Saturday night knitting

Walking into the bedroom Saturday night, I encountered my child bride crocheting a squirrel. There is an equipal love seat and accompanying chair by the window. I sat in the chair and took these photos.

We had returned two hours earlier from her weekly pastry sale on the downtown plaza. She sold out early, so we got home early too, and she switched gears to crocheting her squirrel.

I imagine we’ll have a nice shot here of the animal when she finishes, and it won’t be long. And then she’ll start something new because she never sits still, always doing something.

Child brides, even if they’re 61, are nice things for old men.

Buttcrack baby

(Viewer discretion advised. Video includes appalling moments.)


As has been mentioned here previously, my child bride has turned to other activities over the past year due to the Kung Flu hysteria, temporarily halting her sidewalk pastry sales. She has turned to crochet.

Up to now, she has created elephants, Rotweillers, unicorns, lions, camels and so on, but now she’s tackled the human form. Some of you might want to avert your eyes from the video. You’ve been warned.

The dress is separate and removable as are the sandals and panties.

The child in question is named Matilda. She is a white girl, which means she was born with privilege, giving her a pass through an easy, blessed life. Next on the crochet list, however, will be a chocolate child who will, of course, be oppressed.

I am not making this up. Stay tuned.

Yes, 19 on the 19th

This is how we looked 19 years ago today.

Today, April 19th, marks our 19th anniversary. It was my third wedding that occurred 19 years ago this evening, the third and the best.

The first was a train wreck that lasted a tad over five years. The second was not a train wreck, but ultimately, it just did not pan out. There was a five-year hiatus between the first and the second, and then another five-year hiatus between the second and my move to Mexico.

I am fond of five-year breathers.

Excuse the judge’s hand in the photo above. We did not hire a professional photographer, which was an error. We left it in the hands of a friend, who screwed up, so we lack good photos of the evening, which took place in the interior patio of my sister-in-law’s coffee shop in our mountaintop town.

A year ago.

But we do have a few amateurish photos of the event. Not one photo was taken during either of my previous marriage ceremonies. Memories lost. The first wedding happened in the living room of my parents’ upstairs duplex in New Orleans. The second occurred in a Unitarian Church in Houston with no one present but the two of us and the minister.

For fun, here’s a photo we took about a year ago just as the Kung Flu hysteria was cranking up.

We had just passed our 18th anniversary. I don’t wear masks anymore, but she does.

I hope to make it to the 20th anniversary. I’m not as young and spry as I once was. Maybe we’ll do something special. We celebrated our 10th anniversary in Havana, but we’ll not return to that miserable place.

Now let’s pop open the champagne. It’s a great, bubbly, 19-year-old variety.

Time to pucker up!

My patch of parasitic mistletoe.

A couple of months ago when we were still in winter and the bush — hibiscus, I think — in which this thing resides was still lacking its leaves, I noticed a patch of something green sitting there alone. Looks like mistletoe, I muttered as I continued on with life.

This morning, I took a photo using a plant-identification app and, sure enough, it’s mistletoe. I mentioned this to my child bride and, after the appropriate smootch below the mistletoe, she said she’d never heard of it. It must not be “a thing” in Mexico.

Hibiscus, I think.

The plant on which the mistletoe lives — mistletoe is a parasite — is, I believe, a form of hibiscus. The plant-ID app was unsure. When we moved into the Hacienda 18 years ago, it was living cheek-to-jowl against a loquat tree where some nincompoop had planted it. I uprooted it and planted it over thataway a bit, giving it space.

The hibiscus — and let’s assume that’s what it is — flowers now and then, kinda pretty, and it does not toss trash all over the place, so I’ve left it in peace. Longtime readers here know that I am a plant predator, quite the killer when it suits me, and it suits me when a plant becomes a nuisance, mostly by tossing trash.

When we moved here, there was a fig bush where one of the carports now sits, so it was removed, which is a shame because I like figs.

The skeletal loquat.

Not far off is the loquat tree which grew like mad, tossing loquats all over the place where they rotted on the ground. Tossed big, ugly leaves too, much like those of a magnolia, which is a yucky tree, I think, in spite of my being a son of the Old South.

Rhett Butler and all that.

Alas, my child bride is excessively fond of loquats and the tree on which they grew maniacally. But she didn’t have to deal with the constant mess and work, so her vote was of less value than mine.

I am a kind husband, however, so I did not remove it. I only cut it back, way, way back, and I maintain it as you see in the photo, a half-alive zombie.

When I die, she can let it go whole hog again and, believe me, it will.

It needs a trellis.

Let us further milk the gardening topic today. While the Hacienda was under construction in 2003, I planted five bougainvillea bushes along the property wall you see in these photos. Two promptly died. Of the remainers, one was very different. It does not go berserk, and at times during the year it’s all flowers. It’s my best bougainvillea buddy.

But the best gardening news of the day is that we have mistletoe, which gives my child bride another reason to kiss me, even though she’d never heard of mistletoe. You get your kisses where you can. That’s always been my philosophy.