THREE
http://ceenphotography.com/2015/06/23/cees-fun-foto-challenge-three-items-for-the-number-three/
THREE: Cee’s Fun FotoChallenge
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Author Archives: lifelessons
Snapped!
I can’t believe that I’m actually going to tell you the story associated with this picture, but here goes! Most of you know the story of how I decided to move to Mexico for a year with my husband, who was very reluctant to spend even a few weeks in Mexico, let alone an entire year! When he got here and got adjusted, however, it was he who started agitating to buy a house, with the end result pictured here–a house on the side of a mountain above Lake Chapala. The problem was, that shortly after we bought the house and before we could move into it, he passed away.
I moved to Mexico, but memories of Bob moved with me and it was as though he was inhabiting more of the house than the small shrine I constructed in his memory in the entrance hall. For seven years, I just felt married. I think I dealt with the loss of him well. For those seven years, I journaled most days, wrote a book and numerous poems about dealing with the loss of a loved one and other aspects of moving to a foreign country. The thing is, that my heart didn’t go along with my head and in spite of everything, I felt married.
A part of this may have been that I just didn’t meet anyone who triggered that first automatic response that Bob had. The minute I’d set eyes on him, I suspected he was “the” one. Once I’d heard him read his poetry, I knew he was. But Bob was gone. Had been for seven years, and I decided it was time to go about trying to meet someone else. I joined Match.com and in a year found not one person I wanted to meet, let alone anyone who wanted to meet me.
Then a friend told me about OkCupid and within 24 hours, I had met a number of people I was interested in and the response indicated that they felt the same way. But Mexico is a long way from the states and the obligation associated with having someone come all this distance made me reticent about encouraging visits. I wrote to a number of people, and then Jerry came along.
Although we were very different in some ways, our communication was conducted on a more intimate level than any of my other conversations. We seemed to get to the meat of ourselves and I was intrigued. He was the first person who made me start to feel romantic again in the way my heart had turned over when I met Bob. I was due to give a talk at a local lecture series and it might be an indication of how my life was quickly transitioning if I admit to you that the night before I gave a 45 minute speech on Bob’s death and overcoming grief, I stayed up all night taking to Jerry. That morning, after only one hour of sleep, I gave my talk about Bob and overcoming his loss, but it was Jerry I was thinking about. That quickly, I had gone on to a stage unmentioned in my talk. I no longer felt married.
Our long conversations on Skype turned sensual–not in a cyber sex sense, but in a romantic sense. When we met, what would the setting be? What would I be wearing? What would he be wearing? What would our first words be? We constructed romantic dialogues–and this writing was a new and exciting experience for him. He began to paint again–something he hadn’t done in years–and attributed this new interest in writing and the rebirth of his artistic life to me.
Within a few months, he had decided to fly to Mexico for a 4 day weekend. I’d meet him at the plane. This was very different from our initial resolve to meet at a location other than one of our homes. We had envisualized meeting at a beach resort. I would be sitting at a table with my back to the door. He would enter and recognize me immediately. He’d come up to me and kiss the back of my neck. Then he’d sit at the table and the tension would build as we had margaritas and dinner, a walk on the beach, and. . . . Who knew what it would lead to?
What would I be wearing? His choice was a full Mexican skirt and an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. Sandals. He’d be wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Levis or shorts and huaraches or sandals.
When I first heard word that he was coming in a few weeks, my sister and her friend were visiting me in Mexico. I finally revealed to them the details of my cyber romance and they threw themselves into the task of helping me to find the right wardrobe for our meeting. It was fun combing the shops for a full skirt. The peasant blouse was another matter, but we finally found it. They were complicit in my plans–nothing short of a romance comic book come to life. They left. Jerry’s arrival was that night.
Unfortunately, in the time between my shopping spree and Jerry’s evening arrival, the weather had turned cold. As I stood at the airport reading the notice that the plane would be delayed by two hours, I shivered in my skimpy gauzy clothing and sandals. Around me were Mexican citizens in their Levis, Reboks and down jackets. I was seemingly the only senorita in sight and I was cold! I went into the warmest spot I could find–a restaurant on the second floor–and asked to borrow a tablecloth to wear as a shawl as I ordered coffee, then soup. Anything to get warm!!! Yes, I felt foolish.
