tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62773135675249329042024-02-19T16:32:04.869-06:00An Alaskan in YucatánA northerner "at home" south of the border continues to discover how very different, and yet how much the same, it really is.Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-23235953076468663362017-10-25T19:21:00.000-05:002019-11-17T15:26:52.025-06:00Memoir: A Ten-Year-Old's Summer of Love, Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span id="goog_848017856"></span>In 1967, residents of Fairbanks, Alaska were anticipating a rocking and rolling summer.<br />
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It was not just <i>The Summer of Love</i>. More importantly in Alaska it was the one hundredth anniversary of the United States' purchase of Alaska from Russia, and a season-long celebration was planned. The Alaska Purchase Centennial Exposition (A-67), held at a specially-constructed fairground on the banks of the Chena River, was underway. A modernistic, circular exhibit and performance hall had been constructed and the old Yukon stern wheel riverboat Nenana, one of the last of its kind, had been floated into a special pond on the grounds. Cabins and historic buildings from the old days of Fairbanks had been moved onto the site to re-create an early gold rush town. Numerous other exhibits were built, and the area was surrounded by a raised berm, on which a narrow-gauge railroad train circled, giving rides and offering a view of the entire site.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Stan Zielinski's balloon (photo by Brian Wallace)</span></td></tr>
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Stan Zielinski, an art professor at the university, flew his bright-red balloon over the town in the evenings, and we rushed out to watch when we heard the roar of the gas-fired burners that provided the hot air to float the ship.<br />
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We attended many events at the exposition and wondered at the old stern wheeler, antique cars and planes, train, costumed characters and many activities that filled the event calendar. Vehicles with out-of-state and foreign license plates jammed the parking lot. Fairbanks probably had not been so busy since construction of the Alaska Highway and the military population boom during World War II.<br />
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July 10 was to be a special day for young people. The Turtles, at the time a top-40 pop sensation, were scheduled to perform at A-67. I am not sure, but it probably was the first time that such a popular group had been to Fairbanks at the top of their fame.<br />
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Meanwhile, from the day school let out I continued my normal summer activities, playing with friends, exploring the nearby woods, riding my bike, and goofing off.<br />
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Then, a little after 9:00AM on June 21, my friend Van (as he later told the story) was standing on the front porch of my house and about to knock on the door. He heard a rush of wings as all of the barn swallows nesting in the eaves of the house left their nests in an instant. A second or so later, Van heard the rattling of the house windows, noticed nearby trees shaking and felt the earth tremble under his feet. Startled, he neglected to knock, and ran home as fast as he could.<br />
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Inside the house as Van climbed our steps, my brother, sister, mother and I were in the kitchen cleaning up after breakfast. At the first moment of shaking, I recall thinking that someone must have crashed a car into our house. But the rumbling and rattling didn't stop. The side-to-side and rolling motion intensified, and things began to fall and break around us. There was no time to go outside, and walking might have been difficult anyway. My mother shoved us under the kitchen table, scooted it against an outside wall, and came underneath with us.<br />
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As soon as the quake was over the phone rang: my dad calling from work checking to see if we were OK. When she hung up, my mother told us to quickly get dressed and put shoes on, as she picked up fallen objects and swept up broken glass in the kitchen.<br />
