Pigskin & flopping fishes

MOST EVERY weekday morning, the two of us walk six laps (20 minutes) around the neighborhood plaza. It’s fairly routine with the exception of Thursdays when there’s a mercado set up there. People selling stuff. Free enterprise. Capitalism!

Thursday is the best day for our power walks because there’s not simply exercise on the plate but lots of fun stuff to gawk at.

Two of my favorites are the pigskins being boiled in a big tub of oil. It smells like my childhood at my maternal grandparents’ farm in southwest Georgia way over half a century ago. The other favorite, though it’s a bit grim, are the flopping fishes.

New ImageA woman sells fresh fish — you know they’re fresh because many are flopping — atop a cloth she spreads on the sidewalk. No matter the hour we do our walk, some of those fish are flopping about, wondering where the water went.

Some flop right off the cloth.

There are lots of other things to see. Women set up small stands and sell stuff to eat, hot grub over charcoal fires. (Charcoal smoke always reminds me of Haiti.) Others spread cloth on the sidewalk and display used clothing, some obviously quite used.

This invariably slows down my child bride’s power walk because for her clothing for sale — especially if it’s cheap — is like catnip to a feline.

No matter. I keep going, and she eventually catches up.

1200-28731554-asiago-cheeseThere are two large stands of lovely fruit and veggies. You can find nicer, fresher merchandise there than you usually encounter in the supermarket. There’s also a fellow who sells cheese, just cheese. He arrives in a white truck.

Yes, Thursdays are the fun walks. The other days are just pedestrian events.

But we bought a mango today which, when combined with onion slices and some magic sauce my child bride makes, creates a very nice salad, which will complete the Greek garlic chicken I made yesterday in the crockpot for today’s lunch.

Life moves along for better or worse, usually better.

Dismal month of May

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Sea of crispy grass. In eight more weeks, this will resemble a jungle in Chiapas.

WE’VE JUST BEGUN the worst month of the year. The best month is November, but this is the miserable month of May, the final wheeze of the dry season. Next month will bring the refreshing, daily downpours.

But for now, it’s dead grass and dust. We keep the windows closed for the most part to keep dust and heat outside. Well, what passes for heat here, which is a cakewalk compared to a summer in New Orleans or Houston, my old haunts.

People here complain about “the heat.” My child bride is especially prone to this. I snort and tell her she should spend a few summer days in Texas or South Louisiana. Then she would know heat. What we have here in May is a bit of discomfort, nothing more.

Speaking of the daily rains which are heading down the highway toward us, we’d like to get the entire glass roof atop the upstairs terraza in place before the skies open. Next Wednesday marks a month since I paid the deposit. They’ve installed six panes, and they have about 50 more to go. I’ll stop by their place Monday to bitch and moan.

Other news is that a nice couple just vacated our downtown Casita yesterday after a two-month stay, so it’s available for vacation rentals now. Just so you know.

For you, a special price. The Moon discount.

But back to May, we’ve actually been blessed a bit this year. It seems less unpleasant than previous Springs. We’ve used the air cooler less than usual upstairs in the evenings while we munch on salads and watch Netflix. And while it’s a tad warm in the bedroom as we drift off to sleep with the windows open, when 5 a.m. arrives it’s quite chilly.

Mornings are good here. Most things are good here.

The early anniversary

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Just after returning late in the afternoon. Note brown grass of Springtime at left.

WE CELEBRATED the first stage of our two-weekend, 17th anniversary on Sunday by driving clockwise around the lake and stopping at the German restaurant.

I had German sausage and sauerkraut, and my child bride went for trout a lá pistachio. Both were above average. Next weekend, we’ll repeat the route to celebrate again but at a different joint. Lots of restaurants to be found out there, especially if you drive clockwise.

Seventeen years is a long time to be married, especially if it’s a third marriage, which it is for me but not for her. She’s not a repeat offender. I was married to my first wife a bit over five years, to my second a tad over 10 years though I lived with No. 2 about 19 years.

So we have another two years to top all relationship records for me.

I like being married. My head drifts and my heart cracks when I’m single. I tend to lose my mind.  If I’d done it right in the first place, marrying a Mexican, my entire life would have been different. I highly recommend Mexican wives.

Mexican husbands, nah, not so much. I hear things.

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Photo I like, the various elements. Stone, brick, color, mushroom, clay tile, Nissan tail light.

The bougainvillea shot

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IT’S THAT TIME of year again, the time for the annual bougainvillea shot.

I include my child bride for the sake of perspective. And, as in all years, the monster plant has been trimmed back. Abel the Deadpan Yardman did that about two months ago in winter. Yes, this is the trimmed-back look.

My child bride is dressed for the gym, by the way, an every-Monday occurrence, along with each Wednesday and Friday.

Now that I have removed the behemoth nopal, the too-tall, trash-tossing pear, another smaller pear and the trash-tossing peach tree, this beefed-up bougainvillea is the lone, remaining yard annoyance. Perhaps one day I’ll have it removed too.

It is rather attractive, however, and it does not toss rotten fruit, just dead blooms.

When I walked toward the kitchen this morning not long after dawn, I noticed this light play on the wall of the living room, so I photographed it.

It’s a colorful world.

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