As I waited, I thought of what I knew about him. I knew he had 4 more years until retirement and that he had saved up enough air miles to travel around the world for a year. He had asked me to go with him, saying he had enough miles for two. He loved Mexico and wanted to retire here. He’d been married but had no children. He didn’t drink, except on vacation. He was going to quit smoking, but couldn’t until after we’d met–the tension was too great in the interim. He was trying to lose weight. His favorite food was flan. (I had three different varieties of flan awaiting him in my refrigerator: my mother’s recipe, a killer variety cooked by a friend who was a chef and a diet variety.)
Then, finally, the plane was announced. I took the elevator down to the first level, stood by the railing watching person after person come out of the doors of customs and scan the crowd. I was looking for the athletic handsome man pictured in his OK Cupid profile. Person after person passed. Then, when I’d about given up hope, a chubby man with a foolish sort of grin came down the “runway” stumbling just a bit. Weaving just a bit. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Could it be? When he caught sight of me, his grin widened. At the end of the runway, he caught me in a big hug and a brief kiss.
Even in that brief kiss, I could tell he’d been drinking. His erratic walk told me he’d been drinking quite a bit. It turned out that during the 2 hour delay, the airline had offered free drinks to everyone, and it had been a shame not to make full use of the offer. I could understand this. The conversation on the 45 minute drive home was fine and half way home, he asked me to pull over for a full embrace. Again, my hopes soared.
That night was as romantic as I might have wished. When we arrived at my house, he put his suitcase in the spare room. No pressure, he said. I appreciated this. Loved it, in fact. We ate. We danced for hours. Talked. Kissed. He did not use the spare room for anything other than a repository for his suitcase. It was one of the most romantic nights of my life and the fact that I’d been waiting for it for seven years did nothing to dispel its effect.
The next morning, we slept in. Or, at least, I slept in. When I woke up, he was already in the kitchen making breakfast. We ate on the patio. The weather had warmed up and everything should have been perfect. But, when he kissed me, I noticed tequila on his breath. Wasn’t it a bit early to be drinking tequila? He was on vacation, he told me. When he went back into the kitchen for more orange juice, I could hear him uncapping the tequila and pouring some into his glass.
By the end of breakfast, the tequila bottle that had been full before I drove to the airport was 2/3 empty. By then the gardener was there. My living room is pretty much floor to ceiling sliding glass windows the entire expanse of the living and dining room that face the terrace, pool, and back garden. I’m sure Pasiano was a bit shocked to see me close dancing in the living room with this stranger at 9 in the morning. It was romantic, yes, but I kept looking up to see Pasiano’s reaction. He was watering the plants nearest the glass wall. Now and then when I looked up, I met his gaze and his somewhat stupefied expression. This was something new in this house!
Over the next few days, we drove around to the other side of the lake, walked the malecon in Chapala, went out dancing with friends. The entire time, Jerry drank. When he had said he only drank on vacation, I had not understood that what he meant was that he Only drank on vacation! Once he hit Mexico–his usual vacation destination–what he did was drink! By the second night, his libido was somewhat inhibited by the tequila. By the third night, he nodded off the minute his head hit the pillow. The romance, if not over, had certainly hit some ruts in the road.
Before I drove him to the plane to return to the states, I confided to him that I would be writing a new book and wasn’t going to be able to devote as much time to talking to him as I had in the past. (Our record marathon call had lasted 9 hours.) He got the message loud and clear. The romance quickly cooled.
I went on to meet other interesting prospects and several have come to Mexico to visit, but never again did I invite anyone to stay with me prior to meeting them. At one point, I preferred going to the states to meet prospective love interests–during visits to family and friends. Some of these encounters have turned out well and I’ve made at least one lifelong friend whom I hope will always be in my life, but I’ve retired the peasant blouse. Only this picture remains to remind me of my foolish foolish heart and to remind me never again to let it rule my choice of wardrobe!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Snapshot Stories.” Go to the first photo you find of yourself in the first album you locate and tell us the story of that photograph.
Flower of the Day: Zinnia
It’s A Crock!–Travel Theme Old Fashioned
It’s A Crock!
