You all know about desert weather ... sunshine, heat, etc. .... right?
WRONG !
Our weather the last few days has been colder than cousin Dean's in Baltimore. Hard freezes three days in a row... should be about 25 degrees tonight at my house. Highs only in the low 60's. Where did autumn go? At work ... warehouse with concrete floors and walls, no heat and a big open door .... the weather has been horrible. Windy days and cold temps have kept the warehouse cold all day. At 0930 this morning, it was only 41 degrees at my desk (and that doesn't count the constant breeze coming in through the door).
Maybe it will get back to 'normal' before Christmas.
Oh well, must take the good with the bad I guess.
I received a picture (sort of a Christmas card) from cousin Robyn. I really LOVE getting pictures of those who are on my computer list of friends and family. When you don't see, and haven't seen, people in years .... pictures are so important. And you know something that interests me? When I see pictures of family and friends that are taken around their homes ... I really notice their surroundings. Pictures on the walls, furniture, plants (when outside), etc. Those things put you more in touch with who the people are than just a simple picture. Some of my computer friends know this ... and send me pictures of their houses, yards and other "spaces" around their town. THOSE are really great gifts.
Gotta get a shower and some sleep. Have a great weekend.
PEACE. LFTD. ... and hugs from here in the casa.
Arizona caught my eye, and my heart, many years ago. I love it ... it's people, history and it's desert.
30 November 2006
29 November 2006
Another Post from Fred Reed in Guad'
I think that Fred speaks for a lot of people my age. At least, he speaks for me at times. I am that age, that alone at times and have considered (at times) cashing in my chips in Mexico.
Anyway ... Fred writes:
For most gringos, Mexico is a place to retire. The Mexicans say, “The Americans come here to die.” Not exactly. It isn’t why they come, but it is what they do, there being eventually no choice. Everybody has to croak somewhere, so why not in the sunshine with little brown kids running back and forth and the street, dogs lounging contentedly about? It beats, for some anyway, a wretched sanitarium and lots of tubes.
In the hills on the north side of town, where the nice houses are, you see aging couples like couples anywhere. It could be Lauderdale. They have each other and insurance and pensions and savings. In the bars you see the old single guys. They have close to nothing.
At nine in the morning they sit on green iron benches and wait for the cantinas to open. Little beyond white hair unites them in appearance. Some are thin, others fat, others whatever you can think of except moneyed. “Drunks” is not quite the right word for them. They are just old guys whose lives are spent and they sit around and drink beer and wait. It’s what they have. They seldom fall off stools or get into fights. They are anything but dangerous. They are just old guys with nothing, waiting.
Some would find them reprehensible. Why don’t they do something improving, learn to knit, or take up square dancing? This is harsh. What does a man do when he is seventy years old, his wife died eight years ago in Louisiana, and the trucking firm no longer wants him as a driver? Social Security and a small pension don’t go far in America. He comes to Ajijic and moves into the residential hotel, Italo’s, a block from the plaza and easy walking distance to the bars. It’s cheap and decent and the rooms come with kitchenette and the maids clean them. I’ve stayed there.
He’s seventy and tired, too old to learn a language and probably not of that bent anyway. He doesn’t want to learn to square dance. He is not looking for a cultural experience, not looking for much of anything. Women no longer interest him except as nice people, and anyway the diabetes doesn’t help in that department. So he talks to his friends. And he drinks. It takes the curse off. Besides, if he bothers no one else, it is the business of no one else —’est-ce pas.
It is a mistake to think these men to be of no account because they are ending their days on a bar stool. They have had lives, traveled, drifted, worked,loved, had families or not, seen things and done things. Often they are intelligent and thoughtful. They are just through.
