Antapocalypse

Mimi, 18 years old, greets me every morning. After all these years I'm still not sure she likes me.
Mimi, 18 years old, greets me every morning. After all these years I’m still not sure she likes me.

I had two writing assignments today. The journal project asked us to photodocument our day and write about the mundane and special. My Spanish teacher wanted a discussion of my time outside of Mexico in the past tense. I woke up crabby. Mimi glared. Ants crawled. I had writing to do. Before eating I did my Spanish homework. I made a passable job of describing how we took a job near my family and my mom’s death. Cranky me. I wonder why?

Next I turned my attention to the ants. I’m spraying them with white vinegar and soap. They disappear for a while and then the next generation shows up. How many must I kill before they are satisfied with the hummingbird feeders? Must they come inside, too? Irritable me. Burt fed me. We went to the beach. Elvis and Olive gamboled. I started to perk up. We came home. I killed more ants. I (delusional) thought I made some head way. I ate lunch. I panicked over a potluck dish for tomorrow’s Bridge game. I developed an idea for a salad.

I went to Spanish class. I love our 1991 Ford Exploder. Before I left the neighborhood I stopped at Rafa and April’s and April helped me decide which clothes to give to which kids. I had bought a bunch of girl’s clothes in the states of various sizes but I had no idea what would fit whom. On the way to Spanish I passed Federal Police stopping oncoming traffic. There’s been some mild agitation in the area over skyrocketing fuel prices. The police seemed to want to remind people they are here. The blockade was gone by the time I returned home.

At Spanish I read my essay. I didn’t make too many gross errors. Writing in Spanish is very hard for me. Writing requires grammar and spelling. Sentence structure matters. Conversations are much more forgiving. Communication can happen despite faulty pronunciation or disagreement between nouns and verbs. You can see the corrections below. I love my Spanish teacher Yvonne and my fellow student Alexina. They are both decades younger than me. Alexina is also a civil engineer. What are the chances?

After class I stopped for groceries. Agricole has a diverse selection of locally grown and made organic products. I spent $10. Then I went to Fidel’s highway fruit stand. I spent 0.25 cents. I was equally happy with both places. I arrived home to find Burt tuning up my mother’s guitar. This guitar had spent 7 years hanging outside as a yard ornament and after minor repairs was playable again. Weird. That’s a tough guitar. I killed some more ants.

Next Burt and I practiced. It was rocky for me. I couldn’t quite get the bow under control. Burt and I are contemplating where to play music this winter. We have ideas. The Gypsy Carpenters may have a pizzeria revival. After practicing I collapsed for an hour or two. I got an email from friends that were planning to visit saying they had cancelled their trip. The civil unrest north of here has closed gas stations and parts of the highway. We are sad but also glad not to have to worry about our friends on the road. I called my dad. He said to stop bothering him.

This evening we went back to my Spanish school for a Rosca de Reyes party. Today is when the wise men finally made it to Jerusalem bearing gifts for the baby Jesus. In Mexico it’s a nice holiday. They have a wreath like cake. Inside the cake is a baby. If you get the piece  of cake with the baby you have to host a tamale party in February. Nobody at the party found the baby. There were only three pieces of cake uneaten when we left. Speculation was that the cake was defective. There were at least 20 relieved people that did not have to host a party in February. Burt and I played music and got some of the other students to sing. We inspired one woman to ask for guitar lessons. We’re meeting up next week to learn some Mexican folk songs and teach guitar. That is the biggest news of the day. Possibly the week.

On the way home we stopped at Luciano’s Pizza. Luciano’s is what was known as Napoli 6 years ago. We started gigging in Mexico at Napoli and met many of our friend’s while playing there. Napoli sort of fell apart, then moved and got there act together in a new inconvenient for us location. Now this place is at the old spot and using the same pizza oven. Tonight’s pizza was great. We are in negotiations to start all over again where it all started. Stay tuned. We’ll let you know if we’re going to do a show there.

That’s it. Time for bed. Birding at 6 AM tomorrow.

