For instance, we spend a third of our lives in a coma, a state of suspended animation. We have a soft place to lie down for this, and we put on comfy clothing, or we just strip naked.
I refer to our need for sleep, of course.
I sleep like the proverbial log, normally. It helps to not have something worrying you. Have you noticed that worries magnify magnificently at night? A trifling concern in daytime becomes a monster worry after the lights go out.
And then when you wake in the morning, that same worry shrinks to its proper proportion, easily resolved.
My child bride worries about everything, so she doesn’t sleep as soundly as I do. She has a mob of relatives, all of whom have big-time issues, being Mexican and all, and she worries about every one of those relatives, nonstop.
I don’t worry about her relatives at all, and I only have two on my side. My daughter who lives in a field of clover, and my nutty sister whom I have not heard from in three years.
You’d think I might worry about that latter, but I do not. Quite the contrary. It gives me peace of mind.
Unlike lots of aging men, I don’t get up repeatedly at night to take a whiz. Just once, usually. Sometimes not even that. My svelte body works well — he said, as he knocks on wood, the desk I had made by carpenters years back.
This happened just once last night, about 4 a.m. Waking up at night here is interesting. There are sounds. Last night, I heard a burro bray and there were the unsettled chickens that overnight in the neighbors’ apple tree.
It’s also said we require less sleep as we age. I haven’t found that to be true. I get a good seven or eight hours as always.
Maybe my nights pass smoothly because I have a beautiful babe next to me, even if she is fretting over relatives.
Our comas end with bagels and Philadelphia cream cheese or, on special occasions, croissants and orange marmalade.
It’s a great way to return from the world of the comatose.
While my child bride is up to her neck in dough, sugar and strawberries out in her own kitchen by the big gate, preparing for the weekly pastry sale on the main plaza downtown, I have my own responsibilities.
I start with wiping off the glass-top table on the Jesus Patio. I swipe the web chairs while I’m at it. This is done most every morning, not just Fridays.
The birdbath can be quite yucky because birds have no sense of personal hygiene, so I have to change the water and wipe clean that ceramic, which I purchased in Dolores Hidalgo.
The plants in the big pots in the veranda must be watered. I do that at least once a week, Friday, but sometimes twice. Some plants have been changed since last I posted this scene.
I sweep daily too. Well, nearly.
Surely, you’re wondering where I get the water to irrigate these plants, and that provides me the opportunity to do something I recall showing just once before.
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The Garden Patio
This is the Garden Patio, such a lovely name for the most butt-ugly part of the Hacienda. If you visit the Hacienda, you will not see it unless I lead you there.
Look at the top photo. The Garden Patio is behind that red wall on the left, and the only way to get there, aside from a gate to the back street, is through that narrow, arched opening.
This was a grassy area, more of the yard, after the Hacienda construction ended in 2003. I have since had everything added. The clay-tile roof, the concrete floor, the shelves.
Those two big, black trash bags await the garbage truck. One is yard garbage. The other is non-biodegradable kitchen trash. The white barrel on the left is for kitchen stuff. The big, black can to the right stores yard garbage.
I am too shiftless to compost. Sorry.
* * * *
Those two big, black bags ended up atop the garbage truck which arrived around 2 p.m. while we were eating fish burgers, sauteed vegetables and rice prepared by me.
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Weedeaters and me
I‘ve long had a love/hate relationship with weedeaters, and now I have a new one in the Garden Patio. Even though Weedeater is a brand name, I’ll be lowercasing it because Mexicans use the word to refer to all trimmers regardless of make.
Weedeaters, in my experience, are colossally temperamental. They are cranky to start and prone to stop running for no good reason whatsoever. They can be infuriating.
I’ve had a Truper weedeater and a Weedeater weedeater here at the Hacienda. I loathed them both. Two years ago, I switched to an electric, Sears weedeater, which runs fine but there’s that mile-long cord to contend with.
Last year I learned that Abel the Deadpan Neighbor who mows my lawn with my lawnmower has his own weedeater. He started doing the trimming too, but his weedeater is prone to frequent siestas, undesired timeouts.
In a moment of madness last week, I purchased a gas weedeater, a German Stihl. I then remembered I couldn’t let Abel use it because Mexicans abuse tools that aren’t theirs, so I hope Abel’s weedeater keeps siestas to a minimum.
Meanwhile, my Nazi Stihl will rest in the Garden Patio.
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All the yard gear in the Garden Patio was stored for years on the opposite end of the property, out by the front street wall and under a red-clay-tile roof there.
My child bride’s pastry kitchen now occupies that space. You can see her walking out there Friday morning in the following photo. She was unaware of the photographer.
