THE FAMILY coffee shop was closed yesterday (rare) so I was forced to hit the competition. There’s plenty of that around the plaza, competition, but my favorite is way over there, and it was there where I sat with a café expreso for a spell.
It was late afternoon. And quiet.
I never order café expreso at the family joint because the aging machine does not make good café expreso. But since I was sitting at the competition, I ordered expreso.
It’s a small world, they say, and as I sat there solo my sister-in-law walked by — on the way to her dentist — and a bit later her son, our nephew, the Little Vaquero, walked by in the opposite direction, returning home from the gym. He’s 16.
I also shot the photo below. Like the first, it was while sitting with my café expreso. I didn’t even have to stand up. Call me the Lazy Photographer.
I’VE NOT BEEN shooting as many photos as I used to. I’m good at photography, so this is a loss to the art world. The main reason is that my best camera, a Canon, is heavy, and I weary of lugging it in my man bag.
So I’ve taken to toting the other camera, a Fujifilm Finepix, which is far lighter, but the zoom is significantly less. I have to be closer to things. No matter. I used the Finepix yesterday to get the above shot of street vendors. I’m acquainted with those two. They are very friendly people though they look quite serious in the photo.
I also got this photo of Paula Romina, a great-niece of mine. It appears she was happy to see me. Maybe she was just happy to see the camera. She’s a drama queen.
I’m going to make a matte hard copy of that photo for her parents.
I have no grandchildren, nor nieces and nephews above the border and never will have. My father’s only sister was a lesbian. My only sister is a (grumpy) lesbian. My mother was an only child. My sole offspring, a daughter, is almost 53 and childless.
Our line of the family ends with my daughter. We are so conflictive and nuts, especially the distaff side, perhaps it’s for the best. Dr. Laura pointed out that it’s men who cause problems between nations, but it’s women who cause problems in families. Quite so.
What I lack in living Gringo relatives, I make up in Mexican relatives. While the generation of my child bride has passed beyond child-bearing age, the generation just after is breeding like bunnies, often without the benefit of matrimony.
If you’ve not seen my great collection of black-and-white shots, feel free to see it here.
WHILE MY surviving Gringa relatives — all two of them — above the Rio Bravo have vanished, lamentably, into the shadows of the past, I have no lack of family that I’ve married into.
I took this shot downtown earlier this week. One of the newer relatives is that smaller example in the middle. Her name is Paula Romina, and she’s very nice, not quite 2 years old.
Paula Romina thinks my child bride hung the moon.
And so do I. That’s not my child bride holding Paula Romina, however. That’s her mama, Margarita.
This young woman is named Alma, which is Spanish for soul. She is the widow of our nephew who died two years ago at 32 from cancer. We took the nephew to the state capital for chemo treatments almost weekly for a year, but it did not work out.
They are good people. Buena gente.* A picnic is scheduled this afternoon, and the main dish will be roasted chicken.