We live in a censorious age in America, an age of “Gotcha!” in which drinking looms loathsome, smoking is a crime to be punished, second-hand smoke a fearful threat to children and plants and wallpaper. Oh dear. We all must be vigilant for racism, sexism, and the rest. Psychologists call it “passive aggressiveness,” though I think that “the Higher Priss” does nicely. Well, I say, each to his or her or its own. Still, I have always found people who smoke and drink and do the occasional doobie to be more interesting than those who don’t—certainly than the drab Comstocks of the current Carryan Nation.
So I’ll cut these guys some slack. You choose an exit door, or fall through one. They have. So will you.
Not all stay in one place. In Italo’s when I was there I met a guy well into his seventies who was about to get on a third-class bus to Guatemala, I think it was. He didn’t walk too well and moved as if he had sand in his joints. He seemed sad but was keeping his chin up. He knew a hotel in a nice town outside Guatemala City where the food was cheap and the young girls just so pretty. He meant nothing sexual. They were just pretty, like pictures. He liked watching them and the kids and Guatemala.
Now that’s rough, I thought. To be at the end of his days and bouncing around bad roads on Guatemalan bus, alone, going where he probably knew nobody—that’s not the feather-bed route out the door. But he didn’t want to spend the winter in Ajijic. At least he was free. I wished him well.
Some drunks have other stories. There was a fellow, in his thirties I’d guess, who always wore a white cowboy hat and lied compulsively about what daring things he had done. This is common. It’s called “border promotion.” You know: “I was a SEAL team leader before I was an astronaut, between being a fighter pilot and president of IBM.” Sometimes it seems like half the gringo population used to be in the CIA.
Anyway, the guy with the white cowboy hat said he used to be a dead-end drunk, and had the tremor to prove it. But he was over it, he said, and in fact seemed to be. Then one night he got a ride home with somebody, pulled a pistol from somewhere, put it under his chin and blew the top of his head off. AIDS, or at least HIV. We make our choices. The consensus was that he should have done it somewhere else, where it wouldn’t have put a hole in the roof of the car and generally made a mess.
Sometimes one of the old guys will take up with a poor Mexican gal of twenty-five with four kids. They move in together. You could say that it was absurd, that neither knew the other’s language and he was a dirty old man and she a gold-digger. You could also try to exercise a little decency. Not everybody has choices. Usually he treats her well, puts food on the table, maybe gets her some dental work or insists that the kids go to school. It’s better than nothing. She cooks and keeps house and has a few years of security, and he leaves her whatever he can. I’ve seen such couples who seemed happy together. You play the hand you draw.
Things are different for those of intellectual resources, who take up photography seriously, fly ultralights, read, or keep on at whatever they did for a living at a reduced level. I’m not sure how different it is. They too are waiting.So are we all. But there were drunks before there were moralists,and I hope there will be drunks after, as they are so much less tedious, and closer to the human condition.
PEACE and LFTD
Anyway ... Fred writes:
For most gringos, Mexico is a place to retire. The Mexicans say, “The Americans come here to die.” Not exactly. It isn’t why they come, but it is what they do, there being eventually no choice. Everybody has to croak somewhere, so why not in the sunshine with little brown kids running back and forth and the street, dogs lounging contentedly about? It beats, for some anyway, a wretched sanitarium and lots of tubes.
In the hills on the north side of town, where the nice houses are, you see aging couples like couples anywhere. It could be Lauderdale. They have each other and insurance and pensions and savings. In the bars you see the old single guys. They have close to nothing.
At nine in the morning they sit on green iron benches and wait for the cantinas to open. Little beyond white hair unites them in appearance. Some are thin, others fat, others whatever you can think of except moneyed. “Drunks” is not quite the right word for them. They are just old guys whose lives are spent and they sit around and drink beer and wait. It’s what they have. They seldom fall off stools or get into fights. They are anything but dangerous. They are just old guys with nothing, waiting.