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Before we were dressed, another tremor hit. We ran downstairs from our bedrooms half-clothed and carrying our shoes. When the first shock had hit, we were too surprised to be frightened. This time, we howled and screamed in fright as we ran to Mom. She gathered up our coats and a large blanket, and took us outside to sit in the middle of the large grassy yard where we would be safe, away from the house, trees and power lines. We spent a good part of the morning there.<br />
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All told there were four quakes that morning between about 9:00 and 9:30, measuring between 4.3 and 6 on the Richter scale. There was minor damage all over the Fairbanks area, but no one was seriously hurt and the quakes did not cause major disruptions. We had known moments of terror, but the town had come through relatively unscathed.<br />
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The Turtles concert was still a couple of weeks away, but our rockin' and rollin' summer had gotten a jump start. Aftershocks rattled us daily. Despite this excitement, the high water mark of the summer was yet to come.<br />
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Soon on this blog: the third and final part of this story.<br />
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<i><b>Text copyright 2017 by Marc Olson. Photo copyright 2017 by Brian Wallace.</b></i><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-58677200136045935872017-09-27T10:28:00.000-05:002017-09-27T16:04:44.244-05:00Memoir: A Ten-Year-Old's Summer of Love, Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;">The vast majority of the clearest and most intense memories I have of my childhood occurred within a three-month period when I was almost eleven years old.</span></div>
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It was the summer of 1967 in Fairbanks, Alaska. In the "lower 48" hippies congregated for the "Summer of Love" in San Francisco. Vietnam, Flower Power, protests and race riots were in the national news. But in isolated Fairbanks by many measures it was still the 1950's. I had just recently seen for the first time a man with long hair. My family lived in a white frame house and our car had tail fins. We kids could go unsupervised just about anywhere we wanted and our parents didn't worry.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me next to our house, 1966</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(Photo by John Poling)</span></td></tr>
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This was my summer between fifth and sixth grades. Interior Alaska summers are warm and and their days long and sunny, so after the dark, cold winter I looked forward to lots of outdoor time with my best friends, riding bikes, messing around in the woods, catching frogs, having archery tournaments and flying balsa wood gliders down the hill by our house on the University of Alaska campus.<br />
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There were seasonal rituals that marked the progression of summer. During "breakup," when runoff from melting snow formed puddles and small streams everywhere, we raced little stick "boats" down the hills. When the soil had drained and the threat of freezes was past, we helped my mother plant flowers and a vegetable garden and marveled at the rapid growth and large size of turnips and cabbages nourished under the "midnight sun." On the summer solstice we tried to stay up all night to witness the midnight twilight of the longest day of the year, when it never really gets dark. We had sleepovers. Sometimes on weekends The Olsons would pack a picnic and go grayling fishing in wilderness streams out the gravel highways north of town towards Circle City, Circle Hot Springs, Livengood, and along the Chatanika, Tanana and Yukon rivers.<br />
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My friend Van was a year older and had gotten me started in archery the summer before. He and his mom had given me an old bow and my parents had purchased a set of target arrows. After appropriate safety talks from my parents, I was allowed to go with Van across the campus to the Patty Building and the university physical education department, which had set up straw targets in the outdoor ice hockey rink. We used metal-tipped arrows and there was no supervision. This kind of play would not be allowed today due to safety and insurance concerns, but back then that's what we did. And while officially we were only supposed to shoot at the targets, being kids occasionally we sneaked into the nearby woods on the way home to shoot arrows at anything else that caught our attention. We never shot at or hurt anything living, but we were kids, alone in the woods with bows and arrows. It was exciting to fantasize that danger was always a possibility.<br />
