Remains of the day

Train

THIS DAY DAWNED gray and cold. Upstairs, reading the morning’s ever-grim news from above the Rio Bravo, I shivered, and it was not simply the weather’s chill.

I heard the approaching freight train, so I picked up the Kodak Easyshare and stepped out to the terraza on the second floor and snapped this shot.

After doing exercise on the gym set across the room, the hour of 8 was upon me, so downstairs I went, calling out — as I always do — Let’s eat!   The cry is echoed back to me from the bedroom where my child bride is either still in bed, reading, or making it. The bed, that is.

I serve everything at that hour. The bagels, the cream cheese, the coffee, plus I set the plates and knives out, napkins too. I do it all, not being a real Mexican man who simply waits to be coddled.

After my child bride gets pinto beans boiling, we bundle up a bit, and walk 20 minutes around the nearby plaza. On our return, we sit on the downstairs terraza. I drink fresh orange juice squeezed before we departed, and she peels and eats a grapefruit, unsugared, which is just one step shy of sucking a lemon.

Women can be hard to figure.

Sitting there, we phone the propane company down the highway. Our tank is near empty. We’re told the truck will be here ahorita, which literally means pretty soon, but which actually means someday before you die.

Chores begin. I sweep the upstairs terraza and the service patio off the kitchen. I do some updates on the computer during the sweeps. I take a shower and dress. The propane delivery still has not arrived, but then I have not died yet. No matter. We have enough for many days more.

It’s almost time for Second Breakfast, which arrives at 11 a.m. I am scrubbed and installed in fresh clothes. My hair is combed, and I smell pretty good.

The ninth of April has not arrived at noon, but that’s all you get today. The remains must remain a mystery. I will say this much: Pinto beans and roasted chicken. Espresso on the plaza.

And the sun is now shining.

Alone, with flowers

In one direction.

My child bride took the bus to Querétaro this morning to check on her brother who’s been recovering from encephalitis since January. It’s an affliction that doesn’t go away rapidly.

After dropping her at the bus station in the state capital at 10 a.m., I stopped at McDonald’s for scrambled eggs with ham, an English muffin and what they think is hash browns.

I buried it all, except the muffins, in ketchup, and it was quite tasty, reminding me that I was once a Gringo. I love ketchup!

On returning to the Hacienda, I did a little vine trimming, and then I sprawled on the sofa with the Kindle, but reading did not last long till I dozed off.

Later I had a lunch of noodle soup she had made and one of her individual-sized tuna pies, the sort she sells out of her basket on the plaza on Saturdays.

Then I watched half of Being John Malkovich on Netflix upstairs, just half because I’ve seen it before, and half was enough. The Spanish title turned it into a question: Are You John Malkovich? Can’t imagine why they did that.

Then I tossed two bags of garbage into the Honda trunk, and drove downtown, stopping off at a dumpster along the way. I went to the main plaza and had a nice espresso, admired the passing lovelies, and read the Kindle.

It’s a good way to live.

Returning to the Hacienda again, I opened the umbrella on the yard patio, took a seat, and continued reading the Kindle. The sun was falling behind the house. The sky was blue. The air was cool, and I admired the growing garden.

I went upstairs for the camera and took these two shots.

Then I read some more, about a fellow in his mid-20s who sailed around the world alone in the mid-1980s. Incredible.

She’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, and my solo time will end.

She thinks I suffer when she’s gone, but overnight is not enough to cause suffering. I like it. The relatively brief change feels interesting.

Plus, I don’t have to feel guilty about snoring.

And the other direction.
And the other direction.