Some would find them reprehensible. Why don’t they do something improving, learn to knit, or take up square dancing? This is harsh. What does a man do when he is seventy years old, his wife died eight years ago in Louisiana, and the trucking firm no longer wants him as a driver? Social Security and a small pension don’t go far in America. He comes to Ajijic and moves into the residential hotel, Italo’s, a block from the plaza and easy walking distance to the bars. It’s cheap and decent and the rooms come with kitchenette and the maids clean them. I’ve stayed there.
He’s seventy and tired, too old to learn a language and probably not of that bent anyway. He doesn’t want to learn to square dance. He is not looking for a cultural experience, not looking for much of anything. Women no longer interest him except as nice people, and anyway the diabetes doesn’t help in that department. So he talks to his friends. And he drinks. It takes the curse off. Besides, if he bothers no one else, it is the business of no one else —’est-ce pas.
It is a mistake to think these men to be of no account because they are ending their days on a bar stool. They have had lives, traveled, drifted, worked,loved, had families or not, seen things and done things. Often they are intelligent and thoughtful. They are just through.
We live in a censorious age in America, an age of “Gotcha!” in which drinking looms loathsome, smoking is a crime to be punished, second-hand smoke a fearful threat to children and plants and wallpaper. Oh dear. We all must be vigilant for racism, sexism, and the rest. Psychologists call it “passive aggressiveness,” though I think that “the Higher Priss” does nicely. Well, I say, each to his or her or its own. Still, I have always found people who smoke and drink and do the occasional doobie to be more interesting than those who don’t—certainly than the drab Comstocks of the current Carryan Nation.
So I’ll cut these guys some slack. You choose an exit door, or fall through one. They have. So will you.
Not all stay in one place. In Italo’s when I was there I met a guy well into his seventies who was about to get on a third-class bus to Guatemala, I think it was. He didn’t walk too well and moved as if he had sand in his joints. He seemed sad but was keeping his chin up. He knew a hotel in a nice town outside Guatemala City where the food was cheap and the young girls just so pretty. He meant nothing sexual. They were just pretty, like pictures. He liked watching them and the kids and Guatemala.
Now that’s rough, I thought. To be at the end of his days and bouncing around bad roads on Guatemalan bus, alone, going where he probably knew nobody—that’s not the feather-bed route out the door. But he didn’t want to spend the winter in Ajijic. At least he was free. I wished him well.
Some drunks have other stories. There was a fellow, in his thirties I’d guess, who always wore a white cowboy hat and lied compulsively about what daring things he had done. This is common. It’s called “border promotion.” You know: “I was a SEAL team leader before I was an astronaut, between being a fighter pilot and president of IBM.” Sometimes it seems like half the gringo population used to be in the CIA.
Anyway, the guy with the white cowboy hat said he used to be a dead-end drunk, and had the tremor to prove it. But he was over it, he said, and in fact seemed to be. Then one night he got a ride home with somebody, pulled a pistol from somewhere, put it under his chin and blew the top of his head off. AIDS, or at least HIV. We make our choices. The consensus was that he should have done it somewhere else, where it wouldn’t have put a hole in the roof of the car and generally made a mess.
Sometimes one of the old guys will take up with a poor Mexican gal of twenty-five with four kids. They move in together. You could say that it was absurd, that neither knew the other’s language and he was a dirty old man and she a gold-digger. You could also try to exercise a little decency. Not everybody has choices. Usually he treats her well, puts food on the table, maybe gets her some dental work or insists that the kids go to school. It’s better than nothing. She cooks and keeps house and has a few years of security, and he leaves her whatever he can. I’ve seen such couples who seemed happy together. You play the hand you draw.
Things are different for those of intellectual resources, who take up photography seriously, fly ultralights, read, or keep on at whatever they did for a living at a reduced level. I’m not sure how different it is. They too are waiting.So are we all. But there were drunks before there were moralists,and I hope there will be drunks after, as they are so much less tedious, and closer to the human condition.
