This flowering crabapple tree was in my Niece’s front yard in Minnesota. You can see a fruit growing at the bottom, which surprises me as I didn’t know this was possible while it was still blooming.
http://ceenphotography.com/2015/06/30/flower-of-the-day-june-30-2015-calla-lilies/
This view is much-magnified. The bloom is very small.
Does anyone know what this vine is? I’ve been trying to grow it for years, but it remains sparse, even though the vine I snipped it off of for a starter was lush. I keep trying!
http://ceenphotography.com/2015/06/29/flower-of-the-day-june-29-2015-rhodie/
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Generation XYZ.” What can you learn from the generation immediately in front of you or the one immediately in back of you
Generation “Haven’t A Clue!”
I really do not know what name was given to my generation. Someone born into a small town in the forties was more or less protected from being classified into any generation, at least for their first eighteen years. The mass-education and pasteurization of the internet had not yet happened. We didn’t have television until I was eleven–when the first transfer station was built in my part of South Dakota. Even then, the programs were idealized. Ozzie and Harriet, Father Knows Best, The Danny Thomas Show , Leave it to Beaver and The Donna Reed Show presented squeaky-clean prototypes of the American family for us to gauge ourselves against.
Drugs had not yet worked their way into the American mainstream. The first time I even knew about pot was in college, when a few kids of California opened up a network, via the post office, for educating the naive plains states kids about the glories of escaping the pressures of homework, exams and pecking order by escaping on a cloud. Crystal meth had not yet been invented, nor crack cocaine, nor any of the other drugs that have since given so much of the developed world society a total escape–and in the offing, created huge social problems.
All-in-all, I’m grateful that i was born into the generation I was born into. Although the world of computers, texting and social networking have reached out and grabbed us, we nonetheless have a memory of a time without–when books were held in the hand and messages were delivered mouth-to-ear with a hand held in front to prevent information leakage. Today’s world with instant texting with a camera attached is just an invitation for bullying and the sharing of private information and acts that should never have occurred in the first place. Every bully becomes his own broadcasting network and increasingly violent programs on the television and both big and tiny screens have desensitized the world.
Witnessing act after act of violence and cruelty and a world obsessed by “reality” shows makes us numb to reality–as though it is not enough. We crave sensationalism even as we tsk tsk and shake our heads at it. I am truly afraid for the generations that continue to be exposed to this widespread compulsion to view each violent act–be it on the news, via YouTube or on the fictional screen of choice.
Screens get ever larger or ever smaller, so they fill the wall in our media room or get lost in our pockets; but whatever the side of our viewing device, our brains slowly fill with depravity that rivals the Colosseum, the gulags or the German concentration camps. This wholesale violence is the real lethal drug unleashed upon our world, and I don’t know a way out of it. It is no longer of influence primarily in the big cities, for with the advent of the internet, the entire world has become one colossal city. We know of the most violent act of the flogging of bloggers in the Mideast or the stoning of homosexuals in Iran or raped women in Africa. We know of senseless and seemingly motiveless mass murders in churches and schools and fast food restaurants, beheadings in Mexico, suicides of bullied teens and murders of children by their mothers–but all of them occur too far away to be influenced by any action we might take.
We know too much about a world where we have no influence, and so all that happens is more hate, disgust and a further drawing away and warlike attitude toward societies that we don’t understand enough to judge. And so we hate an entire society instead of hating the violent part of that society that, as in our own society, commits the violent acts that we judge the entire society guilty of.
In the meantime, our politicians are drawn ever more into judging their actions according to economic results rather than humanistic or ecological considerations. So our cars get fancier, our kitchens are turned into little museums of opulence, our TV screens turn into movie screens and our hand held devices fit on our wrists. Yet we increasingly turn to takeout and what we watch either warps us, disillusions us or totally removes us from a world of performance and action. Technology has made it possible to wage wars without leaving the control room–to spy with drones and mount combat with missiles. We find romance by watching staged reality shows, watch others plan their weddings and pick their wedding dresses, watch million dollar staged weddings and then day-to-day reports of the divorce a few months later.
Yes, the world is crazy, and growing crazier with each technological advance. So you might have surmised that I would not have chosen to have been born at a later date than my 1947 birth. And in spite of my yearning to be out in the wider world for most of my earlier life, I am not sorry that my explorations began in my twenties. I saw the world with new eyes–not having seen The Wild Kingdom, The Discovery Channel or any of the other programs that show us idealized views of far off worlds. All of my shocks of discovery were purely my own and many of the countries I visited were undeveloped. I took ferries across rivers now bridged, strolled the dirt paths of towns now paved over and filled with tourists. I lived in countries I knew nothing about before I lived there, formed my opinions according to my own experience. I was naive, uninformed, ignorant and young. What better way to see the world?
So, long story short, I would not have chosen to be in any generation but my own. I did not participate in demonstrations until my fifties when I was an expat living in Mexico. I was not a flower child, didn’t live in a commune or go vegan. I was too ignorant to protest the Vietnam war until it was over. But neither was I exposed to crystal meth, heroin or crack cocaine. My mode of escape in college was bridge, not texting, and in my youth it was Monopoly, Cops and Robbers and Drop the Handkerchief! Perhaps it is pure nostalgia that makes me say I prefer my generation to all others, but I don’t think so. I think it is the realization that I’ve lived in two worlds and appreciate the perspective this gives me. Perhaps this is true of every generation, but if so, I wonder what horrible future will render the events of this generation a patina of nostalgia.
These are supposed to be pictures taken with a tilted camera, but I’ll be darned if I can tell whether the objects themselves or the camera was tilted. I’ve gotten dizzy trying to figure it out, so I hope you just enjoy the pictures for themselves without taking the assignment into account. They are taken from my photo library, so you may have seen some before. Still having problems downloading (uploading?) from my computer. Perhaps the fault is with my internet connection speed. I’ll use it as an excuse to repost pictures from past blogs.
https://nadiamerrillphotography.wordpress.com/2015/03/25/a-photo-a-week-challenge-tilted/
This dialogue is hilarious and also informative. If you don’t know what a computer phone scam sounds like, you need to read it; and if you do know, you should read it also as it wreaks a perfect revenge!!! Judy
6 A.M.
A vividly red 6 A.M. glares out from an electric alarm clock on the side table of the bed.
“Carol! Wake up! Do you know what time it is?”
“Not really.”
“Well, maybe if you opened your eyes, you could see the clock!”
“Mmmm. Hmmmm.”
He gives her a gentle swat on the bottom.
“C.mon, get up! I’m going for a shower so I won’t be here to nag at you. You gotta get up now!”
The sound of his bare feet leaving the room. A door opens and shuts. Sound of a shower and an electric razor. Then, he enters the bedroom from the adjoining bathroom, tucking in his shirt.
“Carol! It’s time to get up! You’re running late!”
“What time is it?”
“Open your eyes and you’ll see! C’mon. Open your eyes and here, I’ll help you scooch around and put your feet on the ground. Now sit up. And open your eyes!!”
(gentle snore)
“C’mon. Right now! Open your eyes. If you don’t hold yourself up, I’m gonna let you fall down. So I’m letting loose, Carol. Sit up on your own or you’ll fall down!”
There is a slight and muffled percussion sound as she falls backwards on the bed.
Dammit, Carol. Okay. This is it. I’m tired of your shit. I’m just going to let you stay in bed and miss a day of work without calling in. You’ll lose your job and there goes the Hawaiian vacation!”
“Mmmmm.”
“Brad and Janet will be there, and Chet and Tina. Pina coladas, sunburn, sand in their toes, hula lessons and moonlit walks on the beach–and we’ll both miss it all because you’ll be unemployed and we won’t be able to afford it. Carol! Get the hell out of bed!!! Open your eyes and get up!”
“Mmmmmm. Hmmmmmm.”
OK! That’s it. I’m giving up! I’m going to work now. I’ll stop and get breakfast at Shorty’s on the way. You’ve made your bed and you can lie in it–literally!!”
Sound of a door slamming, car revving and driving away. Carol slides her feet back up on the bed and pulls the covers over her head. Gentle snoring sounds.
Seven O’clock. Phone ringing. Carol reaches out to her bedside table and answers it.
“Hello?”
“Hi Carol.”
“Who is this?”
“This is your mother-in-law, dear. May I speak to Robert?”
“Who?”
“Your husband, dear. My son.”
Carol reaches out beside her, pats the bed.
“He’s not in bed, Roberta. Try calling his cell phone and perhaps he’ll pick up from down below. We had a late night last night and I’m sleeping in.”
“Okay, dear, sorry to disturb you.”
Sound of a phone being put back in the cradle. Almost immediate gentle snores. Twenty miles away, in early morning traffic, the gentle brrrrrrr of a cellphone is heard.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Robert, where are you?”
“I’m on the road, Mom, about to pull into Shorty’s for a fast breakfast. What’s up?”
“You went to breakfast without Carol?”
“No, I’m on my way to work. Carol decided not to go in today.”
Silence from the other end of the phone.
