will have to come in the back door.

The iPhone doesn't produce what I'd call "tack sharp" photos with indoor lighting, but they're large so they can be reduced, improving the resolution.

Last Croak of the Cell From Hell

2010-08-05T19:41:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've finally moved into the 21st century, cellphone-wise, and I'm only 10 years late.

For more than a year I've been carrying a cellphone with a battery so puny, if I used it for one call, I'd have to recharge it, or an obnoxious croaking sound would wake me in the middle of the night. I replaced the battery, with no improvement in performance. It was truly the Cellphone from Hell. I could never rely on it. My friends stopped calling me because they could never get through, and I swore I'd replace it with something reliable.

And replace it I did. Today my new (to me) iPhone arrived and I couldn't be more pleased with it. Of course it will take days to learn all the bells and whistles, but so far I've managed to take pictures, send email and text messages, make calls... Being a Mac fan, I'm finding all the apps very familiar and comfortable. It only took a couple of hours for me to pry it out of the Capt's hands. He's such a gadget freak.

Now if I want I can watch my favorite TV show while waiting for a doctor's appointment. (No, sorry, I won't tell you the name of the show, it's my private guilty pleasure.)

I wanted an iPhone for years, but was stuck in the belief I had to sign up with ATandT. But now there's "jailbreaking" so I can use it with phone cards. No commitment. The one I bought (via eBay) is used, but in excellent shape and a 3G, not the latest model because we're hearing there are issues with the 4G.

I was also under the mistaken illusion that you couldn't use an iPhone in Mexico... not so! My friends Ale and Ulissis have one, and one night last year at Bananas' Open Mic, Ulissis went online and found some song lyrics so Ale could go onstage and sing her favorite song. She stood up there, clutching that iPhone, reading the words as she sang! (A spunky lady, that one. )

Confessions of a Brown Thumb Gardener

2010-08-04T08:08:00.000-07:00

Go ahead and laugh. This is the crop from my miniature garden this year: miniature tomatoes!

My garden is about the size of a hallway runner carpet, which is probably just about right for me. The more plants I try to nurture, the more plants will die. I'm not very knowledgeable, I refuse to use chemicals and I never know when I may be crewing on the boat for a few weeks.

And then there's the "out-of-sight, out-of-mind" factor: I'm inside, working at the computer or practicing music this time of year, and the garden is outside shriveling in the heat. I have a tendency toward tunnel vision, and I forget there IS an outside. Another routine I'm trying to cultivate is to get up at 5, go outside and water my plants, talk to them, fertilize and prune them and let them know I care.

Anyway, enough excuses... Here's the result of my five tomato plants this year. I put in grape tomatoes and jelly bean tomatoes. I wanted a lot of flavor for the size, and I didn't want to have to do the constant propping and staking required by big beefsteak tomatoes.

And intense they are! Everything I like in the taste of a tomato, reduced down to the size of a marble. But the purpose of this exercise wasn't so much to produce a bumper crop. I wanted to experiment with growing these varieties, and see what I could learn. An advanced gardener would find my efforts laughable, but I enjoyed every minute: counting out the seeds and popping them in their holes with the help of my little neighbor M, watching the tiny plants break through the soil, transplanting them into bigger pots, watching them bloom, and then the surprise when the first little green tomatoes magically appeared.

That was about when I had to leave to go sailing, so I recruited Javier, the head gardener, to keep an eye on them. He not only kept them watered, but did some tying-up when they outgrew their stakes. When we got back to land, the first thing I did (after a shower) was go out to the garden and count ripe tomatoes. Every plant survived, though one has refused to yield a single tomato. Like the failed fig tree in the Bible, its days are numbered.

What I learned: Where I lived before, in Northern California, it was useless to plant outdoors until April. But this is Mexico. Next year, I should plant in January or February, this far south. The skins would be thinner and more delicate if it weren't so hot. Then maybe I could get baby lettuce and herbs too. And if I had it to do over again, I'd plant only grape tomatoes, forget the jelly beans.