PEACE and LFTD
Christmas Music
Now, ...... before I start .... I like the Christmas season. I even like Christmas Carols. I can even put up with 'Jingle Bell Rock', 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree' and 'Feliz Navidad' on occasion. But, all that being said, it is the 29th of November and I am burnt out on Christmas music. Every station .... I listen to an oldies station, a country station, a rock station, et al .... has started playing X-mas tunes about every third song. If I could get my ancient hands around Jose Feliciano's throat, ... he'd be in danger. I actually screamed in my car this afternoon ... I changed stations three times and 3 out of the 4 were playing "Feliz Navidad" the other had a commercial on. This is considered cruel and inhumane punishment in most civilized countries. My radio is turned off until 2007. Only tapes (yes I still have cassettes) and CDs. About a week before the 25th, I shall listen to 'Oh Little Town of Bethlehem', 'It Came Upon a Midnight Clear' and others. But ... you can be certain that Jose will not be on my playlist. Not this year or next. His tune is the "Viva Las Vegas" of Christmas tunes. I realize that he probably got very rich on that thing, but my ears refuse to listen to it again this year if possible.
O.K., I dismount from my soapbox and leave you to your Christmas season.
PEACE
O.K., I dismount from my soapbox and leave you to your Christmas season.
PEACE
26 November 2006
The end of the weekend
I must confess that my "bah-humbug" feelings about Thanksgiving have been tempered somewhat this last four days. It started Thursday when one of Hilda's nieces said (we all have to say what we are thankful for) "the food makes my tummy happy, and seeing Antonio (me) makes my heart happy". Then some other things happened that mellowed me somewhat. I have not changed my opinion about a lot of things, but I am happier about having been through the four days.
I raised four kids for over 20 years to the best of my ability. When their mom ran off with her son-in-law .. everyone thought that it was horrible. They were on my side. When their mom moved back into Benson ... they started seeing her. Then, gradually, I was removed from their life and replaced with their mom. So ... I was divorced by an entire family. Now-a-days, I have no family around here except for my mom .. and Hilda. The last few years of my marriage, Jennie alienated most of my friends. I wound up with no friends and no family. So ... any festive occasions that involved family and friends became extremely difficult for me. I was always the kid outside the candy store looking in, living the festive occasions vicariously and sort of 'by proxy'. Five years ago, I spent Thanksgiving with Dr. and Mrs. McGowen in Texas. That was as close to a family gathering as I have experienced in many years.
Anyway... back to current events. I have worked every day but Thursday ... but the project is basically over and this week coming up is simply 'clean-up time'. I have the option of sitting around the warehouse 40 hours a week in December ... working 5 hours a week and getting 40 hours at $16. That is what I will do if another position doesn't come my way.
Well, the Colts are running all over the Eagles and it is boring and it's beddy-bye time. Have a great week.
PEACE ! L.F.T.D. !
I raised four kids for over 20 years to the best of my ability. When their mom ran off with her son-in-law .. everyone thought that it was horrible. They were on my side. When their mom moved back into Benson ... they started seeing her. Then, gradually, I was removed from their life and replaced with their mom. So ... I was divorced by an entire family. Now-a-days, I have no family around here except for my mom .. and Hilda. The last few years of my marriage, Jennie alienated most of my friends. I wound up with no friends and no family. So ... any festive occasions that involved family and friends became extremely difficult for me. I was always the kid outside the candy store looking in, living the festive occasions vicariously and sort of 'by proxy'. Five years ago, I spent Thanksgiving with Dr. and Mrs. McGowen in Texas. That was as close to a family gathering as I have experienced in many years.
Anyway... back to current events. I have worked every day but Thursday ... but the project is basically over and this week coming up is simply 'clean-up time'. I have the option of sitting around the warehouse 40 hours a week in December ... working 5 hours a week and getting 40 hours at $16. That is what I will do if another position doesn't come my way.
Well, the Colts are running all over the Eagles and it is boring and it's beddy-bye time. Have a great week.
PEACE ! L.F.T.D. !
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