In the photo above Olive is trying to decide what to do. Elvis had rolled in poop at a previous stop and needed to be spun in the Pacific-rinse-omatic for a while to get clean. Normally Olive would relish a run on the beach. I’m not sure if she knew Elvis was in for some disciplinary swimming or she was worn out from the walk. Perhaps she didn’t want to take the chances that she would be required to clean up, too. Maybe she just wanted to hang out with me while I waited. I was too pooped to walk more myself. Two weeks after her poisoning Olive seems her normal self but with less endurance.
New follower Kevin suggested a recounting of how we wound up wintering in Pescadero. I sent him deep into the archives for a full accounting but I can summarize here. The long and short of it is it is too expensive and cold to winter comfortably in the United States as full time RVers. We can afford to work part-time and live near the beach in Mexico. This spot is the least populated but not primitive location on the Baja with good surf. You can easily drive from the U.S. People are filling the place in rapidly since the road was widened from Cabo San Lucas but we’re still happy here. The food scene is fantastic. The scenery breath taking. Burt had been to El Pescadero in the early 80s. He and his family have always visited Mexico and being a surfer he was naturally drawn to this spot. Meanwhile a woman he knew from Helena, Montana, Janet, had settled here.
Seven years ago we hit the road and had no idea if we would last a week or a year or forever. We still don’t know how long we’ll go living nomadically but it suits us. The first winter we spent in the US and suffered snow in Pensacola and 40 degress and raining in Key West for $100 a night. Not comfortable economically or climatologically. The next winter we decided to visit Janet and see how we liked Mexico. It was a fit. The funniest part of the arrival story is how as we were pulling into town Burt turns to me and say, “I forgot what a shit hole this place is.” I replied I’d been paying attention since we left the US 1200 miles back and the place was just as I expected. Yeah, there’s garbage and bad roads and no cell service or wi-fi but it’s pretty and interesting. Six years later there’s a lot less garbage, phone work great, and we’re still pretty happy here.
Woweeee, we made it. Day 31 of the 31 day Art Journaling/Blogging Challenge by Zoë Dearborn. Wow. Just wow. Years past this would have been very difficult due to data limitations. I feel compelled to thank Verizon for including roaming in Mexico in my data package. Thanks to you, dear readers, for following along. Several of you have mentioned you’ll miss the daily posts. I can’t thank you enough. I’m not sure how long I’ll continue the streak. Help me out by sending in your questions and ideas if you have something you want to know. It can be about the natural world or my inner life or anything else. All ideas considered.
Today’s subject is commitment. This month has found us neck deep in commitments. I like it this way. We’ve got each other and the Olvis and Mimi. We’ve got tennis and music and Spanish. The neighborhood kids. We count on them and they are counting on us. As I search for something to say to sum up the writing and thinking and feeling of this month I come up with that aphorism of a few days ago, “Just show up.” My commitment is to continue showing up. Here on the interwebz, at my classes, for the kids, on the fretboard of life. And I commit to putting out oranges for the birds. I hate chores but I’ll commit to slicing open and putting out oranges even though it makes my hands feel sticky and I’m scared of the knife. It’s a really big knife. The rewards are worth the discomfort and risk. It’s an analogy for writing and life.
This practice has shown me how much I enjoy thinking and writing. It’s renewed my interest in what I can learn by taking the time and working deeply even for just a short time a day. As I tell all beginning music students that ask our advice, “The secret is ten minutes a day, every day. An hour once a week will not get the job done.” Thank you, Zoë for prodding and feeding back and inspiring.
On January 1st we had just arrived in Pescadero, Mexico and I was wondering if I would lose my mind to the ant invasion. A month later I am on the cusp of completing a thirty-one day marathon of writing every day. It’s a first in the seven year history of this blog. I didn’t see that coming. Recently I’ve felt like I had nothing to say. I just needed a little motivation and some fresh ideas. Many thanks to Zoë for her stupendous work pushing us along. A long time ago I thought I’d love to be a newspaper or magazine columnist. Celestine Sibley of the Atlanta papers reeled me in with her clarity and down to earth observations of a regular life. Her writing made the mundane spiritual. When I started this blog I thought of it as my chance to be my own columnist. I could write about whatever caught my fingers as Burt and I wandered the country working and playing. Over the years I wished I had some things Celestine had that I lack: an editor feeding me ideas and creating a deadline, a copy writer clearing up my grammatical challenges, a wider audience (for more ideas), and a salary. This writing project gave me a wider audience, a deadline, and new ideas. I didn’t see that coming.
Today’s assignment is to take stock of what we’ve accomplished. My first post of the year exhorted us to be nice. I believed we are going to need a lot of nice. I still believe it. But I also believe we are going to need some backbone and deep reflection on our core values. It’s a time of action. I hope you all are doing what you can to make your concerns heard. Know that I am.
This month we achieved transition into our Mexican lives. We are playing tennis, teaching music, losing and learning at bridge, studying Spanish, eating well, staying cool and warm, visiting friends, doing yoga and writing. We have lost some sleep over our health insurance. We have grave concerns about the choices we will have to make if we lose coverage. We are grateful we have choices we can make. We can stay in Mexico where health care is affordable. We can move to a state that has a good public health system. We can try to get jobs with health insurance that doesn’t exclude pre-existing conditions. We shall see. We shall stay vigilant and try to make a rational decision if the system changes.
