Man who eats weeds

Felipe strikes a pose.

IT APPEARS our rainy season is winding down. Perhaps it’s even ended though that is unlikely.

But the grass continues to grow.

While Abel the Deadpan Neighbor mows the lawn, I keep weedeater duties in my own hands because whenever I turn over weedeating to a local, the tool is abused.

In a post last May titled Busy, busy boy, I mentioned my travails with weedeaters, which are generally cussed machines. I had gone through a couple of brands till I got a Stihl.

It’s a German make, and I call it a Nazi machine. So far, I’m pretty happy with it, the happiest I’ve ever been with a weedeater. It starts quite easily, and it keeps going.

A weedeater that does that is above average.

After weedeating Wednesday, I called my child bride out of her pastry kitchen nearby and had her snap this photo. That’s La Señora Bones and her dead kid behind me.

I’m the live one in the grass-green shirt.

A summer day

Saturday actually began in my mind on Friday night.

We stood at the dining room window in the dwindling moments of daylight, watching a bat fly in circles under the downstairs terraza roof.

When the light faded further, she flew out for a bug orgy.

Saturday morning started at 7:45 when we heard knocks at the back door, the steel portal that separates us from the cobblestones.

There’s no doorbell there.

It was the propane guys. Our tank was low, so they topped it off for 2,500 pesos, and we’re gassed for another five months or so.

At 10 a.m., Abel, the neighbor who cuts the grass, rang the bell at the front gate. I let him in. I came back inside. I heard the lawnmower start and, almost immediately, die. I went back outside. Something was amiss.

Abel left, and my child bride and I hoisted the mower into the Chevy-cito. When you remove the back seat, that car becomes a pickup truck.

It is a very sweet vehicle.

I drove to the repair shop down near the docks. The owner, a woman who’s a Jehovah’s Witness and who tried briefly to convert me once (What a waste of her time that was), called one of her guys to the rescue, and 20 minutes later I was headed back to the Hacienda with a fixed mower.

PineappleThe repair cost about five bucks, including a roll of Weedeater line. I tipped the repairman 10 pesos, which is about 85 cents. You can live cheaply here and fix stuff quick.

Abel lives just on the other side of the sex motel, so I braked to tell him he could come back, which he did, and cut the grass.

I had returned in time for Second Breakfast at 11.

My child bride had been busy all morning baking pastries. After showering and dressing, we were ready for lunch at 1:30.

We drove down the highway to a roasted chicken stand and shared half a hen, tortillas and something that is kinda like cole slaw, but Mexicans don’t really know cole slaw. They know tacos.

By 2:30 we were downtown on the main plaza for the weekly pastry sale out of a big wicker basket. My role is to sit with her, provide engaging company. It’s part of the marriage contract, and I do it well.

Around 4:30, her sister arrives to spell me, so I come home.

Which is where I am now. It’s raining out, and I am eating a bowl of pineapple chunks. At 7:30, I will return downtown to pick her up. She’ll have a fanny pack full of cash, and there will be a smile on her face.

A smiling wife is a wonderful thing.