Speaking of plants, one of my favorites is multiplying madly as everything does here. They are the spikey ones you see below. I don’t know what they’re called, but they multiply like, well, like us Mexicans. Catholic plants. Good breeders.
So there you have it, Friday, a busy day, at least until 3 p.m. when all is done, lunch is eaten, dishes are washed because I don’t procrastinate with dishes.
And then it was off to downtown to sit on a sidewalk table with my Kindle and a café Americano negro.
ON THE BIG plaza yesterday, I had a nice café Americano negro with a vanilla muffin that I bought in a pastry shop near the San Juan Church and Hospital.
After the café Americano negro, I walked to the other side of the plaza to buy a little lemon ice. It’s just like they sell in New Orleans but at a lower price here, of course.
About 5:30 p.m. it was, and the plaza was full of happy-looking people. There was no gunfire, no grenades. The air was clear and cool, and the towering ash trees rustled.
The fountains made water sounds, and the pigeons crapped on the heads of long-dead heroes and priests who — being stone — just stood there and took it.
I drove the Honda home. As I walked through the Hacienda’s downstairs hallway toward the closet to slip on my PJs, I noticed the mask that was bathed in light from a large glass brick in the ceiling, which is the terraza floor above.
This is the mask of a viejito, an old man. There are dance troupes in our area who perform for tourists.
This doll would get me kicked out of modish households in the United States. The skull face is cut from metal.
We bought this boat on a pier in Zihuatanejo. It brings back memories of happy days in sunshine and blue seas with a beautiful woman who spoke to me in Spanish.
LET’S LOOK at words, specifically those that have been redefined, twisted, heisted by the left.
I find it horrifying when conservatives use these terms, which they usually do unwittingly because of leftist, social pressure.
Don’t be a wuss, for Pete’s sake.
Progressive. Leftists have done a spectacular job with this stick-em-up. There is nothing progressive about the left unless you think increasing government control of your life is a mark of moving forward, progressing. Just do not use this word when referring to leftists. Please.
Liberal. Again, a big-time heist. There is something called classical liberalism, which I subscribe to. It’s basically about liberty, a direct opposition to leftists.
Racist. This is, as everyone knows, simply a word to hurl at those who disagree. Again, used only by leftists. Conservatives should not use this word except when leftists are dissing white folks. Calling that racism is correct.
African-American. American blacks are no more African than I am Scottish, the origin of my true last name. Most blacks do not use this term. They prefer black. It’s primarily used by whites who feel guilty about something or other. And don’t capitalize black and white. They aren’t nationalities.
P.S.: Barack Hussein Obama is not progressive, not liberal, not African-American, not even black. He is biracial, a mulatto. He is a leftist racist, however. Words matter.
ONCE UPON a time, there was a cute little bougainvillea in a small, plastic pot. An idiot planted it into the ground.
That idiot was me.
Round about that same time, a nincompoop planted a nopal leaf — they’re called paddles — into the ground nearby.
The idiot and the nincompoop were one and the same, me. Flash forward about a decade.
The top photo shows the bougainvillea drooping over the wall toward the sex motel. This is good because it provides a grip on the wall. The only other thing supporting the bougainvillea are two, now invisible, steel chains I installed years ago.
My concern is the plant will collapse. I’ve seen it happen elsewhere. Then it must be removed, spines and all.
I bought that expandable ladder you see on the right, below, a few days ago. I’ll hire Abel the Deadpan Gardener to do some serious hacking. The wall is about 13 feet high.
The maguey centered in the foreground of the bottom photo presents an obstacle for the positioning of the ladder, so I’ll have it removed too, including the stone circle at its base.
The nopal tree will be left in peace. I cautiously remove lots of paddles each year, those that insist on growing horizontally instead of vertically. In time, I imagine, it will simply collapse from its own weight. The “wood” is quite soft.
Moral: Do your homework before you plant, especially if you’re planting something with vicious spines and spikes.
THE SUN RISES over yonder, and I get a great view from my upstairs terraza. Just thought I would share.
Switching focus now, we just completed our annual cleaning of the underground cistern. It goes like this: We turn off the incoming municipal water supply. We wait about a week, and the cistern is empty. All used up!
We descend via ladder, sweep and mop, and flip the water supply back on again. It takes about two days to refill, 9,000 liters. We toss in a bottle of bleach to kill cooties.
It now sports a concrete top with an square, entry door just big enough for one person to descend by ladder.
So, we’re set for another year. You still don’t want to drink the tap water in the Hacienda, but it’s likely fresher than you’ll find in most Mexican homes.
And after the labor, I get to do what I prefer doing: