Here’s some puppies instead. Meet Chava. He’s our foster pooch. He ran under our car while we were driving. Burt (all his fault) stopped to see if he was okay and in leapt Chava. Todd and Gretchen are on the line as his adoptive parents. Meanwhile we’re getting him all cleaned up and trained. Olive is not amused.
Are you ready? Some thing called BibleFreedom.com sent me an email to GypsyCarpenters.com that explains everything. If you need a good scare I suggest you check it out. You’ll have to type it in yourself. I will not give them the pleasure of a hotlink. I’ve read second hand about how fundamental Christians welcome Trump because they believe that he will fulfill some epic biblical prophesies. Second hand reading did not prepare me for the first hand fear fest of this web page. The end of teh world is just what we need and Trump will bring the end of the world. Something we can all agree on, I guess. But why do so many think this is a good thing. Why do we have such apocalyptic fantasies? Can’t we just watch Walking Dead? I personally would like to save the world and make it a nicer place to live. I’m trying in my little corner.
Along these lines, do anti-vaxxers, or my new favoritepro-plaguers, vaccinate their pets? I’ve seen plenty of dogs suffering in Mexico from preventable diseases. It hurts to see dogs with permanent tremors brought on by the high fevers of distemper, nevermind the puppies that don’t make it after weeks of intensive care. The rate of vaccination is lower and so the herd immunity we (mostly) enjoy in our US pet populations doesn’t exist. Chava was a lucky pup. He made it to about three months and is in fairly good health. He had some fleas and worms and was skinny and losing hair from malnutrition but after five days of care he’s already growing and looking better. He had his first DHPP and kennel cough yesterday. Next week he’ll be neutered an then, right before we leave he’ll get rabies and the second DHPP. Good to go world traveling.
I’m not having much fun. Neither is Burt. Burt is at least getting better. Me, I’m not convinced. Monday I saw another doctor because after finally feeling better I was suddenly feeling worse. My lungs ached. I had no stamina. There was a fry cough. I had no interest in anything. The doctor looked around and said they didn’t think there was an infection but ordered a culture to be certain. I was instructed to return to the clinic the next day at 8:00. No food, no drink, no teeth brushing. Do not disturb the environment in your mouth with anything. Bring your skeevey mouth in as it is when you wake. Check. Meanwhile they gave me prenisone to clear up the minor inflammation.
I arrived on time with gross mouth. The technician stuck a long swab down my throat. There was much gagging and drooling. I’d started the course of steroids so I was feeling pretty good again. Burt and I went to breakfast to celebrate. I was told to check back in three days. My understanding was in two days they’d know if there was a bacterial infection. If there was an infection, they’d know which antibiotics were effective in an additional twenty-four hours. Since I felt pretty good (thanks, prednisone) I presumed the doctor was correct and there would be no infection. So after the bare three days I checked in with the clinic. Sorry, your results aren’t ready. I can do math. I knew that meant an infection. They were in the last hours of finding an effective antibiotic.
The next day I got the news that I had contracted staphylococcus pneumoniea. I didn’t have pneumonia, yet, but I was very sick. Now the month that had had three days of fever, vertigo, exhaustion, and general ick made sense. The culture showed my bug is resistant to three families of antibiotics but several commonly available medicines are still effective.
So I’m done with the steroids and feeling crappy. All my research indicates it’s going to be a slow recovery. I might be cured in five days but the exhaustion may linger for weeks. I have three more days of shots in the large muscle mass of my bottom. The cardinal is a spring yard bird here.
The reptile above looks like it might be looking for a bird meal but that’s not their normal food choice. The spiny tailed iguana generally eats fruits and flowers, occasionally an insect or small animal. Eggs are a popular choice, too. That being said, the birds were having none of it. They stayed a safe distance away from this creature while it made a through inspection of our feeding station. I suspect it came by for the oranges. Our compost is just over the fence and so that might also be an attractant.