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Shooting was big in my crowd. My friend Doug had a BB gun. I was not allowed one, but that did not keep me from accompanying Doug and his dog into the woods to shoot. The grooviest thing was to go to the dump to "shoot rats." Back then, the university's dump was just that -- a clearing at the end of a dirt road in an isolated part of the campus with a ramp up to an elevated gravel pad in the center, from which garbage was hurled, spilling onto the bare ground and into the trees around it. It stunk and sometimes it was smoky. We weren't supposed to be there, but the risk of getting caught or running into a bear was what made it exciting. We never shot a rat, and probably only ever saw one or two. Most of our time was spent lining up bottles and cans to shoot at, pretending we were driving the junked cars, and poking sticks into piles of icky, smoldering junk.<br />
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Adding to the excitement, 1967 was the centennial of the purchase of Alaska by the U.S. from Russia, and a summer-long party and fair was getting underway in Fairbanks. We were expecting some excitement that summer, but we were not prepared for the surprises that were about to shock us and change lives.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2017 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-52687006831840341792017-09-12T09:13:00.001-05:002017-09-12T13:37:56.316-05:00Earthquake: "It Was Strong, and Terrible"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I believe that this old roof is now gone</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjDuM5jCXHA9U2ATDhcC1RTqKdNwHdFGCFzwG0HZmF8cHlxWAfc7EqEhiutc3LO8nhx-5lSwiLksEQ8DgKW11APuF6hQvjIAQJd48jHzA1QvqOa8GBTrR1oAazcBiFp219eFbKkC4Zpw/s1600/P1090876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjDuM5jCXHA9U2ATDhcC1RTqKdNwHdFGCFzwG0HZmF8cHlxWAfc7EqEhiutc3LO8nhx-5lSwiLksEQ8DgKW11APuF6hQvjIAQJd48jHzA1QvqOa8GBTrR1oAazcBiFp219eFbKkC4Zpw/s640/P1090876.JPG" width="360" /></a><br />
I was asleep in my hammock at the beach when last Thursday night's earthquake struck in Southern Mexico, so although the shaking was felt in Yucatán, I missed it. When I heard the news the next day, I sent a text message to my friend Victoria, who is from Juchitán, Oaxaca, one of the hardest-hit areas.<br />
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A few hours later I received a reply, stating simply, "it was strong, and terrible," and assuring that she was OK.<br />
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I tried calling on Saturday and couldn't get through. She called me Sunday from Mexico City. Still quite shaken, she told me how by chance she had boarded a bus out of Juchitán only hours before the quake hit. When she finally got news that her house had suffered significant damage, with a partial roof collapse and fissured walls, she realized that if she had not left on that bus, she might have been injured or killed. Several dozen in Juchitán are confirmed dead.<br />
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I have never mentioned that some of my best stories never get shared in this blog. I have very good friends, like Victoria, who have introduced me to aspects of Mexican life and culture not generally accessible. To blog about some of these experiences, to publicize them, would violate the privacy and the confidence of people who have shared with me and accepted me into their lives. So this friendship and this old house which was passed down to her from her grandmother and mother, are things that are exceptional for me in ways that I have not talked about in this blog.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0WaXNyMf3JF1dCAIlXdULx3megVCjbpQ7KyWt3pmmIPEXaL1zA7prSNPEMQ7f_5tGVicKt4mwqCcWjSESxu8njgqgxGALIb3kT2hQktZQcSY5j5LUXIB8d-y9fhl2ySaXWJboRI6RwvY/s1600/P1090822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0WaXNyMf3JF1dCAIlXdULx3megVCjbpQ7KyWt3pmmIPEXaL1zA7prSNPEMQ7f_5tGVicKt4mwqCcWjSESxu8njgqgxGALIb3kT2hQktZQcSY5j5LUXIB8d-y9fhl2ySaXWJboRI6RwvY/s400/P1090822.JPG" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Vela in Juchitán. We drink a few beers.</span></td></tr>