One ant of the thousands I killed today. I stopped feeling bad for them a day ago.
One ant of the thousands I killed today. I stopped feeling bad for them a day ago.
I've been using this to kill ants and clean their pheromone trail. It might be time for petrochemical derivatives.
I’ve been using this to kill ants and clean their pheromone trail. It might be time for petrochemical derivatives.
We took the Olvis to the beach.
We took the Olvis to the beach.
Spanish Class with Yvonne and Alexina.
Spanish Class with Yvonne and Alexina.
My trusty (or should I say rusty) steed.
My trusty (or should I say rusty) steed.
Journaling in Spanish.
Journaling in Spanish.
Some grocery shopping at Agricole. Local and organic.
Some grocery shopping at Agricole. Local and organic.
Burt repaired my mom's guitar.
Burt repaired my mom’s guitar.
Gypsy Carpenters at practice. Will I ever manage this fiddle?
Gypsy Carpenters at practice. Will I ever manage this fiddle?
Rosca de los Reyes. The three kings cake. Avoid the baby doll or you have to host a tamale party.
Rosca de los Reyes. The three kings cake. Avoid the baby doll or you have to host a tamale party.

 

 

 

Luciano's Pizza in Pescadero.
Luciano’s Pizza in Pescadero. Shall we gig here?
facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest

Where to Start?

Supermercado en la noche.
Supermercado en la noche.

So I was a very bad gringa last week. I was trying to do the right thing and it turned out all wrong and now I am ‘the puppy stealer of Pescadero.’ It all started when we arrived in late January to find Chicharron gone. Down the gully and up the hill just across the way from us, lived Chicharron (pork rinds in Spanish). Chicharron was a chucky (meth addict) but harmless and kind of a good neighbor. He helped out with other neighbors.  He collected stray dogs. He strummed a guitar. Rumor was he wound up on the hill across from us in a trailer because a gringo in another neighborhood got tired of living with him in close proximity and set him up with a trailer and lot of his own in our neighborhood. This happened two years ago. Burt and I were distant but not unkind neighbors. We’d say hello. Chat a little. Chicharron was hard to understand. He lacked some key dentition.

I’ve been writing of Chicharron in the past tense but he is still among us. He was relocated to Ensenada in December after kidney failure induced seizures while he was visiting Rafa and April’s home. Rafa and April are very kind and generous. I’ll skip the gory details of his decline into kidney failure. It was malodorous. Somehow he survived and had a family with enough resources to take him in and relocate him to Ensenada. That’s 1000 miles away. Chicharron’s 4 dogs were not so lucky. When we showed up the dogs had been living at Chicharron’s trailer for a month unattended. Another neighbor was throwing food to them. The dog’s were unfenced and anti-social. More rumor has it that even Chicharron could not touch the dogs. The pack began to roam. I tried to visit them but they just scattered. Chicharron’s trailer was hauled away for scrap metal. The dogs relocated to an abandoned house just down the street from us. They were noisy.

One day I walked home the back way and the pack of dogs came after me. I scared them off but was unamused. Neighborhood efforts to capture and re-home or euthanize the pack had failed. Now they were expanding their territory and becoming aggressive. I am not warm and fuzzy in situations like this. People are mauled by dogs every day. I play bridge with a woman mauled by dogs here. I think these dogs must be eliminated. Group efforts to come up with a collective solution fail. There are plans to sedate and relocate.  Pills were acquired and lost. Burt and I are hesitant to be obnoxious gringos so we step back, stop complaining, and do nothing. Rumor is the dogs are at least neutered. We walk home a different way and ignore the barking.

Well free feeding and a pack of dogs leads to more dogs. Puppies were born under the ‘date rape’ van just 100 yards from our house. Mexico is a land of magic and miracles. Opinions vary on whether or not this was a virgin birth, a failed clip job, or an interloping dog making a move on the free food. Puppies on the scene paralyzed us. The people we know that take care of strays were overwhelmed. They couldn’t help. Meanwhile the dogs were obviously well fed. These were fat puppies and mama. I assumed that the neighbor was still feeding them. This is the precise moment and assumption where I go off the rails and become the big jerk in town.

A friend sees the puppies one day when leaving our place and asks if they are being taken care of. I say they are but the guy wants them gone. He doesn’t want to take care of them. She says she’s going to bring a friend the next day to collect the dogs. I say, “Great!” I am thrilled that doing nothing has turned into at least the puppies are going away. Do I confirm or check with anyone in the neighborhood? No. These dogs, to me, are an obvious pestilence. The puppies need homes. Once the puppies are gone I could get to work with the aggressive adults.

