The color tree, etc.

Colorful ribbons did the trick.

A year or so ago — I lose track of time — as part of my campaign to sweep the yard clean of nuisances, I had this loquat tree cut way back to its nubs. Unlike other nuisances, which I’ve simply removed, I left these nubs with a single branch each because I figured my child bride could let it grow big again after I was pushing up daisies.

The plan worked for a while, but then it did not. The tree died, so I have repurposed it, as they say, into yard art. I have a background in colorful art, which you can see here.


More like my father

My father and I were always like two peas in a pod with a couple of huge exceptions. He had no sense of adventure, and he loathed travel. My sense of adventure long ago landed me here on my Mexican mountaintop, and I loved travel. That has changed, which is something of a problem because my child bride remains a travel fanatic. I lost the travel bug in the past year. I imagine it has much to do with aging.

Like my 18 years in New Orleans, I’m now in another touristy place, over 21 years. I live in a spot where people visit and think, Gee, I wish I lived here. Well, I do live here, and it’s great.

Alas, the pandemic is winding down, and she’s hot to travel! Guanajuato! Zihatanejo! San Miguel! Colombia! Spain! And I’d rather have my fingernails yanked out. I am now in dodge mode, wondering how long I can keep it up.

Meanwhile, she is satisfying her mania for constant movement by crocheting up a storm, housecleaning, fixing pastries, you name it, never a still moment. Maybe I should have married someone closer to my own age, but where’s the joy in that?


Back to the yard

I phoned my builder a week ago, and he came here yesterday to see what I wanted done. Mostly, I want lots of grass removed and replaced with stone and concrete. There are some unrelated details, but it’s the grass that I want gone more than anything. Alas, he is currently building another house, about the same size as ours, he told me.

So I am in wait mode. We have till next June, which is when the annual monsoon returns. Patience, I tell myself. Of course, I could hire someone else, but this guy is great, and so are his prices.

Speaking of the yard, it appears the rain has retired for this year. The grass has stopped growing, which is good. In a couple of months, it will be brown, dusty and crunchy.

Abel the Deadpan Yardman comes Sunday, and instead of mowing the grass, he will give the Alamo Wall a haircut. The ivy runs amok.

Coming over the top like the Huns at Verdun.


Honda’s back in shape

As I mentioned a few days ago, the Honda’s air-conditioning ceased to work. We took it to the state capital yesterday where the compressor was replaced. That set me back the peso equivalent of a tad over $700 U.S., money well spent. I loathe heat just as my father loathed travel. One must pick one’s loathing.

Semana Santa, again

Scene this morning upstairs. One of my art chairs.

OUR HOLY WEEK (Semana Santa) festivities kick off today with a huge artisan market downtown on the main plaza. At least I think that’s true because I saw lots of vendors setting up shop late yesterday.

We’ll know for sure when we get downtown this afternoon to sell pastries.

Semana Santa and the Day of the Dead are our two big tourist draws each year. It means clogged traffic and mobs of people and other inconveniences for those of us fortunate enough to live here, but it also brings money into town, always a good thing.

I took the above photo today. I shot the video below yesterday. The tinkle of wind chimes are from us. The cackle of chickens are from next door.

It’s how things look and sound around here in dusty, dry springtime.

The dead-quiet aftermath

All that remains of the artisan market on Monday was the canvas roof circling the plaza.

I WAS A FAN of the Day of the Dead long before I moved to Mexico.


There was a ceramic Catrina that stood on the bathroom counter in my Houston condo on Braes Bayou. I had purchased it at a Mexican artisan shop in a trendy area called The Heights. The place was owned by a real Mexican who charged me $200 for it.

When I moved down here, I discovered the same thing was easily available for the peso equivalent of $20 U.S., so I wuz robbed.

It was sheer coincidence that I moved to what is likely the most famous Day of the Dead town in Mexico. Oaxaca gives us competition. Never been there.

When I moved here 19 Days of the Dead ago, there was, and still is, an artisan market on our big plaza. It was haphazard, poorly organized, and many of the offerings were sheer crap that you might find in a Five & Dime.