Energy levels remain low all around the gNash. Burt is not his usual chipper or energetic self. That’s to be expected after somebody opens a hole in your gut and leaves behind a foreign object. The doctor said all is healing as expected but still 5 more weeks without full exertion. The mesh is stiffening up nicely with scar tissue to plug the “rodent’s” hole. Burt is cleared to drive the automatic and in two weeks he can drive the Dodge.
My friend Pat would have said a prayer for us but now she’s dead and I am left wrestling with my complicated emotions. The last two weeks haven’t been too difficult, no worse than anybody’s share of life’s burdens and much lighter than many, but they were enervating. I knew the financial shock of our taxes would pass quickly and it did. Burt’s hernia required some effort to find a doctor but we did and the surgery was affordable and quickly done. But before he had his surgery I popped out a rib while rolling over in bed and he came down with the flu. I was blinded by the rib pain. I mean literally blind. I could not see. Burt was in bed with a fever and I was pacing the gNash like I’ve seen dying animals pace. I could find no rest. I thought I knew pain. I hope I never know pain like this again. That morning we headed to the ER and I got pain pills. The next day Amir (thank you, Amir) popped my rib back in. Then I got the flu. Then Burt had his surgery and somewhere in here Pat died. And now 8 days post surgery I can almost manage to think clearly enough to share my emotional pain.
For those of you that have been here these last 9 years you may remember Pat as our steadiest comment provider. Until Trump ran for president Pat and I were able to overcome all political and religious differences and meet on the vast common ground of our love of service to others, nature, dessert, and travel. Pat was funny and silly and not-worldly. She wrote letters to prison convicts and made me teeth cleaning appointments when I was in her area. She made lemon bars for Portal Irish Music Week (until Trump). She gathered clothes for my kids. She kept up and she sought out ways to help me and a lot of other people. She loved her lord and Jesus and she showed it in her service to others. She was suspicious of gays, deeply afraid of the border issues (she lived there so I’ll not dispute her), loved going to Mexico to shop at the Pink Store, and said some crazy things that I would alway stry to gently share a different perspective about. In our 7 years of near daily contact we never had a direct disagreement over politics. I knew she was conservative and, well, you know me. There was no reason to talk about things like that. She and I were people of action. Actions speak louder than words.
Pat loved the Gypsy Carpenters. She designated herself our roadie/groupie and made herself a t-shirt. She used to come to all our shows. We played a party at her house once. She needed cheap dental care and I took her to Mexico. It was a good relationship based on common good. Where the fuck did it all go wrong? I wish I knew. I feel like if I could figure this out we could solve the bigger problems.
My first inkling there was a problem was when Pat one day didn’t show up to comment and one day turned into ten days. I had recently written a rare political piece about how grateful I was that the ACA (Obamacare) worked for me. It shows you how regular she was. I noticed in a day that she wasn’t reading my work. I wrote and asked if she was okay. She said yes, but she hated Obama and couldn’t stand to read my blog. I gently told her she was my friend and I though we could still be friends despite not agreeing on politics. Just like always. She came back. For a little while.
Somewhere in here I learned from a friend (also now deceased) that Pat was a committed Trump supporter. I found it hard to believe but remember this was before the elections. I didn’t realize Trump’s sway with evangelicals yet. I decided to ignore the information. I also decided if I felt like saying something political on my blog I would. Pat stopped writing and I didn’t reach out again. Trump was elected and I was so angry I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to her again. Portal Irish Music Week came and went two more times. One time she slyly delivered lemon bars through a mutual friend. The last time there was nothing.
Occasionally our paths would cross, we shared some hikes, we had mutual friends, but he bond was broken. We’d been polarized by external circumstances and neither of us knew how to reach across. Here’s where I am not sure about what is right and what is wrong. What I do know is Pat withdrew from all aspects of the life I knew. Many friends said she changed or no longer participated in the community. Because our relationship was largely virtual I had no way of knowing this. I wonder why? Did she feel mocked, belittled, defensive?