The next morning the two innocent victims come to collect the puppies. The new person is unfamiliar to me but well known as a dog rescuer. As soon as she saw the dogs were well fed she balked. She insisted these are somebody’s dogs and that they shouldn’t be taken. I am not amused. I go to great and a bit pushy lengths to convince them that nobody wants these dogs. I insist that the feeder is our neighbor and that he is tired of feeding them. Eventually I prevail. I am so driven with desire to get rid of these dogs that I fail to see what is obvious. That this person is correct and knows what she is doing. Somebody was taking care of the puppies and they had gone beyond the basics. They built a pen and supplied food and water. The pen was in an abandoned house and there are no neighbors closer than us and the feeder and another gringo family that wants them gone but somebody was coming and taking care of the puppies. They were all socially comfortable with humans. This should have been the big sign. Stray puppies generally avoid people. These dogs couldn’t wait to play with us. My desire to have these dogs gone overruled my ability to listen to reason. So I convinced the women to take the puppies. They did but they left their number with some nearby workers in case there is a hidden owner. I was so not into that but whatever. I couldn’t have been more wrong on so many levels.

That afternoon I saw a woman wandering up our street looking under our cars. It’s obvious she’s looking for the dogs. OMG. I’ve stolen her puppies. Long story short I confessed my crime and offered to help get them back. Another woman approaches. They are mad as mad can be but they refrained from abusing me. The workers had fingered me and gave them the contact information. The women realized it was all a misunderstanding tainted with a bit of Gringo-do-gooderism. In that moment I say: What about the adults? They are bad dogs and need to go, too. So here is my only strand of righteousness. They realized then that leaving the puppies there had created a bad scene for the people that actually live in the neighborhood. Burt piled on and emphasized that the adult dogs were an aggressive group of dogs. Quiet all around. They calmed down. I felt like an idiot. A massively culturally-insensitive idiot.  This conversation would have been awful if we spoke the same language fluently. Maybe our weak Spanish saved us. They left. Burt and I were not sure if they intended to retrieve the puppies or not. I had offered to get them myself but they didn’t respond. It might have been a case of well at least they went to good homes. But it wasn’t.

My friend had to give the puppies back. She seems to be okay with the misunderstanding. The next morning the puppies were reunited with the women. They have not been returned to the abandoned house. The adults are still around. And the rumor mill started. My friend April was accused of stealing the puppies by a random business owner near the supermercado. She had to point out that it was actually me that instigated the puppy stealing but that I had the best intentions. I’m not sure I did have good intentions but I appreciate the vote of confidence. April and I both ponder the chance of retaliatory dognapping.

Any advice on how to manage Chicharron’s pack would be appreciated.

Burt and Jen singing 'I've got a brand new pair of roller skates'.
Burt and Jen singing ‘I’ve got a brand new pair of roller skates’.
May and the newbies.
May and the newbies.
These dogs were not kidnapped. Yet.
These dogs were not kidnapped. Yet.
It rained.
It rained.
facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest

Is Duplicate Bridge a Cult?

The Battle of the Sexes
The Battle of the Sexes

One of the definitions of a cult is: a misplaced or excessive admiration for a particular person or thing. Another take on cult is: a relatively small group of people having religious beliefs or practices regarded by others as strange or sinister.

I think Burt and I may have joined a cult. We’re a spending an inordinate amount of time playing Bridge with a bunch of people we didn’t even know six weeks ago. I wake up dreaming about how to bid in Contract Bid. I can’t even discuss the basics of the game when conscious yet I am dreaming about it. I wish I would dream in Spanish or about music but my mind has been completely taken by Bridge. Learning the game wasn’t even my idea. Burt has had it in his mind for a very long time. I happened to read a notice about free Bridge lessons and I mentioned it to him. I could have prevented this. Now I may be more obsessed than him.

Don’t try an intervention yet. There are minuses for sure. Sitting around for hours and hours staring at your hands. Losing contact with former friends and family. Falling behind in musical and Spanish efforts. A doughy middle. On the upside we have only spent 30 pesos and people feed us when we go to their homes to play. Also, most people seem nice enough. And I think Burt and I can get this thing in hand. It seems like we can learn it. Maybe it will take years but we are already having fun. Last week I played my first 16 hands of contract Bridge. My partner (not Burt) and I did not come in last. Everyone, including my partner, told me we would. We came in second to last. So there.