“Mom, are you still there? What did you call me for?”
“Well, dear, I’m just wondering why you are going in to work on a Saturday, and why you didn’t call your dad to call off your golf game if you’ve decided to work instead!”
Sound of brakes screeching as Robert turns off at an exit and drives over the overpass to reverse directions.
(For an earlier response to this same prompt, go HERE.)
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Groupthink.” Write a dialogue between two or three people other than yourself.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Celebrate Good Times.” You receive some wonderful, improbable, hoped-for good news. How do you celebrate?
Idyllic Schemata
If I won the lottery–just scads and scads of money,
I’d take my friends off to some isle beautiful and sunny.
I’d hire a house with many rooms where everyone could sleep.
I’d hire a housekeeper and cook, a chauffeur and a Jeep!
We’d swim and snorkel every day, take walks and collect things:
shells, driftwood and starfish–whatever the sea brings.
At night we’d drink and eat and sing, play dice or Mexican Train.
Next morning we would sleep in late and do it all again.
We’d rent a boat and captain and sail away to sea
to examine the horizon–to have fun and merely “be.”
When we’d stop at island markets, I’d give everybody money
to shop for anything they want–beautiful or funny,
delicious or fantastic, things to wear or play or see
and then I would give prizes for what most pleases me.
What I would buy are paint and tools, wood and nails and glue–
all the things needed to do what we could do
to transform all our treasures into jewelry or art.
Each person choosing just one thing closest to their heart
and letting it draw other things with which to tell a tale,
then joining them together with glue or cord or nail.
Then I’d mount an exhibition and ask everyone around.
Food and drink and music and good humor would abound.
Everyone could tell us what they make of all our art,
Which pieces touch their funnybone, which pieces touch their heart.
And we’d give the pieces all away to those who love them most.
We’d dine and raise our glasses in a final toast:
Here’s to all good friends that are and friends who are meant to be.
Here’s to the sand and sunshine, moonlight and the sea.
Here’s to all the luck we share in being here today,
to the freedom that we all possess to simply sail away.
And then I’d build a house somewhere and all could live there free–
each doing what we want and being who we want to be.
I would have to say that my muse is the sea–but not the open sea. Rather, where it meets the land.
I love sand and the things it collects: seashells, jellyfish, sand dollars, starfish, puff fish, sand pipers, sea turtles and even the people who collect at the beach. It is like they have retreated as far as possible–the next step is either a boat or drowning! They tend to be individuals, slightly odd–kind of like the people from the western world who congregate in third world locales like Africa. Perhaps they are this age’s pioneers or trappers.
Oh yes. I do love the oceanside, the beach. Salt. Sand. I love what collects above the beach as well: frigate birds and pelicans, ibises, sun, moon, clouds. Above are some of the thousands of images of the beach I’ve collected over the past ten years or so.
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Muse.” What subject do you keep coming back to again and again?
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Take It From Me.” What’s the best piece of advice you’ve given someone else that you’ve failed to follow yourself?
I’ve had several friends who have moved to Mexico after I did, and to them all, I offered this sage advice: “If you want to live in Mexico, don’t expect it to be the same as living in the states and don’t expect it to change just because you want it to. We all move here for the charm and the fact that it is laid back and less concerned with running everyone’s lives, but you also need to realize that the reason this is so is often a matter of disorganization and inefficiency. Mexico is a wonderful place, but if you are expecting practicality, reason and expediency, move to Germany instead. If someone had given me this advice before I fell in love with Mexico and let my husband talk me into buying a house here—would I have offered more resistance? Probably not. Herein, I offer than well-known advice: Do as I say, not as I do.
If you’ve been reading my blog for at least a year, you probably already know that I’ve been living in Mexico since 2001 and in that time I thought I’d encountered every illogical thing that could possibly happen, but silly me. When will I learn? A case in point. Three days ago, my doorbell rang. I called out to ask who it was and a male voice replied, “Correos de Mexico.“ The postman? In all my years here, I’d never seen one, at least on my street, let alone my house. Sure, I’d seen them buzzing around on motorcycles with their hot pink and chartreuse logos on their jackets, but it was only in the past 2 years that they’d started delivering mail to my house, and in that time, the only evidence of them I’d ever seen was a bill or two thrown over the top of my garage door—usually with tire tracks on them.
In April, I’d received a Christmas card that had been mailed from Australia on December 25; and on June 10, I’d received two more from the U.S.—six months after their posting dates! So, as you may imagine, I don’t have much confidence in the postal service in Mexico. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I threw a jacket over my nightgown and cracked my front gate door. “Identification?” the postman asked. I got my driver’s license, presented it, gave him two signatures and received in return—a speeding ticket for an infraction on April 15 of this year.