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There have been wonderful times. In the kitchen of this house we once spent a simple but memorable evening preparing food, talking and sharing a bottle of fine mezcal. On another visit she invited me to a leisurely, old-fashioned <i>comida</i> with her extended family, during which we enjoyed plate after plate of seafood delicacies while enjoying singing and guitar playing, recitations of poetry and conversations long into the evening.<br />
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In this house we dress to attend <i>velas</i>, traditional indigenous festivals celebrated in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Victoria, attired in the traditional Zapotec manner, takes my arm, as I, in white guayabera, balance a case of beer, the admittance fee to attend the event, on my other shoulder.<br />
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Through Victoria, who has spent her career involved in the music and art communities, I've met some of the premier musicians, singers and artists in Mexico today. I have attended marvelous concerts and hung out backstage. A painter she introduced me to took me to two <i>velas</i> one night in Oaxaca. One was of the "official" sort, where we rubbed shoulders with the governor and other members of the Oaxaca elite. The other, after midnight in a barrio on the outskirts of the city, was hosted by <i>muxes</i>, Oaxaca's "third sex," men who dress as women but in general do not consider themselves either transvestites nor transgender. That uninhibited and raucous party endured until daylight.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The crowd gets into the spirit at a vela in Oaxaca (above and below)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Velas are family events in Juchitán</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0fpvU0TYx4vNGhf716jLmGyNcQNJbYTtr5wtydWy4mi_v21KE20PRO9qaFZ7uhokLZJJ2sQ1gRopIqzb4ifBOIicQo_vbJzU1lPDLfSvbPk8xd2K_1O1bs5F3ELyO74K-pHo_0KOSKw/s1600/P1090881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0fpvU0TYx4vNGhf716jLmGyNcQNJbYTtr5wtydWy4mi_v21KE20PRO9qaFZ7uhokLZJJ2sQ1gRopIqzb4ifBOIicQo_vbJzU1lPDLfSvbPk8xd2K_1O1bs5F3ELyO74K-pHo_0KOSKw/s640/P1090881.JPG" width="360" /></a></div>
I have had many additional experiences associated with my dear friend and her old house, and I expect there will be many more. But first, Juchitán and other hard-hit areas have a lot of work to do.<br />
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The government and other organizations are mobilizing aid for those left without homes.<br />
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I just read that (sadly) demolition has begun on historic buildings in Juchitán centro too damaged to repair, such as the Palacio Municipal and Casa de la Cultura so that reconstruction can begin.<br />
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Oaxaca artists Lila Downs, Susana Harp, Alejandra Robles and others have organized a benefit concert for victims of the quake for this Sunday, Sept. 17, in Auditorio Guelaguetza in Oaxaca.<br />
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On the phone, Victoria told me that the facade of her house seems to be intact, and that the rest of the damage, according to her nephew, should be reparable. I certainly hope this is the case. Her fine old house resonates with family history and memories and it would be very sad to see it fall to the wrecking crew as well.<br />
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I was planning a visit to see Victoria this winter, and due to circumstances for the moment those plans are on hold. Perhaps I will wait until spring. May is the "month of the <i>velas</i>." If I have learned one thing about Oaxaca, it is about its persistent and enduring spirit. Buildings crumble and people pass away, but the <i>velas</i> will go on.<br />
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<i>To read more posts about Oaxaca, <a href="https://marcoyucatan.blogspot.mx/search/label/Oaxaca">click here.</a></i><br />