Meanwhile, we are still maintaining a strenuous tennis schedule. Here are some pictures from our non-Bridge playing moments.

Burt went swimming.
Burt went swimming.
I forgot to bring a change of clothes.
I forgot to bring a change of clothes.
The Gypsy Carpenters
The Gypsy Carpenters
facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest

Festival de Fresa y Chile 2016

Hulaing is popular no matter where you live.
Hulaing is popular no matter where you live.

Pescadero is famous for its organic produce. Strawberries are one of the biggest exports from this sliver of land in the ocean. It’s kind of weird and probably not sustainable with residential development. We live in the desert and there’s enough water to grow tons of products for export. But the water isn’t destined to last if the area keeps developing as a tourist destination. Tourists and second homes use a lot of water. Vamos a ver. We’ll see. I can’t predict what will happen. Meanwhile I can enjoy the strawberries and xeriscape my own yard.

This year’s Strawberry (fresa) and Chile (chile) festival was an amalgamantion of carnival, beauty pageant, talent show, farmer’s market, and cock fight. The wide variety of activities drew big crowds. Burt and I went down twice. Early in the day we toured the booths of local growers and restaurants. Priscilla and Cornelio are big growers here. At their booth we bought some strawberry jam and lettuce. At another booth I bought pesto. Rumors are that 80% of the basil consumed in the US is grown in Pescadero. At another booth I bought a plant for the yard. A bright green succulent. And at yet another booth we bought locally made goat cheese and machaca (shredded beef sort of like beef jerky). We returned home to our lovely gNash with all the modern conveniences and made a mighty lunch.

Later that night we headed out to see what the after dark scene. On stage was the hula girl you see above. Maybe she was 10. At first I thought judgmental and sarcastic thoughts. I wondered who would put a young girl on stage by herself dancing a hula in a grass skirt and bikini? Then I watched and left my suburban upbringing behind. This girl was dedicated. She was serious. She was committed. She danced with intensity and looked perfectly relaxed. She was a star. She was communicating with her chosen art. The hula was her destiny. I am not being sarcastic. This girl wanted to be a hula star and she was there doing it with the gravitas of an ancient martial artist. It did not matte that she was on a stage in a dusty town in Mexico. She owned it. I was sad when she stopped after only two songs. Lesson learned. That and I realized (now that I have a singing band of kids to direct) that performance for the sake of performance is an important part of childhood development. Good or bad the show must go on. But this girl was good.

When the adult karaoke style singing started we hit the stalls for food. Great voices but not my thing. I just don’t enjoy the live voice over recorded music scene despite the fantastic singers. Burt and I found some tamales filled with cheese and chiles and continued to walk and eat. I only ate one tamale because I had a plan. I had a plan for churros. Churros are long skinny doughnut like pastries covered in sugar and cinnamon. Crispy and hot on the outside. Warm and airy on the inside. The churro originated in Spain but has endured as a part of Mexican cuisine. Lucky for me they are not available everywhere. Pescadero does not even have a churro cart. I hadn’t eaten one since last year. Rarely can you eat just one. They are sold 6 or 7 to a bag. If you don’t have Burt or a pile of friends you eat a lot of churros when you buy them. The perfect churro is fresh out of the oil for you. When I noticed the worker reaching for an older bag I asked for a fresh one and the owner stepped in and told her worker to give me a well made pile of churros. I got the bag I wanted.

With churros in hand we perused the games and rides. As happens every year we could not resist shooting the .22 rifles at the targets. Hit the right target and you make the sets come alive with music and dancing dolls. Burt did well. I gave up quickly to eat churros. I blame it on my churro binge. No other games appealed to us so we ambled over to the cock fighting arena. A quick look through the slats told us we did not want to go in. Unlike our previous time observing the cock fights this event was not family style. There was a pack of very serious men with a few women working the beer stands. I tried to rally for the sake of social inquiry but the door charge of 100 pesos deflated our interest. Nearby we bumped into Priscilla. Her husband Cornelio was inside running his chickens. She advised us that it wasn’t a friendly scene and that we had made the right choice not to go in. We bid her good night and headed home. It was 7 PM. Things had not even gotten started for the locals. It was still early and we were headed to bed.