My more permanent plantings are looking pretty good, considering I'm a brown thumb gardener. My tapachine (aka poinciana) tree is actually starting to cast some shade, about the size of an umbrella. Everybody tells me tapachines are a mess to clean up after, but I can't wait to see the big red flowers and the long brown seedpods.

The garden was made even more fun when I invited my little friend M. to help with the seeds. Which reminds me: I need to take her a few of these tomatoes. She hasn't even tasted them yet!

Don't read this post...

2010-08-03T08:23:00.000-07:00

...unless you're prepared to have your feathers ruffled.

Without getting into the whole issue of whether offshore drilling is right or wrong, it's obvious that oil corporations aren't equal to the task of dealing with what happens when their wells blow, as we saw this year during British Petroleum's accidental oil spill disaster, now viewed as the worst in history. Now, 4.9 million gallons of oil later, the well was finally capped last month, and stressed BP executives, having announced their victory to the press, are no doubt off on decompressing vacations, somewhere far from the Gulf of Mexico.

Cut to a scene on a beach, where dozens of pelicans and cormorants are frantically preening themselves, attempting to remove a black coating of oil from their feathers, meanwhile ingesting the gooey substance and poisoning themselves.

Would you know how to rescue them? There are step-by-step instructions at WikiHow's "How to Clean Oil Off Birds."

CultureMob

Prepare yourself for weeks of backbreaking effort and discouragement, should you accept this mission. You thought you could just shampoo, rinse and cut them loose? First, you have to undergo training in how to calm birds that are already stressed beyond belief, then you don layers of vinyl to prevent contaminating yourself, and begin a series of sudsings that could take each bird through ten or 15 tubs of 1% Dawn and water solution (Proctor & Gamble is donating the Dawn). You learn to use a WaterPik to clean his head and eyes. You use a spa nozzle to thoroughly rinse the bird and a veterinarian's blow-dryer to dry him.

You monitor his recovery for days afterward, tube-feeding him with a mixture of food, vitamins and medications. You check that the natural waterproofing of his feathers has been restored by placing him in a therapy pool and watch to see whether he's able to swim and float. Then put him in cool water so he can acclimate himself to natural surroundings again. Find a place where he can be released without exposing him to yet another coating of oil.

Water Encyclopedia

Multiply this procedure times a thousand. Or move on to sea otters, seals, turtles.

MarineBio.org

Trying on some new habits

2010-08-02T13:06:00.000-07:00

Today I'm inspired and challenged by two fellow bloggers that I feel I know even though we've never met face-to-face. Leslie has just finished a full month of blogging (almost) every day and feels she gained a lot by the discipline and the effort of finding topics of interest every day. Claro! When we stop to examine and share our lives (and I'm not talking about belly-button-gazing) they take on so much color and beauty it makes us glad to get up in the morning. I've been posting, average, only a couple of times a week, but for August I'll try to post every day, with at least one photo to go with it.

Tancho also got my attention with his remarks on shopping for groceries at Mexican-style markets in the US. So when I hit the street market in Guaymas this morning at 6:30am with my friend Alejandra, I decided to photograph my haul and see how veggie prices here compare with other parts of Mexico and Tancho's store in the states. Of course, I didn't buy meat, tortillas or strawberries, which he did.

So here it is: two zucchini, three mangos, five bananas, a pineapple, broccoli, a papaya, two avocados, two beets, three red peppers, for 100 pesos, $7.96USD at today's exchange rate. I didn't get prices for individual items. My purchases came right off a truck parked every weekday on the street at 5am, next to several other trucks which only sell to restaurants. The vendor was helpful and courteous, pointing out what he had to offer (in ingles!) without getting pushy, always ready with a bag when I needed it. I don't expect to shop this way every time, but there were advantages: parking was easy right next to the truck, it's refreshingly cool that time of the morning. Nothing had that tired "I've been sitting in this store all week" look. And afterward Ale and I had time for coffee and a long chat. Life is sweet.