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<i><b>Text and images copyright 2017 by Marc Olson</b></i><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-4001638379342635372017-08-25T08:45:00.002-05:002017-08-25T08:45:41.034-05:00Story: The Roll of Wire<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBdTePMfqA3rmmK_QTiJb5L29zKmRlqp1LQoO5N1HZBgh5Kxvv8Wh6Q-qlIYTml8CinOxXp2OwsSEW2sTkyCAyrBE1bxtNKtvRUBuBgcGBIOybvxK3VoyciYLUgqcNzTtgQtuxCEk5eQ/s1600/DSCF7160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBdTePMfqA3rmmK_QTiJb5L29zKmRlqp1LQoO5N1HZBgh5Kxvv8Wh6Q-qlIYTml8CinOxXp2OwsSEW2sTkyCAyrBE1bxtNKtvRUBuBgcGBIOybvxK3VoyciYLUgqcNzTtgQtuxCEk5eQ/s640/DSCF7160.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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A roll of barbed wire has been hanging for many years, perched on the corner of the corral out at the ranch.<br />
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Many times I've noted that I ought to do something with it. Although it's not in the way, the wire slowly rusts there where it is, exposed to the weather. I could store it under cover somewhere. It might be useful one day.<br />
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But I have left it where is hangs, mostly out of inertia, and partially because I like its air of pending usefulness.<br />
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I was looking at it one morning recently as I finished up some work nearby, and it prompted memories of a story I heard years ago.<br />
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In the early 90's I was working on a video project for the Simon Paneak Museum in the remote Nunamiut (inland Eskimo) village of Anaktuvuk Pass, Alaska, and the crew and I were staying at the home of the museum director, Grant Spearman. Incidentally, Grant's house was the last inhabited traditional sod house in Alaska and a living museum itself. Staying there was an interesting experience, but that's another story.<br />
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In his capacity as museum director, Grant coordinated closely with village elders, and had worked a lot with one, "Arctic John" Etalook, who had spent his youth living in the old way, as a nomadic caribou hunter. In his later years after his people settled in Anaktuvuk Pass in the late 40's, Arctic John ran a trap line in the Brooks Range and had remote hunting and trapping camps in the Bush.<br />
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Grant related how one day in the early 80's he'd told Arctic John, then quite elderly (he died in 1984), that he was going into the country and would be passing near one of John's old campsites. Arctic John asked Grant to pick up some of his traps that he'd left there on his last visit. Grant collected John's traps, which he'd found hanging right on the small tree where John had left them. The interesting part of this story is that it turned out that John's last visit to that spot was decades before. And the traps Grant had collected remained shiny and uncorroded, as if they'd been hanging there a week or two.<br />
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It's fascinating to know that there are still places where one can set something down and it will remain undisturbed and untouched as many years roll by. Or longer. I recall once climbing a hill in a remote area of the Brooks Range to stumble upon a tent ring, a circle of stones used to hold down the edges of a caribou-skin shelter, that may have been abandoned hundreds of years before.<br />
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But the message I take here is that life is a lot like the roll of wire and Arctic John's traps. We have resources, tools that are available, that often we just leave on the shelf and neglect to put to use. I wrote here early in the year that I was about to start renovating the little house at the ranch, but I have yet to start. My plans changed course and I am glad I took more time to think them over. Now it's time to get moving. I believe I am about to take down that roll of wire and put it to use.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2017 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-76041215848821663042017-01-27T21:09:00.000-06:002017-01-27T21:09:29.182-06:00Ranch House: Raising the Roof<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTLysPwC1KpcNQLv2IRfzqZTM9evF8Ov_QmYmyHAHnmIRkiZXgASP_AbaR6_bR1vRdA_rMsmuJNUitE4qDm1LlGSXgqXsT9H7PVy36HQsijvSEG0CjNqGzaiYz2yuGnJUL9BQdo0jCpc/s1600/DSCF6795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTLysPwC1KpcNQLv2IRfzqZTM9evF8Ov_QmYmyHAHnmIRkiZXgASP_AbaR6_bR1vRdA_rMsmuJNUitE4qDm1LlGSXgqXsT9H7PVy36HQsijvSEG0CjNqGzaiYz2yuGnJUL9BQdo0jCpc/s640/DSCF6795.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The casita at <i>Rancho San Benito</i> has been abandoned for many years. That is about to change.<br />