Is it now impossible for me to be friends with people that support Trump? I still think yes, but I wonder if I owe those friends a check in? An I love you? An our past matters to me? Or, as I feel is the case here, I did reach out and she turned away from me so do I make my peace and move on?
I do know this. Pat Owens you were a good friend to me and I will never forget you. I could have used your prayers this week even though you know I don’t believe. I never resented them.
I’m talking taxes. The Gypsy Carpenters just went through their annual tax reporting. As we all knew, know, or will know, the so-called tax reform does not favor the small time business owner. Taxes were confusing before but we knew the system. Now nobody knows the rules, including, it seems, the TurboTax e-filing program. A person of average intelligence should be able to file their own taxes without emotional trauma or fear of misreporting. Filing was difficult before the reform. Today, post-reform, I have no idea what when why or how. It was ugly. We owe so much that retirement looks more profitable. You think I’m kidding? I am not. Looking at you, Mr. Trump. Our main hit was caused by changes to rental income. What once was a legal and reliable loss or net even for us is now income. Substantial income. Also troubling, the TurboTax program is double counting my 1099 income. I can’t get it to take it once with appropriate deductions. It’s either in twice with deductions or in once with no deductions. A person of standard intellect should be able to manage. Tears were not shed but they were there caught in my lashes wanting to break free. I will not cry over you and your assaults on the small business owner Mitch McConnell and friends.
What does any sane person do in this situation? I estimated our taxes due and filed extensions with the feds and the state and sent them a ton of money. And now I put my head in the sand until we return to the US and I can find advice. The way I currently read the tax situation it does not pay to be a part-time entrepreneur.
Meanwhile Burt has a hernia and our livelihood is at stake. A surgical repair is required for him to get back to work. No heavy lifting from now until six or more weeks post surgery. We’re trying to figure out how to schedule the operation and recovery so Burt can get to work as scheduled. At least our Baja house is at a place we can leave it until Burt and our bank accounts recover.
For those of you following along I regret to inform you of a potential hitch in the home building process. Burt has a hernia. We’re exploring options. Surgical repair seems to be required as soon as possible if he is going to work this summer. Meanwhile I bring you the iguana. I hear they taste like chicken. I’d rather watch them and eat a chicken.
This month eBird is requiring photos on our checklists if we want a chance in the Leica binocular lottery. I wish someone would just buy me a pair of Leica binoculars and I could ease up on all this citizen sciencing. I don’t mind the 20 checklists but the additional effort for photos is a logistical nightmare for me. Yesterday, between doctor appointments in Cabo San Lucas, we popped out to the estuary and I saw 39 species of birds and a few reptiles. Burt went body surfing while I toted my phone (because they want a map and the GPS is in the app on my phone) and my binoculars and my camera and my purse. My bins strap attachment point broke a few weeks ago so carrying my bins is not hands free. There was a lot of straps and three things for my hands. It was a spastic scene of tech juggling. Not what birding brings to mind. Science! It’s fun! and it’s a nuisance. Any idea on how to rig a strap for the binoculars are welcome. My string solution is suboptimal. I really want to win the Leica.
This kid’s group thing we’ve been doing is full of so many complications I never imagined. There’s been the usual attendance and attention issues. There’s been petty jealousies and cliquishness. And most recently vandalism to our personal property. Minor vandalism but the kind of thing I just feel powerless to deal with constructively. The other day I discovered someone had drawn a black dot about an 1.5″ across on a painting on our property. The dot is in black marker. I suspect the same marker we use for the white board. I know exactly who was using that marker so I have a pretty solid idea who our culprit is and it is an 11 year old child that has been caught stealing and defacing property in another friend’s home. We’ve been trying to manage this child and help them learn a better way to behave in people’s homes. It’s all easy for me to say until it’s my home that is damaged.