Things have really changed. The artisan market years back was open to the vagaries of the weather, i.e. rain. Now the whole shebang sports a canvas roof. And the offerings have improved 100 percent. The junk is gone, and spectacular, high-quality goods are on sale. You should see it.

It lasts a week, going up the weekend before the Day of the Dead and coming down the weekend after.

* * * *

Two ways to do it.

We have two ways to experience Los Muertos, as the Day of the Dead is called in Spanish: the traditional and the carnival, what I call Party Hearty. The latter appears to be the more popular option, which is unfortunate.

To experience the traditional, visitors have many options. There are numerous small towns and villages in the area where residents do what’s long been done. They clean up the cemetery, decorate the graves with flowers, mostly marigolds, light candles and sit through the night, the theory being that the spirits of the departed return to visit.

What this produces is an eerie, incredibly beautiful, silent scene. It’s what takes place in my neighborhood cemetery, which we’ve visited on the Big Night a number of times, but not the last two years out of laziness. It’s walking distance from the Hacienda, which is great since traffic in the area all week, and especially on the Big Night, is beyond belief.

The second way to experience Los Muertos is Party Hearty, and it goes like this: You go to the island of Janitzio, which floats out in our large lake. The only way to get there is via motor launch. For some reason, Janizio is incredibly famous throughout Mexico and beyond for Los Muertos, even though their cemetery is like other cemeteries, and the locals do what locals do at other cemeteries.

I think it’s the novelty of the boat ride and the fact that it’s an island that’s given Janizio its celebrity. But whatever it is, tourists flock there is droves, mobs, hordes, incredible quantities of people. And they visit the Janitzio cemetery and more. There is music, dancing, food! And all is experienced while rubbing elbows with swarms of other sightseers.

It is not an “authentic” representation of the Night of the Dead. It’s a party. If you want a party, go to Janitzio. If you want to have a more traditional experience, go to one of the other villages. There are quite a few. But traffic will be bad wherever you go on the Big Night.

The artisan market on the big plaza of my mountaintop town lasted till Sunday. The next day, I drove downtown. Most of the tourists had fled. The vendors on the plaza had packed up and gone. It was peaceful again, as I prefer it.

* * * *

The aftermath

I sat with a café negro Americano and a sugar donut, looked toward the plaza and shot the photo at the top. The only thing remaining of the jam-packed artisan market was the canvas roof that will come down this week.

Later I walked to my car, which was parked just two blocks away on the street you see below, drove home and breathed a sigh of relief that peace has returned till next year. The market will appear again on Easter Week. The crowds will be big, but not quite so big as Los Muertos, and there will not be two ways to do it.

Just one. It involves Jesus.

Walking back to my car, two blocks from the plaza, amid the sounds of silence.

Day of the Dead

Our humble altar yesterday afternoon.

THIS IS THE Day of the Dead, and last night was the preceding evening.

My child bride usually builds an altar in the living room. There are too many who died too young in her family, and there was a new addition to that sad list this year. A kid brother died last May of a heart attack at the age of 55.

My mountaintop town is famous throughout Mexico for its Day of the Dead festivities and activities. There are spectacular graveyard scenes in the area. One is within walking distance of our home. Some years we walk over there on the Big Night, and some years we don’t. Last night we did not.

We stayed home, eating salads and watching Netflix.

The traffic is always dreadful. Were our cemetery not within walking distance, we’d never see the event. The most publicized cemetery here is on an island in the lake. You can only get there by boat, and hordes of people visit.

A far superior option is to visit one of the many other cemeteries that surround the lake, places where you’re not shoulder to shoulder with tourists traipsing through the tombstones, candles and marigolds.

It’s full of loveliness and spirit.

Life for the living will start returning to normal tomorrow. By Monday the mobs of tourists will be gone, the massive market on the plaza will pull up stakes, and we’ll return to our customary tranquility hereabouts. That’s how I like it.

Dead or alive.