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The first time I approached the little stone building after buying the property, there was a large rattlesnake staring at me from under the kitchen counter. Scorpions, beetles, tarantulas and a variety of other creeping and crawling organisms scuttled away as I explored the dingy, dank rooms and moved accumulated debris aside.<br />
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Since the ranch house in this state is uninhabitable, I've been renting a small place in the nearby pueblo. Now I have decided it's time to quit renting and live in my own house. However, it needs more than cleaning and fumigation to be made comfortable.<br />
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The floor is cracked and uneven and the doors rotten and termite-damaged. The galvanized, corrugated metal roof, where it has not collapsed from rotten supports, is so rusted that pinholes of daylight show through like constellations in the night sky. And the ceiling is so low that I can reach up and touch it without stretching.<br />
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I'd like to have a little more headroom to keep the heat out of the living space and generally want to make the place more comfortable and secure. The work will include reinforcing the old walls and increasing the height of the ceiling by about 80cm, putting on a solid roof with skylights, enclosing the outdoor kitchen, replacing the floors and putting in new windows, doors and mosquito screens to help with safety and ventilation.<br />
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We'll also build a 5 x 7 meter above-ground water storage tank, to be filled by the windmill pump from the old hand-dug, stone-lined well. This will allow us to accumulate water for household use and irrigation when the wind blows and will serve as a swimming pool for refreshing dips after hot work in the fields.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLprbVN2KDBCwuEsa9l5DGPiIHCL82nBybFRj2mXdtwf3tkOtPGDf9Ui0T_iMyhJNRPk3KGQIpbdRjq23gIoQ8USqy8dVA2rd2VLF59017ipKtDRzGPHQwByyX56uRrQqHpMBkqQOdIRE/s1600/DSCF7009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLprbVN2KDBCwuEsa9l5DGPiIHCL82nBybFRj2mXdtwf3tkOtPGDf9Ui0T_iMyhJNRPk3KGQIpbdRjq23gIoQ8USqy8dVA2rd2VLF59017ipKtDRzGPHQwByyX56uRrQqHpMBkqQOdIRE/s640/DSCF7009.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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After a long, fruitless search for a good contractor who would work in this remote area, I fell back on the engineer who has done several projects for me in Mérida. It turns out that some of his <i>albañiles</i> actually live in a pueblo not far away, so the logistics will not be as difficult as I had thought. Two of his employees, an engineer and an architect, came to the ranch with me this week to measure, draw plans and put together a budget for the project.<br />
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I hope to break ground within two weeks and to move in by April.<br />
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<i><b>Text and images copyright 2017 by Marc Olson</b></i><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-58671876447361253052016-08-15T14:25:00.002-05:002016-08-16T07:44:32.037-05:00Wild Neighbors: Deer at the Ranch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwdwrSEY456C7RLgdQMwqafLLDT-g0fSG-YKdFrivGsUTpb9ZW09j9ea-S0rZFjGRx0fB8y5Gt5FjQ6BSeD3DvAQijnD96Adu-5nIn4dJb5So5NqnG9CDAlBps6zFlk_Yj8TUEhtpZO4/s1600/IMG_0224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwdwrSEY456C7RLgdQMwqafLLDT-g0fSG-YKdFrivGsUTpb9ZW09j9ea-S0rZFjGRx0fB8y5Gt5FjQ6BSeD3DvAQijnD96Adu-5nIn4dJb5So5NqnG9CDAlBps6zFlk_Yj8TUEhtpZO4/s640/IMG_0224.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My best deer image: a very nice-looking buck poses</span></td></tr>
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When I bought Rancho San Benito early last year, I was told that there is an abundance of deer in the area. One of the primary reasons for buying the property was to have a quiet place where I can spend time closer to the natural world, so the fact that larger wild animals live there was an indicator that the ranch property was good spot for me.</div>
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However, after several months of part-time work on the ranch a cast-off antler, which I picked up and put on a windowsill at the house, was as close as I'd gotten to seeing one of these beautiful animals.</div>