Well I was pretty mad but I knew that would dissipate. Burt and I talked. We were both torn. Neither of us wanted to single out anyone. We remembered all of us did stuff like this and any one of the kids could have done it and might do it still. So we had this plan: We’ll just let the group know what happened and we’ll set a new limits. No unattended wandering on our property and no visits to our friends homes as our guests. The message would be simple. If we can’t trust you in our home then we can’t trust you away from home. That would mean no pools, no art galleries, no restaurants. Maybe peer-pressure would change behaviors. If sufficient time passed without further incident we’d start venturing out again. We hoped it would be enough stick and carrot. So I had it all planned but I still felt heavy.
Yesterday was class day. I walked down to get the kids. My meeting them at their homes to escort them up to our place has dramatically helped attendance. Scary dogs and no watches made on-time arrival sketchy and it’s an easy fix. They only live two blocks away. My two youngest kids (7 and 8 years old) were ready for me. They announced that the 11 year olds had decided not to come. The rumor is class was boring and they didn’t want to do it anymore. Meanwhile an older girl (post high school) was escorting them for he second time. She was not bored. I told them great. We could have fun just us three. And I was relieved. My problem kids had self selected out. Since we’d made an agreement two weeks ago that regular attendance was a requirement for participation unless they had another activity (not merely boredom) I could cut those kids loose. We’d had a group meeting on goals and logistics and they’d agreed to the terms of participation. No pressure on them or me. Of course, they can change their mind but I have a feeling guilty hearts are the cause of the boredom. The future is hazy…
So the three of us headed up hill and picked up another regular and discussed what we should do. That’s where I learned Edre is studying to be a paramedic. So we hatched a plan to study the human body in detail and in English. Hence the digestive tract below. Just as class got started several long lost students showed up and I was delighted to have them back. Vikki, their adult escort, has been swamped by work for months and she finally was free enough to bring her daughter and nephews. So instead of class being a hard talk it turned into a nice reunion of new and old students on a new subject. We drew the digestive tract, practiced first aid for bleeding, finding a pulse, and sang some songs. The future is still hazy but class was fun.
I had no idea my offer to shuttle people and pets to a free spay and neuter clinic would end up with me working to keep a cat breathing as its 9 year old owner looked on. That cat survived and the little boy had no idea it was a close call. I didn’t really know how tenuous it was either. I wound up on the ground next to Matt watching him stimulate the four cats he had in recovery and I saw that one stopped breathing regularly. He showed me how a vigorous rub would start them back breathing. So I lent a hand. Pretty soon it was obvious that only a few people had the nerves to deal with the cats. Me, Matt, and our 9 year old friend. Most people went and petted the dogs. They did not stop breathing.
It was simple enough. Rub the cats every 30 or so seconds and flip them every ten minutes. After an hour the kid’s black kitty was still struggling so I pointed it out to a vet tech. She took the cat and gave it a reversal drug and brought it back to us to keep rubbing. After another hour of stimulation it woke up. Welcome back, Picachu. Meanwhile there were a few other bigger, sturdier cats we rubbed and flipped, too. All the while looking for aspiration or other signs of distress. It was wearying work. We sat on the ground in a sea of animals. Mexicans and foreigners, owners and friends, all keeping a careful watch over our loved animals. The vets and their technicians toiled on endlessly. Burt helped move dogs and tents and shuttled people and pats to and from.