Churros, the Mexican donut, should be popular everywhere. Lucky for me they aren't available everywhere.
Churros, the Mexican doughnut, should be popular everywhere. Lucky for me they aren’t available everywhere.
Child Carney runs the rubes.
Child Carney runs the rubes.
Fish. I'm not sure if they were the game or the prizes.
Fish. I’m not sure if they were the game or the prizes.
A real .22 but it could only fire a BB 10 feet. I hit my target but didn't have enough steam to knock it over.
A real .22 but it could only fire a BB 10 feet. I hit my target but didn’t have enough steam to knock it over.
More games to take your money.
More games to take your money.
IMG_2235
Pescadero’s Festival de Fresa y Chile 2016
facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest

Nuevos Nuncas

White winged dove bathing.
White winged dove bathing.

Today Priscila had new pains. Her leg and knee hurt from last week’s walk. There was a short but steep sprint in last week’s walk. Prissy’s idea. She wanted to get across the street before a truck arrived. As she was describing her new pains she explained that growing old is a host of new nevers. That never hurt before. This never hurt before. I never did that before….Nuevos nuncas. According to Prissy we must respect our bodies as we grow old. Easy to say but rarely done. How could one know a 30′ sprint uphill would cause pain 3 days later? After my high mileage life I feel like there’s hardly a spot on me that hasn’t hurt at least once before but I know that’s wishful thinking. The body has all kinds of ways to malfunction.

Meanwhile, there’s a guy around here that can still dig holes through compacted soil in full sun. Burt installed three new large cacti and a tree in a our yard this week. He got the job done in an hour. I mostly watched but did help situate things in their respective holes. On the growing old side, he’s headed to the dentist this week (finally) to get a broken tooth repaired. Teeth. The classic thing you can take assiduous care of and they still betray you in the end. You’re just buying time not a guarantee of no problems.

Terote tree.
Terote tree.
New cactus. Check out the root.
New cactus. Check out the root. That’s a deep hole.
facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest

Warm Up for the Show

Jardin de Niños of Pescadero
Jardin de Niños of Pescadero

Last night we had our first show in Mexico last night. We arrived to find three Canadian fans in a mostly empty restaurant. As usual we wondered if anybody was really coming. Within half an hour the place was filled and there were only two people we hadn’t met before. Despite our usual misgivings about performing after a period of time off the singing and playing went smoothly. I even told a story. I’ve been meaning to share it here and so now I will.

Last week we were invited to lunch at Priscila’s house. Mexicans and gringos eat on radically different schedules. Lunch in Mexico is in mid-afternoon. For Priscila and her husband Cornelio lunch is at 3:00 PM everyday. When we are asked to eat with Mexican friends (it’s only happened a few times) we have to carefully adjust our eating so we don’t faint from low blood sugar or blow up from eating 4 huge meals in a day. On this particular day we planned well. We had a regular breakfast and then chips and guacamole at 11:00. Around 2:30 we roused ourselves from our midday stupor. It’s been warm here. Time to get ready to go see Priscila and Cornelio. They live 2 minutes away by car. We drove because we were bringing instruments so we could sing some songs.  At 2:40 we left the house because we wanted to fill up our garafons with drinking water. The water plant is owned by Priscila and Cornelio’s son. It is right next to their house. At 2:45 we had our water. It was too early to knock on their door and we had run out of time wasters. Showing up early is really not the way here. An hour late is on time to most events here. That said, just last week Priscila was telling me that 5 minutes early is on time and on time is late and late is like you never even showed up. I teased her that I had heard that saying in the US but never in Mexico. Mexico is the land of mañana.

So there we were in a cultural conundrum. Not wanting to show up early and be the doofus gringos we stalled. It’s hard to make 10 minutes pass when your right outside somebody’s house. We dragged our feet and parked the car slowly. We unloaded our instruments like we were underwater. We moved to the door and stood outside for 1 minute. The house is behind a 10′ concrete wall. They couldn’t see us standing there. At 2:55 I rang the doorbell. I figured I could apply the 5 minute rule that Priscila shared with me. The door was flung open by Cornelio. Priscila came running: Where have you been? I’ve been texting you! Cornelio came home early for lunch and we’ve been waiting for you!!! Cornelio does not like to wait for lunch. The moral of this story is…keep your phone handy.