Two nights ago Burt and I went birding. Our friend Roc had texted about a flock of dark birds roosting outside his home every night. A raucous bunch of dark things coming in just at dusk. Burt and I thought, let’s go and figure this out as if we could do something a perfectly capable guy like Roc couldn’t do. Ha! We arrived at 5:30. Roc owns an organic farm halfway between town and the beach. His home is nestled in some palms and carrizal. The birds like the thick, bambooish carrizal. Burt and I quietly sat in two different spots. Burt on the roof overlooking Roc’s fields and me on the steps with Capi, Roc’s assistant. Roc was texting for updates from Cabo. Capi assured me the birds come every night. WE sat still. A Xanthu’s, an oriole, a white-winged dove. Nothing more for 25 minutes. Quiet. Darkness falling. Slowly darkness descends but them suddenly it is too dark to see. Right at that moment the tiny birds started darting from I-don’t-know-where and landing in the hedge not ten feet away. They were loudly singing and chattering. I could imagine them saying, “How was your day?” “Meh, some seeds, some bugs…the usual.” We couldn’t see anything but small black silhouettes. I tried to find the call on iBird. I made a recording of their nightly debriefing and emailed it from the scene to two friends in Portal, Arizona. I felt like a naturalist using my skills at observation and problem solving. We realized there was no hope of a visual spot. The birds all disappeared deep into the bushes. We went home.
I listened to my recording and compared it to the ones on my phone. I narrowed the bird down to a sparrow. It sort of made me feel better. I can hardly identify sparrows during the day. A night ID would be impossible. The next morning the word came back from Portal that indeed it was a flock of sparrows. White-crowned sparrows. Oddly, coincidentally, ironically? White-crowned sparrows are one of the few I can identify in sufficient light.
Today’s assignment work within a limitation. Zoë had some good ideas and then I remembered a friend who told me I should try and write my blog in Spanish. Voy a empezar hoy. Here is a link to Google Translate if you want to see what I wrote about. This is a piece I wrote directly in Spanish for my Spanish class.
Mi tarea de hoy es crear con limitacions. Voy a escribir en español. Aquí es Google Translate si quires traducir a inglés.
Primero, la noticia mas importante: Olive esta mejor. Ella tiene energia y hambre. Todo esta bien. Elvis esta mejor tambien. El doctor dio a elvis paletas contra el dolor.
Qué pasó cuando yo estaba lejos de aquí?
Beto é yo tuvimos la intencion que no vamos a trabajar. Casí lo logramos. Despues de tres meses visitando familia y amigos en Montana un cliente nos contactò sobre un trabajo. No quisimos trabajar pero esto fue diferente. El trabajo estaba en el estado de Virginia. Virginia esta a dos mil millas de Montana estabamos en Virginia.
Tuvimos que decidir. Debemos tomar el trabajo ó no? No pudimos empezar antes de octobre. En octubre tendriamos que estar en Arizona. Despues de arizona habiamos planeado ir a México. México y arizona son vecinos. Virginia esta tres mil millas deEl Pescadero en México y dos mil millas de arizona. Oi. Oi. Ai.
Los detalles de trabajo fueron misterioso tambien. Somos carpinteros. Hay reglas sobre algunos proyectos. No supimos que hacer. Ir ó no? Finalmente decidimos a tomar el trabajo. Quisimos explorar una nueva area del pais y el trabajo estuvo cerca de mi familia.
Mi mamá tenía alzheimers hace catorce años. Ella estaba muy enferma. No pudo recordar a nadie ni nada de su vida. Ella necesitó cuidado completo. No pudo comer, ni bañarse…nada. Ella estaba en un estado similar de una coma.
Tomamos el trabajo. Empezamos a mediados del octubre. El trabajo fue fácil. Visitamos mi mami en noviembre. Ella se miraba mala. Era dificil de comer y beber. Yo dí a ella mis saludos ultimos.
Cerca el fin del trabajo mi mama se murió. Fue un milagro. Estabamos cerca y tuvimos tiempo de ayudar a mi papá.
Cooperation and collaboration are what it’s all about. Here at the Gypsy Carpenter’s goat pen I sometimes think I am just along for the ride. I have so many good friends full of ideas and a drive to do I only need say yes and good stuff is going to happen. Frequently I see myself as a loner removed from the ‘group’ but it’s not a complete picture. Without my people I could not do any of the things I love to do. I need musicians to play music. I need card players to play Bridge. I need somebody to cook and my cook needs somebody to eat. I don’t need a co-birder but is a lot more fun with someone else. So here’s a photo essay in tribute to this month’s collaborators. Special shout out to Rosemary and Ed who taught me how to row a raft and survive my cultural shift from easterner to westerner twenty-five years ago. I feel like they are the older siblings I never had.
P.S. I am officially 17/31 of the way through this writing every day gig. Today I feel like I kinda mailed in the writing part but I did (and will continue) to reflect on the collaboration part.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.