Eventually a cat was brought to me that stopped breathing and I couldn’t get it started back up. I’d been rubbing and compressing the lungs for about twenty minutes as the cat started and stopped breathing. Then it just stopped and did not restart. So much time is unaccounted for as you rub and compress and you can’t see if it’s working. And then suddenly it does work and the vets are so busy, I didn’t want to call if it wasn’t a problem but then it was a problem. I could see this cat was not getting it going. I called for help. The tech came and took it away and brought it back after some reversal drug. I kept at it and after a couple of hours it was clear she would make it through. Then a cat was brought to us that was not breathing. Matt and the kid rubbed as I watched. Nothing. Matt tried the squeeze of a flat palm to the rib cage to create a vacuum in the lungs. Nothing. I called the vet tech, again. She quickly swooped in and took the cat back to the vets. Five minutes later she caught my eye and gave a quick shake of the head. That cat did not wake up. It’s heart (oh, my heart) had gone into arrhythmia and they couldn’t stop it. Our only comfort was that the cat was not breathing when it was brought to us. Somewhere between the table and our sheet on the ground it ran into trouble. We had been vigilant enough.
Ultimately, 135 and 14 cats were sterilized on a soccer field in Todos Santos yesterday. Many professionals and volunteers came together to take a small bite out of the world’s problems. People wonder how to connect in this weird world. They comment on how much Burt and I do. I say we do so little and there is so much more. This meaningful day happened because I said, “Anyone need a ride?” and then I had my eyes open and saw where I was needed. I know cats. Cats know me. Offer a ride to your neighbor. You might save a life, you might fail, but you can always help. That 9 year old kid with the three cats got his pets home and came back later that afternoon to help the other cats. That is success that can’t be measured.
Thanks to Matt for trusting a total stranger with the lives of our precious cats. Thanks to the staff of P.E.T.S. and DogPrana for all the work they did. Burt and I were so happy to help. You can donate HERE.
The stucco is on, both interior and exterior. The floor is poured with expansion and contraction lines cut. The stairs to the roof are under construction. When they are finished the roof will be sealed and our albañiles will be done. Thursday, tomorrow, we’ll drive to La Paz and order the windows and buy some wood for our front door. Next up are the Gypsy Carpenters or, I should say, the Gypsy Carpenter. I’m semi-retired from that line of work. The elbows, wrists, and hands just can’t do that kind of labor for long. And this job is small. Burt won’t need much help. I’ll hold up some studs or cut a board if he needs me but mostly I’m just going to tell him what I want aesthetically. What do I want? Quién sabe? Hmmmm…There’s no rush. I’m leaning towards wabisabi industrial in lavender and gray with apple green accents.
Life is rebooting into our normal routines. The Todos Santos Bridge club added an open duplicate game on Friday afternoon. Burt and I are very happy. Playing once a week was no way to advance our understanding of the game and our partnership. It was too hard to remember anything in between Mondays. The kids are coming back around now that I walk down to their house and escort them past the very friendly dogs they think are dangerous. The migratory birds are leaving but we’re still birding.
I have two book recommendations for you. It’s rare I read a book with the damn phone addiction and music and bridge and birding and yoga but I’m trying to reinstill the habit. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes and When Breath Becomes Air. Both are about death and they are both great to read and completely different. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes made me want to be an undertaker (again). It’s funny and informative about the death industry. If you don’t feel like reading it let me advise you to avoid embalming at all costs. You don’t want to know. When Breath Becomes Air is the sad and inspiring memoir of a young neurosurgeon as he dies of lung cancer. The takeaway was find what you want to be and be it. And that can change. Adapt. Live. Love. Serve.
Burt and I are back at our Mexican home base and all is well. The work on our house continued in our absence and we have nothing to complain about. The weather here is cool and moist. Actual rain fell two days ago and nighttime temperatures are in the 50s. Spring is upon us. La Primavera is typically damp and cool. Yay for spring.
There’s lots going on that I cannot discuss here. Pescadero politics, infrastructure, Bridge. Suffice it to say we are muddling through trying to help where we can. The kids have all but disappeared recently but have no fear we are rounding them up today for a big meeting to discuss our mission statement and goals. A lack of continuity (illness, travel, school) and kid level politics all contributed to the confusion. So today we’ll see what they want. The kids are in charge. We are going to regroup and move forward. Stay tuned.