This was an uncomfortable start to our always stilted visits. While Priscila and I can chat pretty well, Cornelio’s accent is nearly impenetrable and he has no patience for our faulty Spanish. We focused on the food. First soup, then fried grouper, quinoa, and salad. Dessert was baked plantains with butter, sugar and Cinnamon topped with mango ice cream. Things warmed up when, after asking the word for burp, Priscila told a naughty saying about burps that come from the other end of the body. I didn’t quite get the details of the saying but I was able to reveal that I knew the word for fart (pedo). This made Cornelio smile for the first time.  As usual, potty jokes bridge the cultural gap.

These photos are from yesterday’s warm-up concert at the Jardin de los Niños. In 20 minutes we covered The Hokey Pokey, Old McDonald Had a Farm. The Wheels on the Bus, Cielito Lindo, Cancion Mixteca, and the Barney song. No surprise that the kids LOVED the Hokey Pokey. No language barriers in that song.

Cielito Lindo
Cielito Lindo
facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest

Check this out:

New Gypsy Carpenters Poster
New Gypsy Carpenters Poster

Venue hosts can be kind of lame. Never in Mexico has a host made us a poster. In the US only Mitch and Loni at Portal Peak Lodge have made us posters. Host Sharon at Mi Pueblito in Todos Santos was all over this. She made the poster and paid to have them printed. At her request I sent her 4 photos to choose from. She selected this powerhouse image instead of one of the three ‘nice’ ones where we looked all pretty and smiley. Sharon ignored the safe images and picked the one that is all emotion. I could not be happier. This particular moment was not our best musically but it was one of our best moments as performance artists. My heart was failing and my voice was ragged but Burt had my back and the room was pounding on their tables. And it was in Portal, Arizona center of our US fan base.  I think this bodes for a good Friday night at Mi Pueblito. We start at 6. I hope to see you there. The food is great and reasonably priced. Las margaritas son tan fuerte.

Here’s another fun shot:

The look of love?
The look of love?

 

facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest

Immersion today

I am headed out on a road trip to La Paz with my yoga teacher Mayra and my friend Priscila. We’ll be attending a three hour workshop on inversions. Inversions for you non-yogis or yoginis is the upside down stuff. Meanwhile it’s all in Spanish. I could be in for some serious pretzeling if I get my ups and downs and lefts and rights mixed up. So language issues, deep yoga issues and there’s some cultural issues, too. Mexicans eat on a very different schedule. To keep fueled and get in time with my friends I have to eat later or eat more frequently. So far I have chosen to eat two lunches rather than starve from 7:00 AM until 3:00 PM.

Aside from worries of ‘when do I eat?’ there’s ‘what do I wear?’ The few times I’ve seen my friends outside of yoga they were decked out with hair and makeup on. High heels, too. I can’t do this. There’s is no chance I can pass as a Mexicana. I have to go as me, slightly stylish and slightly askew gringa. Huge gringa, too. Time to clean up and get ready. I’ll let you know how it goes.

facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest

More Pictures

I brought a bird from Portal with me.
I brought a bird from Portal with me. Made by Bob.

Yesterday I met with April and we started planning our new music class for the kids of Pescadero. All engines are go. Previous years we have worked with locall kids in a community down the road called Todos Santos. Those kids were in an English learning program. We sang in English. Last year it dawned on me that the kids in our town have no opportunities to learn English or play music. Why was I going to Todos Santos? Maybe we could start something here.

While we were gone April, our friend and neighbor, hatched a plan of her own to start an after school program for the kids. The Gypsy Carpenters were a key part of the plan. April is a gringa that has lived in Mexico since she was 11 years old. She is bilingual and bicultural. She and her husband are good friends and fans. April’s son Vince is in kindergarten in Pescadero and April and Rafa are on the PTA. They are actively trying to make Pescadero a better place to live. All this shakes up and voila! we’re teching a class to kids in Pescadero. Soon. Details to be arranged. Meanwhile I have to learn some Spanish language children’s songs. These kids, most of them anyway, won’t speak any English. I’m a bit daunted. April and I picked out some material to start with. The material came from my friends at Carambola Music in El Paso. Oh, how the world goes round….

El colchon
El colchon. Here is the mattress we bought. The floor model.
facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterest