Good and green

summerSUMMER STARTS on June 21, so we’re still in Springtime or, as my Mexican paisanos call it, Primavera.

We step outside each morning with long pants and a light jacket. It will be about 60 degrees. It’ll soar to the mid-70s at midday. Invariably I think of folks I left behind in the sweat pits of Houston and New Orleans.

We sleep at night with only half of one window open to avoid having to pile blankets atop us. We have no air-conditioning, of course, because that would be downright silly. Not much heating either.

Most of the greenery in the photo was planted by me a decade back, and they were just little tykes. When I planted little tykes in Houston, they usually stayed that way or died. I’ve yet to figure that out.

There is some horticultural magic in the Mexican air. You expect that on the tropical coasts, but it seems less likely here on the cool mountaintop 7,000 feet above sea level.

Most spring and summer mornings are similar. I eat a bagel and Philly cheese. I sweep the terraza and pick up the cursed peaches that have fallen overnight from their tree. I wipe dew or rain off the glass table and web chairs that sit on the yard patio, and I hoist the umbrella like a flag.

I take a deep breath, smile and walk back inside to wash the Philly cheese off the ceramic plates we purchased years ago in Dolores Hidalgo. Maybe do a little laundry. Take a shower, get dressed.

Life doesn’t change much. Nor do I want it to.

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While the above is a typical morning, I detoured a bit today.

At 8 a.m., I was parked outside the little lab downtown as the young nurse opened for business. It was time for the twice-yearly peek into my blood vessels and veins, to see how the old coot is getting along.

I check my cholesterol, blood sugar and triglycerides.

No appointment is necessary, no doctor’s permission. Just show up, fork over 18 bucks (would have been 10 if I’d waited for the sale next week), step into the adjoining room, roll up my sleeve and wince.

The results will be available this afternoon. I’m feeling fine, but you can put in a positive word with the Goddess on my behalf. It won’t hurt.

No smiley guy

RECENTLY I POSTED a photo of myself on Facebook in which I was smiling, kinda. Someone commented on that aspect:  At last, a smile, she said. Fact is that I am not a smiley guy.

My second ex-wife often complained about it*, especially on seeing a photo. But I’m not a smiley guy in normal life either. I have no idea why. It’s not that I don’t feel good. I do. It’s not that I don’t have a sense of humor. I do. My child bride has often remarked that it is one of the things she likes most about me, my sense of humor.

Perhaps my lack of everyday smiles is because I am not lighthearted.

leatherfaceThe Cambridge Online Dictionary defines lighthearted this way: Amusing and not serious. Well, I can be quite amusing, but I’m also dead serious. So scratch lighthearted.

Who can be lighthearted these days anyway?

American women in particular are famous for having smiles pasted on their faces. It’s very noticeable here in Mexico because Mexican women only smile when there is something to smile about. It’s not a permanent part of their faces. Watch a Gringa tourist on the street here, or even one who lives here, and she’ll sport that vacuous smile.

Please like me.

But let’s not get off the subject here, which is my not being a smiley guy. So if you ever actually meet me, don’t expect a broad smile. But I may say something later to amuse you and make you chuckle. I hope so.

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* Among many other things.