Most of these are my Grandma Dykstra’s pottery, although some were my Mom’s, I think. The Murdo Elevator gift crock was from my home town. Its owners lived next door to us and the granddaughter of its founder was Patty Peck, my sister’s best friend. I wrote a poem about us all ( sister Patti, Patty Peck, my friend Patty Martin and I) all floating in my pool on my queen-sized airbed mattress the year I moved to Mexico 14 years ago. It’s posted somewhere on this blog. There are also a number of poems about my grandmother, my mother and my home town, Murdo, South Dakota. If I’ve tagged them well enough, you should be able to find them.
All of this crockery now resides atop my kitchen shelves in Mexico, mixed in with precolumbian replicas and other crockery found in a trip to the Pyrenees long before I moved to Mexico, pieces from Africa and antique wooden implements from Lombok, an island off the coast of Bali. This is my memory shelf, for sure.
http://wheresmybackpack.com/2015/06/19/travel-theme-old-fashioned/
Empty Nest
Empty Nest
She tugs at the remains of some bird’s last year’s nest,
then flies away with material for her new one
while the father hovers near, watching the small bird
tumbled from another nest three days ago
and brought in my dog’s mouth for Susanna to discover.
“Open Morrie, open!”
She pried his jaws apart to find the small bird whole
inside his mouth,
rain soaked and bedraggled,
his tail feathers either gone
or not yet grown.
For three days, we sheltered the baby bird with heater on,
taking him for feedings on the garden rock
where his father and mother could find him
and return once or twice per hour to fill him up
like a small mechanical bird
purchased in the market
who, when wound up, hops
then sits dormant until fueled again.
This small bird for three days and four nights
survived, hale and hearty.
Loud chirps brought the mother, at first,
until yesterday, when we could see
a new nest in construction.
Then the rufous father came, first to the rock to feed him,
then later, clinging to the sides of the cage
to fill their nestless chick like a small car
from the fuel pump.
This morning dawned overcast,
and though the chick needed feeding,
when I neared the rock,
I felt his tremors
and took him back to the house
for another 10 minutes warming,
then tucked him into an old nest
I’d found years ago and saved.
I hoped for protection
and warmth and security,
perhaps a memory of the nest he’d fallen from.
Then I carried him in his cage
back to the tree to be fed.
From the hammock,
far enough away to pose no threat,
I watched the father’s descent
and an ascent too quick.
Then no return,
so that when minutes later I searched the cage
for the small bird tucked into that scavenged nest inside,
I found the nest empty–
one ruffled back against the cage bottom,
claws curled upwards.
There is no difference
equal to the difference
between a body chirping–
wings pulsing–
and its empty husk
after the life has left.
No question bigger than:
What is life that we can only see it
through what it inhabits,
and where does it go
when it soars away?
I buried Little Bird in this planter underneath the yellow flower.
With a stick covered with the favorite seeds of finches hung overhead.
Kewpie Dolls and Churros
Some of my favorite memories when I was small involved the traveling carnivals and circuses that would set up in my small town. The rides seemed incredibly large, thrilling and exotic to me. I loved being turned upside down and jerked this way and that and spun around in circles on merry-go-rounds and more adventurous rides by the name of “Tilt-a-Whirl” and “The Bullet.”
There were strange sights sealed up in tents that my mother never let me go into, but I overheard her discussions with her friends of just what shocking sight they had seen. It wasn’t until I read Truman Capote and other southern authors that I first heard the term “geek show,” but coming from a northern state, I never would have heard these shows referred to by this pejorative term.
There was cotton candy and candied apples, be-feathered kewpie dolls made of plastic so thin that you could dent them if you squeezed them too hard during the thrills of the ferris wheel. There were nickels skimmed across carnival glass plates with carnival glass bowls and cups as prizes for getting one to stay on a plate.
There were cheap toys, cheap thrills and, as we grew into our preteen and teen years, exotic carnies from out of town. We looked beyond their grubby clothes, grease-encrusted fingernails, ruffled too-long hair and too-wise leers to imagine them as romantic gypsies or James Dean come to discover us in our small prairie town. Nothing ever came of these dreams, for we ran at the first suggestion of anything remotely sexual, but they fueled our dreams as surely as the Saturday night show and Emily Loring romances.
These memories are fueled by a festival of a different sort, and these pictures were in fact taken last night when my friend and I strolled through the streets of San Juan Cosala during their 11-day yearly religious fiesta in honor of Saint John the Baptist, the patron saint of the pueblo. We ate pizza cooked in gas ovens on the spot, waffle cones filled with galleta ice cream and strawberry ices and churros–the Mexican extruded donuts–dipped delicious from their vat of hot oil and rolled in sugar. We passed over the micheladas, tacos, tamales, the thick hot pancakes and the egg bread that was as much of an art form as a comestible.
We did not throw darts at balloons or ride toy cars or swirl through the night on Dumbo or plastic giraffes. We were tempted by the bumper cars, but could not bring ourselves to bump the small children who were their only other occupants.
Instead, we strolled by the Hospitalito–the remains of one of the oldest churches in Jalisco, whose ruins now consist of merely this dome with cacti growing out of it and the one remaining broad wall that supports it.
One sinister detail of the otherwise image-filled night was the small girl–perhaps 10 or 11 years old, who peered over my shoulder, coming very close as I photographed the cotton-candy spinner. “She must be interested in photography,” my friend told me, “because she was looking so closely at your camera.” As we walked away, she followed us, and asked a question of me that neither of us could understand. She was not asking for money. We asked again what she wanted, but again could not understand what she said. As we walked away she followed–down row after row of booths offering toys, cookware, cosmetics, religious statues and games and eatables of many varieties. Finally, it grew sinister. We would spin and face her and walk in the opposite direction and she would spin and walk after us. I finally refused to walk to the end of any rows, preferring to stay in more frequented areas. I kept hands in pockets over my money and camera.
My friend, too, felt strangely threatened. She revealed that while at the cosmetics booth, the girl had crowded her close on one side while a seedy-looking man had come up close on her other side. When she looked at him, he feigned an interest in the lipsticks in front of him, picking one up and examining it closely. Not very convincing, this interest in women’s cosmetics. My friend said she backed up quickly and walked away. The girl continued to follow her. The man didn’t.
The calm demeanor of this girl came to feel specter-like. She was a ghost child following us through cobblestone streets, never speaking, never varying her distance. We started to devise excuses to look behind us, but we needn’t have bothered. She was always there. After 45 minutes of being followed, we devised a plan to spin around and face her and walk in the opposite direction. We did this four times in rapid succession, but she just calmly turned around and followed us each time. When I paid for a purchase, she looked closely at how much money I took out of my pocket. I was very aware of her interest, as she followed closely with no obvious attempt to talk to us and making no effort to escape our notice.
Finally, my friend said, “Why don’t you ask her why she is following us?” Instead, I had another idea. Turning around so quickly that she almost ran into us, I said in Spanish, “Do you know where the police are? I need the police!” My friend said she saw a brief emotion flick over the girl’s face before she looked to the right and looked to the left, as though she really was looking for the police. Then I looked at the vendors in the booths near by and asked the same question–very loudly. One woman said they would be there later that night.
Both my friend and I did not see the girl leave. It was as though she’d been conjured and simply disappeared. We did not see her again that night, but we continued to scan the crowd for her as we sat on the steps of the plaza surveying the crowd and eating our guilty pleasures. At one point, another small girl and her smaller brother approached me and asked a question. Again, she used a term I’d never heard before, and my friend did not understand either.
“She is asking you for the time, said the woman frying churros.” “Ten after nine,” I told the small girl, in Spanish, and she walked away. “I think that’s what the other girl was asking us,” I said, and eyed my watch, glad to still be wearing it. I squeezed my pocket as well. I was still in possession of my camera. We took the best-lit route back to my car and went home perhaps an hour before we would have chosen to, but suddenly the night had turned just the slightest bit sinister again. We sought the comfort of locked doors and the short drive home.
(Disclaimer: I need to add here that this is the first time in 14 years that I’ve ever felt targeted in my pueblo or perhaps anywhere in Mexico. It was complicated by the fact that this child looked like a well-mannered little girl who would be a teacher’s pet–the smartest girl in the class–one you’d choose to babysit your kids. That she was the accomplice in some little robbery scheme was rather heartbreaking.)
Baby Bird Saga V
Baby Bird Saga V
(Just realized I wrote this but kept it in drafts instead of publishing it, so here comes Saga V after Saga VI!!!)
