The last year and a half have been unpleasant due to the Kung Flu and political conflicts. And then I think of my parents’ generation. A year and a half would have been a godsend for them.
Their bad times were immeasurably worse, and they lasted 15 years, not our measly (so far) 18 months.
We have a pandemic that’s affecting fewer people than one would think, thanks to modern mass communication and the ratings-mad news media. The political situation, in my opinion, is worse if you consider the long-term.
In Mexico, we have a doofus demagogue who can hardly speak correctly. In the United States you have a senile old codger propped up by an oligarchy. In Canada, there is a metrosexual, politically correct fop of a prime minister who’s in office entirely for being good-looking and having his father’s name.
But all of this is a walk in the proverbial park compared to what my parents endured. First a decade of the Great Depression and then five years of world war. So far we have it mighty good. What’s down the line is another matter, but count your blessings. You’re not in a blocks-long bread line or lying dead on Omaha Beach.
Saturdays are pretty routine as are the other six days of the week, but Saturday morning is when Abel the Deadpan Yardman comes calling with his weedeater. I provide the mower and gasoline for both machines.
Why do I call him deadpan? Well, he can smile. I have seen it, but not often. He’s been cutting the grass and doing the occasional other yard chore for years, ever since I got too shiftless to do it. He has never said a word to me beyond responding to a question.
Nary a peep.
As mentioned some weeks back, he’s more a musician than a yardman, specifically a trumpter with a local noise band.
I did some yardwork before he arrived at 10. I cleared out a small area that was filled with both sweet alyssum and weeds. The latter was getting the better of the former, and they could not be separated, so out they went, the whole little zone.
Next I watered the potted plants on the downstairs terraza before resting on a rocking chair with a glass of green juice and collagen that my child bride whipped up.
The sky is overcast, and it’s cool. Amazon.mx says my new Kindle and its cover will arrive today. I hope so. It left San Miguel de Allende a bit after 6 a.m. I don’t know why it was in that Gringo-infested burg since it started its journey my way from Mexico City.
And that reminds me. There’s a big encampment of people in Mexico City’s Zocalo, citizens who want our megalomaniac president to resign. I hope they are successful. Someone in the opposition PAN party has introduced legislation, or something, to have the president’s mental faculties examined. Makes sense to me. He’s a whack job.
We’ll be having chicken, beans and rice for lunch today. I hope the Kindle arrives soon because I want to go downtown this afternoon and put my feet up for a spell.
OUR NEW leftist president (known by his initials AMLO but whom I prefer to call El Presidente Moonbat) was inaugurated December 1st and quickly began to openly and malevolently encourage Central Americans to enter Mexico and head to the U.S. border with invasion on their minds. Not surprisingly, the illegals have flooded over from Guatemala.
Moonbat assisted them in various ways — transportation, food and Lord knows what else — until President Trump — the Blond Bomber whom America is so fortunate to have in the Oval Office — decided to take action with the tariff threat.
Moonbat folded like a warm tortilla.
He sent troops to Mexico’s southern border to stem the tide. The government has also begun to check identification of long-distance bus passengers in the northern border zone in spite of indignant cries of “invasion of privacy.” Yeah, sure.
As Central American illegals continue to pile up on our end, we Mexicans grow increasingly unhappy with the situation. According to a new poll published in El Universal newspaper, 61 percent of Mexicans want stricter border controls down south to keep out the illegal aliens. The percentage is up from 49 percent last October.
I’m sure you can see the irony here, ¿no? We can invade the United States and demand our “rights,” but when Central Americans invade us, well, we don’t like it one little bit. Get them out of here, damned illegals!
Unlike in the United States where illegals do menial jobs cheaply and vote for Democrats,* we Mexicans have no need for people to do menial jobs cheaply. We already have lots of paisanos for that, and you cannot vote here unless you have a voter ID** which is only available with proof of citizenship.
Yes, in many ways we are sharper than the Gringos.
But Mexicans made a big mistake in voting for Moonbat.
Update: Another poll, this time by El Financiero, indicates only 36 percent of Mexicans want Mexico to accept illegals being shipped back from the United States.
THE PERSONALITY OF Tom Snyder, who hosted the Tomorrow show late nights on NBC from 1973 to 1982, was once likened to a Harley-Davidson with the throttle stuck wide open.
I often remember that line when I think about my child bride because she’s a high-energy sort who almost never relaxes.
I, on the other hand, am an old Vespa stuck on idle.
An obsession she’s resurrected recently is knitting, and she’s very good at it. I took the above photo yesterday while we were enjoying the midday sun on the new yard patio under clear, blue, cool skies.
She’s making a shawl for a niece, Paula Romina, who’s just shy of 2 years old. My bride promises she’ll later knit a sweater for me. I already have two she’s crafted, one a black wool and one a wine acrylic.
Breakfasts have been ratcheted up a notch in recent weeks, emotion-wise, because she watches (on a Samsung tablet) the 7 a.m. press conference given by our doofus, leftist president. That means she arrives at the table around 8 a.m. in a state of high dudgeon. Daily.
She really loathes the prez, who recently compared himself to Benito Júarez, exhibiting an stunning level of hubris. It would be like Trump comparing himself to Abraham Lincoln.
Being an old Vespa, however, I react in a more leisurely fashion.
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Life goes on
I went to a dentist here in town yesterday at 5. My usual dentist, since 2014, works in the nearby state capital, but I had an issue between Christmas and New Year’s, and he was on vacation.
So I called a young woman dentist here, and she saw me on Christmas Eve day at noon. The issue was resolved, but a small cavity partially below the gum line in the back was discovered. That’s why I saw her yesterday.
She shares a practice with two brothers. The three have different specialties. Their office looks fairly humble from the street, but once you step inside it’s very modern and large. I would recommend them to anyone in town who doesn’t want to drive to the state capital.
Speaking of which, that’s what we’re doing today, driving to the state capital for shopping. Normally, we do that weekly but, due to the gasoline shortage caused by our new doofus president who thinks he’s a reincarnation of Benito Júarez, it’s only the second trip there this month.
The gasoline crisis has vanished for now. Gas stations are open. They either have no line of cars waiting, or the line is very short.
Lord knows what the ding-a-ling is going to pull next.
Returning to the Hacienda about 6:30, I paused at the archway entrance to the veranda.
There was still a good bit of light — the days are getting longer — and I saw a low-altitude, V-formation of white egrets.
Perhaps if I’d returned to the veranda 30 minutes later, I would have seen our bats depart on their nightly bug hunt. Life goes on.