Tag Archives: machetes

Separate summers

Datura outside our bedroom window yesterday. There’s also aloe vera.

MY FATHER DIED a quarter century ago when he was just three years older than I am right now.

He was a sad man, but he loved summer. He worked evenings, which gave him days free to labor in the yard where we lived in Northern Florida in a ranch house.

He loved the Atlantic beach, sand and saltwater, and he loved tending the yard. Neither interfered with his drinking, however. Heat stirs well with highballs.

I don’t drink — well, not anymore — and maybe that’s why I don’t like gardening, and I don’t live near the beach though we can get there in three hours down the autopista.

And I loathe heat, the lack of which makes my mountaintop home wonderful in summertime. But things really grow here, much better than they did in my father’s yard.

Gotta be the latitude.

Every winter I blaze through the yard like a machete-wielding madman even though I actually use a small saw and branch trimmer. The golden datura is slashed back to basics, leaving the trunk and some nubs. It’s soft wood.

It booms back in June once it feels a touch of rain.

My father had a pink-flowered mimosa of similar size in our Florida yard. It was the only thing of any height. The rest were pansies, petunias, such stuff, all planted in rows.

Here I have a Willy-Nilly Zone where things grow, hemmed in by rock and concrete, in any direction they desire.

And for things of size, there’s monster bougainvillea, the towering nopal, a gigantic fan palm.

I was pressed, as a boy, into yard-mowing duties, and I received a small sum. I forget how much. And I once cut the Hacienda lawn too, years ago, but not anymore.

That’s why the Goddess invented pesos for me to pay Abel the Deadpan Yardman.

About a decade back, after I moved to Mexico, I drove a rented car slowly by the Florida house. The mimosa was gone. Everything was bleak. The grass was spotty due to cars being parked on it, just like a rack of rednecks would do.

There were no flowers at all. Nothing.

In the 1950s, the area was the middle class moving up. Now it’s the working class barely holding on.

Summers separated by half a century of time.

Mexican ingenuity

truck
How the van left the Hacienda.
gone
How the area was left, nice and clean.
New Image
How the area looked a few days ago.

HOW ABEL the dour yardman (and neighbor) got that mountain of green garbage into the back of his decrepit minivan is a mystery. He used a machete.

He lumbered off just as you see in the first photo, sweeping the street in his wake. He did not have to go far, about three blocks to a ravine where all was dumped.

He left the area clean, as you see in the second photo. Next week a couple of workmen will cut those banana tree stumps down even farther, and a rock-and-concrete “table,” 60 centimeters high, will be built there.

A second area where another stand of banana trees once lived, up against the house itself, will get the same treatment, and that will leave us with just one banana forest.

And its survival is in doubt too.

If you’re arriving late to the show, here’s the original post on this gardening epic, from earlier this week.

Slicing the squash

machete
My machete was made in Brazil

MY CHILD BRIDE wanted to cut a winter squash yesterday to make pastry.

Do you have a machete? she asked.

There are two elements to this scenario that somewhat surprised me. One, I have a wife who asks for a machete. Two, I have a machete.

I bought it years back because I am a Mexican man, and Mexican men have machetes. I keep mine on a top shelf in the closet so I won’t hurt myself. Machetes give me the willies.

So I loaned it to her. She went out to the yard, the stone sidewalk, and split that big fat squash like a Hutu would a Tutsi’s head.

The machete is back in the closet now, and the pastry will go with my child bride downtown this evening where, like one week ago on Christmas eve, she will party most of the night with relatives. And I will sleep alone in peace, which is how I like it.