It seems that the government has decided that its a good idea to install cameras in certain vital and much-trafficked places such as the road to the airport and that I’d been caught on camera going 101 kph in an 80 kph zone. This is roughly equivalent to going 63 mph in a 50 mph zone. The resulting fine was 351 pesos, which would be halved if I paid before June 5, but increased to 500 pesos if I didn’t. I could pay at any of a number of given banks, Oxxo convenience stores or 7-11’s. So, I quickly jumped in my car and sped (oops) to my closest Oxxo, only to be told I couldn’t pay there because I hadn’t paid before June 5. But I hadn’t even received the ticket in the mail until June 23, I protested! Where was I to go now? He didn’t know. Perhaps Guadalajara? It had no further information on the bill.
I drove home in frustration and consulted the local online bulletin board. It seems a number of people had received similar tickets in the mail, all were late and they didn’t know where to pay them. Some said the municipal building in Chapala. Others said Guadalajara. The dread Guad!!! The only times I’d driven there lately, I’d gotten hopelessly lost. I mean three to six hours lost. All the improvements and all of the signs added in the past few years seem to have only added to the confusion. ( It can’t be me, can it?)
Then today, the doorbell rang again. Once more, I threw a coat on over my nightgown. (It was nearly 10 a.m., but I was snoozing late, due to the fact that I hadn’t gone to bed until 3:30 a.m.) Who was it? Correos de Mexico. This time I grabbed my i.d. before I answered the door. Sure enough, another speeding ticket!!!! It was for May 6, 2015 and unlike the other one, it had been marked as mailed on June 15—but hadn’t been delivered until today, June 26. Its due date? June 24—two days ago. Then to thicken the plot, I realized I wasn’t even in Mexico on June 15!! My house sitter had been using my car and I believe this was the day she was going to pick up her boyfriend at the airport. Of course, I railed on to the postman who looked at me blankly. Still not his problem, I gathered. He drove away. I stormed into the house, dressed in 5 minutes and took off to Chapala to try to resolve the matter.
Due to the heavy Friday traffic of Guadalajarans trying to get an early start on weekend revelries lakeside, it took me about half an hour to drive the 10 miles or so to Chapala. I then stood in line at the municipal building, having a chat with a Mexican gentleman who held documents in his hand similar to mine. Were they traffic tickets? I asked in my unique form of Spanish. Yes, they were, he answered in perfect English. Aha! A sympathetic soul, plus one who understood English!!!
I started in on my story, trying to give the short and efficient version and ending with asking if his, too, were overdue. He didn’t know, he said, they were not his. Many ex-pats smarter than me or wealthier than me or lazier than me (or all three) hire locals to do their “official” business for them: paying taxes, registering cars—and evidently, paying traffic tickets. We chatted on until finally, it was my turn at the cashier’s cage. I tried to explain my problem in Spanish. The cashier tried to explain something to me in Spanish but I didn’t quite understand. It seemed as though she was telling me what I already knew—that I needed to have paid by June 5 and June 24, respectively, to get the 50 percent discount and to be able to pay at any bank or Oxxo or 7-11 store. Yes, but I didn’t even know a ticket had been issued on those dates, I protested—and, and–.
We could have gone on in this manner for some time if a gentleman had not popped out of a nearby office and explained to me that they were aware of the problem and that two more tickets would be issued for me to pay and these could be paid at any Oxxo, 7-11 or bank. Could I rip up these tickets? Yes I could. And I wouldn’t be fined even more? No. I wouldn’t.
I am home now, sitting and speculating about the efficiency of having to issue and mail new tickets rather than just letting me pay for the old one and giving me the prompt payment discount instead of the penalty. I am also considering the probability that the new tickets will also arrive after the cutoff date for payment. Another thing to consider is the trip my house sitter took to the airport to pick me up on June 8! Is another ticket having a little tour around Mexico before reaching its intended place of harassment? Will all three arrive at once? Will the postman know me well enough not to demand identification?
This long story is meant to illustrate two things. #1. That societies not based on efficiency, timeliness and logical process should not really institute a traffic fine system such as this. I don’t believe I need to discuss this further. #2. That if you have found it incredibly frustrating just to read about this little go-around, then Mexico is probably not for you. Sure, come to the beach for a week and sip pina coladas and margaritas. Go parasailing. Eat tacos. But, don’t drink the water and don’t actually move here unless you have the patience of a saint, the sense of humor of a late night political commentator and better Spanish than I do!!!