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So, inspired by interesting images captured by a cousin of mine in Washington State, and with his advice, last fall I invested in a motion-activated trail camera, of the type used by hunters to watch for game and property owners to monitor activity in remote areas.</div>
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I strapped the camera to trees along likely trails and in clearings starting last September, and eagerly visited to switch out the memory card and view my "captures." For several months I got interesting images of a variety of birds and small animals, and lots of pictures of leaves and branches being tossed by windstorms, but nothing of deer.</div>
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I was beginning to think that the stories of deer were false, when suddenly in January they started showing up in my pictures. The buck pictured above was the first good image I got, and this was in February. In the same location, a few days later, I captured the image below.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtPYrKZu-h-vF_TxotvccKELrHhRcvqaQ5db9qtApiBpKMebvah7j1sQDf7nTceUkuvnP_rlObOSweb6AmR4aFLVSntDBVTpPLoDRL2IiKEnpcJk1333tmPpAqsVzrL_bOxwqSIibJReQ/s1600/IMG_0237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtPYrKZu-h-vF_TxotvccKELrHhRcvqaQ5db9qtApiBpKMebvah7j1sQDf7nTceUkuvnP_rlObOSweb6AmR4aFLVSntDBVTpPLoDRL2IiKEnpcJk1333tmPpAqsVzrL_bOxwqSIibJReQ/s640/IMG_0237.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A doe forages in a clearing</span></td></tr>
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I have wondered why at least four months passed before I started getting pictures of deer. I am not sure, but it must have to to with their movements and the availability of food in the environment. I began to get the deer images after the dry season was in full swing, when much of the lush vegetation had withered and leaves had fallen. I assume deer forage more widely and take greater chances moving into open areas when food is scarce. It also could be that they are just more easy to see when vegetation is sparse.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KKP5gHut_svgxiEBBleToFgO88xzyhgG1-IT7P33YvQScmQH3kxkzIB3qwJD953f_QUURl8hTnkZL6F7Iv_7V7y7edBoKCExeSr9OhCYWL9_uQIb1s3R1Mkqa0mN8adv3TJZEXhpipU/s1600/IMG_0055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KKP5gHut_svgxiEBBleToFgO88xzyhgG1-IT7P33YvQScmQH3kxkzIB3qwJD953f_QUURl8hTnkZL6F7Iv_7V7y7edBoKCExeSr9OhCYWL9_uQIb1s3R1Mkqa0mN8adv3TJZEXhpipU/s640/IMG_0055.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The camera documented this pair of Yucatan Jays harassing a doe</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVWwOzMy1ZczRJ8lowFiJMsQ-8KU4x-pPIwn8WQYJ0pELb99ABufKcboWr15Koq8Df7z2brCEmVgV13PGfvTgz9cbzHEhiSdyzx7SRpGQHkPeyZcAv9Q2-YRtJUzXfrOS9lZmbgNMP7do/s1600/IMG_0134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVWwOzMy1ZczRJ8lowFiJMsQ-8KU4x-pPIwn8WQYJ0pELb99ABufKcboWr15Koq8Df7z2brCEmVgV13PGfvTgz9cbzHEhiSdyzx7SRpGQHkPeyZcAv9Q2-YRtJUzXfrOS9lZmbgNMP7do/s640/IMG_0134.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Hi there!" This doe got a good close look at the camera</span></td></tr>
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I still have not seen a live deer on the ranch property, but as I spend more time out there, and as I learn more about their habits (with the help of the camera), I expect to do so.<br />
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I've gotten more interesting shots of other wild neighbors on the ranch with the motion-activated camera. I'll share them in a future post.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2016 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-68971044662954490992016-03-12T13:09:00.001-06:002016-03-12T13:09:12.016-06:00Dry Season in the Country<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In tropical Yucatán, if there is a season that resembles autumn in the north, this is it. Late winter and spring on the Peninsula is the dry season. Rain is slight and the otherwise lush, nearly-impenetrable vegetation in natural areas gives way for a few hot, dry months. Herbs, grasses and other small plants wither to nothing and many bushes and trees drop their leaves.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGuXGanXgZS4PTM_ficNu_GocTyC6DwEQM2lIoiTOiIC-c-8HhFm6iYztwkj856wtf5_-z8uHWb2elTTb79M_mdtzliIpewrWXytUctSHu-tKFSR6vxyiVd4YZ0eAqf_RprLzXevO-U64/s1600/DSCF4672.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGuXGanXgZS4PTM_ficNu_GocTyC6DwEQM2lIoiTOiIC-c-8HhFm6iYztwkj856wtf5_-z8uHWb2elTTb79M_mdtzliIpewrWXytUctSHu-tKFSR6vxyiVd4YZ0eAqf_RprLzXevO-U64/s320/DSCF4672.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