Today my friend hung Babybird’s cage in the Plumeria tree. Although recent strong winds have blown many of the blossoms to the ground, it is flowering and filled with leaves.
Fortunate because for half of the year, all of the leaves fall off and it is nude. She spent her afternoon watching him as the parent birds came down to feed him on his rock, then put him back in his cage and I took the later afternoon shift to watch from the hammock.
He sat politely on the rock for 10 minutes or so until the father bird came and fed him, making about 5 stabs down his throat.
I fear our little bird is looking a bit scruffy. I’m sure mother birds must preen their feathers for them, but I’m trying to touch him as little as possible. Waiting for those tail feathers to grow back out–or perhaps to grow out for the first time.
Then, when papa flew away, BB got restless and jumped down into the ground cover I rescued him and put him in his cage, switching its direction in the tree so the door could open for me to put in fresh water. I don’t think he ever drinks it, but just in case.I also hung up seed bars in the tree and scattered seed on the stones.
About a half hour later, I heard a terrific din coming from the cage. It took me 30 seconds or so to register that there was something on the side of the cage. When I got up to investigate, I saw that papa bird was clinging to the side of the cage and feeding him through the bars!
This dedication of his parents is so exciting to see. Two days ago I wouldn’t have given this tough little bird one chance in a hundred of surviving, but here he is on day three–still fighting. We think one wing is broken, perhaps from being caught in the wire when he jumped from our improvised nest yesterday. It hangs a bit, but he’s still energetic in his hopping and squawking, so perhaps he’ll make it on determination alone.
Papa bird checks up occasionally, either by a flyover or by perching in the palm tree or on the guamuchil tree in the undeveloped lot next door.
My friend leaves tomorrow, so all of the animal chores will be mine. I had an almost sleepless night with breathing problems so I fear I’m allergic to Morrie as I am to my other dogs. Sadly, no more sleeping in my bed. I got him a new little bed today so hope he’ll stay in it. Tomorrow I’ll try to find him a sleeping cage like Diego’s. My house is starting to look like a zoo!
From Grief to Life
From Grief to Life
Today’s prompt asks us to explain our blog’s title. If you don’t already know how the name of my blog came to be Lifelessons while my blog address is Grieflessons, go HERE
Baby Bird Saga IV
Well, a few updates. When my friend went down to check on Lenny, he had flown the nest! It was almost impossible to find him as he was in a fenced-in area full of plants and vines and there was no room to enter–just to try to look. We couldn’t even reach past the chicken wire that held up the vines that obscured the heating unit. Nonetheless, we both looked for what added up to an hour, I would imagine. Finally, we just had to give up, but I stayed down in the hammock, hoping the parents would fly over and Lenny would somehow extricate himself.
When my friend came home, she took my place in the hammock and a half hour or so later I heard her call out that she needed help. She had spied Lenny and was able to reach in and extract him from his jungle prison. Back to the big rock, where lo and behold, his parents spotted him and his mother came and fed him one more time. Then it was into his cage and into the house before a COLOSSAL rainstorm hit. Buckets of water, crashing lightning and thunder that sounded like it was cracking the world open. So glad our baby bird was not out in that!
Later I discovered two interesting facts on the internet. #1. that just because we share a common last name, Lenny Dykstra does not serve as a good role model to name anyone after, even a bird. So, I’m up for suggestions about what to rename him. #2. that baby bird is most probably not a vermillion flycatcher but rather a house finch. He looks exactly like the image online and male house finches do get rosy coloring around the head and chest, which accounts for the rosier birds we’ve seen accompanying the dull females.
So, very early Monday morning, my house guest departs leaving my family two creatures larger. Hopefully the parent finches will continue to feed their baby and I’ll take over at night. I’ve done some reading about the diet of finches and will provide sunflower and thistle seeds to attract the parents and give them a close by place to feed so hopefully they’ll continue to feed him. Looks like I’ll be spending a lot of time in my hammock in the lower garden, since the rock is a familiar feeding spot for both baby and birth parents.
Morrie, in the meantime, is leaving a pathway of chaos in the front garden: pots tipped over, plants ripped out by the roots, little round stones from a mocajete spread over the terrace. Diego is complicit in the chasing games that created some of this disorder, but with the baby bird feeding in back, I dare not put the dogs there. I fear they don’t understand about inter-species family fealty.
Now it is 11:22 PM. Morrie is curled up beside me in bed, I can hear strains of banda music from the town down below. It is the festival for the town’s namesake, St. John the Baptist, who has done a good job of baptizing us all this day and for the week preceding it. The bird formerly known as Lenny is literally asleep with his head tucked under his wing and I am about to do the same. Your mission, if you should choose to accept it, is to help me think up a new name for baby bird. Sweet dreams to all, or, more likely, good morning.
Baby Bird Sagas III
Has it been just 27 hours since Morrie brought the baby bird in? So many gerrymandered solutions to keeping him alive in that time. (For the first two episodes of this saga, go HERE) This morning led to this one. Since Lenny (our makeshift name for the baby bird. It’s explained in an earlier chapter of the saga) has taken to hopping and jumping with great vigor, yesterday’s solutions wouldn’t work. I resorted to building a sort of fortress on top of the table that I thought he couldn’t get out of, but the parent birds could get to him to feed him. The heater, set on low, would keep him warm as it had during the night which he spent in a covered cage in the spare bedroom, away from marauding dogs.
That should have worked. Right? Wrong. Within minutes, he had hopped up on the back of one of the chairs and fluttered to the stone floor of the terrace and was headed for the cover of the ferns!
OK. Plan 2. I sopped all the remaining water out of the otherwise empty hot tub, plugged up all the vents, drains and bubblers with masking tape, and put baby bird in the bottom. (I later moved him up to the ledge–easier for his mom and dad to see him and get to him.) Mom and Dad flew overhead, but I was unable to see if they fed him anything. Lenny is that little brown blob up on the hot tub bench level.
Here’s a better view of him. I was so relieved to find him awake this morning. He looks better than yesterday, don’t you think? He seemed more content in the hot tub, but when my friend got home, she thought she had a better idea.
Her idea was to put him on the grass. He seemed to enjoy this, but there were so many potential dangers and hiding places.
Then came the flying lessons, but alas, although he is very good at fluttering, without tail feathers, Lenny has no lift or rudder. The grass furnished a soft landing, though. Do birds think? If the parents were watching , I wonder what they thought.
She then put him on the same rock as yesterday. “Be careful. He’ll hop away and he’s fast today,” I warned, backseat driving. About a half hour later, she called up from babysitting duty in the hammock of the gazebo. ‘”I need your help!” The good news was that the parents had fed him seven times since he’d been down there. Bad news was that afterwards Lenny had hopped down from his perch and scampered across the lawn and hidden somewhere within a cave created by two huge rocks surrounded by dense plants. We looked for awhile before I was sure I heard him cheeping from the deep recess between the rocks. My friend started to reach in and then remembered scorpions!
Finally, however, he hopped out from behind the rocks on the other side and we captured him again. With the skies starting to become overcast, we had run out of solutions. Bring him back in and take him outside each day for feeding? We could see the mother bird ripping material from an old nest in the huge cactus tree and flying off with it. If she was building a new nest, there would soon be new babies. Would she forget this one? We called Animal Rescue and they suggested we do what I’d thought we should do in the beginning. Build him a nest and put it in a sheltered tree for the parents to find him.
Building the nest was no problem. A plastic storage dish with holes poked into the bottom, stuffed with stripped bark and other fibers wound into a sort of nest, covered with fresh grass.
My friend found the perfect spot. The air intake of my water heater for the hot tub (long out of disservice) was under a teja awning. The opening was the exact size of the plastic “nest” container so it could be tucked securely down into it .
Lenny settled down immediately. No more cheeping or flapping or scrambling or running. We are hoping the parent birds have found him. Wind is rising and it is getting overcast. What will win out? Will we let nature take its course or go rescue him for the night? Wildlife rescue says wild baby birds will not survive in captivity, although some Youtube videos have shown otherwise. Problem is, he will not eat anything we’ve prepared–even the recipes suggested by the bird rescuers on Youtube. So, for now, this is the end of our saga. Perhaps I’ll go down just once to peek to see how he is doing, though. And perhaps put on a jacket and go hang out in the gazebo to see if the parent birds are coming around.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/festivus-for-the-rest-of-us/