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Out at the ranch, the opening of spaces and the extra light reaching the ground offer me a chance to see things that are hard to discern at other times. The rest of the year, shade and thick green curtains of vines and brush block the view more than few feet beyond either side of the road and trails.<br />
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Since this is my first dry season on this land, I am using the time to take a close look around. I took an hour's hike on one of the trails to the back of the property last week. I was able peer into areas normally hidden from view, and observe the wider contours of the property. This helps me plan construction and irrigation projects that I will be working on later.<br />
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I've surveyed and opened access to a nice high spot that may prove to be my home site and cleared trash and rubble from around the existing house. I also have taken a good look at the old orchard to figure out where I can best plant fruit trees, keeping in mind gravity-fed irrigation from a central water storage tank next to the well.<br />
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The openness right now also allows me to appreciate other things close up, things I might miss in the rainy season. For instance, this <i>chaká (</i>gumbo limbo) tree, is not so easily noticed the rest of the year. I took a moment to admire its green trunk and contrasting papery copper-colored bark.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqkwUgHHXZ2iwOJz1B9kl6Uw0xnmCxd1TwlXKrebdqiGoET8f0P7htkhXGMvxJN1QcmSZcYn_jmGtk6vi76MWeo7zzlfk3docjGXIOkqmL_BuQxw6RxBHH8q7Ge-DuvdGa3JzED-rbvU/s1600/DSCF4677.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqkwUgHHXZ2iwOJz1B9kl6Uw0xnmCxd1TwlXKrebdqiGoET8f0P7htkhXGMvxJN1QcmSZcYn_jmGtk6vi76MWeo7zzlfk3docjGXIOkqmL_BuQxw6RxBHH8q7Ge-DuvdGa3JzED-rbvU/s640/DSCF4677.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I also noticed this tiny fungus growing on a rotting, fallen branch.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLXPONDr3UmtExyAHHFyWMo-WIWHyAimIrpGgOIG-QDs07mOq_M4yRt7IHNKTgLHrD_dQhi8756DUElHqr3n-w7AAafSEkBX0zyJLW43Vbs98gWVN4RDdTSmPvJ-NJxt4IqIBaogLKuI/s1600/DSCF4624.JPG"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLXPONDr3UmtExyAHHFyWMo-WIWHyAimIrpGgOIG-QDs07mOq_M4yRt7IHNKTgLHrD_dQhi8756DUElHqr3n-w7AAafSEkBX0zyJLW43Vbs98gWVN4RDdTSmPvJ-NJxt4IqIBaogLKuI/s640/DSCF4624.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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The walk took me around a meandering loop that ended back at my work area, the former orchard near the corral and well. It looks very different right now, too, both due to the dry weather and our efforts to clear space for spring planting. I am starting to save stout hardwood branches for fence posts, a few of which which can be seen leaning against the wall. I am not sure when I'll need them, but certainly they will be useful at some point.<br />
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I also am saving longer sections for use as roof beams on a later project. I'll post about that soon.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2016 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-40409447391834740522016-02-13T11:25:00.003-06:002016-02-13T12:40:08.256-06:00The Ceiba<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW9BIHz1ew_nN4GXZrHzT8AyekSru0x-U863s8rSEITbsve94UI2y3uCqe_bCKlZNENbmP2ZeTikeYhyphenhyphenf-LXlfaWkqHxu0ftLnWcEZE_0oBD9uCCVbh2G0I3zk80A4wElF1M5jhpEu3sw/s1600/DSCF4607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW9BIHz1ew_nN4GXZrHzT8AyekSru0x-U863s8rSEITbsve94UI2y3uCqe_bCKlZNENbmP2ZeTikeYhyphenhyphenf-LXlfaWkqHxu0ftLnWcEZE_0oBD9uCCVbh2G0I3zk80A4wElF1M5jhpEu3sw/s640/DSCF4607.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKH8gsC0HCOYavy2Uqf26EDl1n21ZnVJ295I79DlfkFcn5aV0RsqBCYrcmAP6S5RRayYmO9ixXyf3MOGrfXGnaoPo8keBp0QW_oKSZGYTk9KNbJdotYkuuAwuqMuD8pgAjTMe27VpOE0/s1600/DSCF4585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKH8gsC0HCOYavy2Uqf26EDl1n21ZnVJ295I79DlfkFcn5aV0RsqBCYrcmAP6S5RRayYmO9ixXyf3MOGrfXGnaoPo8keBp0QW_oKSZGYTk9KNbJdotYkuuAwuqMuD8pgAjTMe27VpOE0/s400/DSCF4585.jpg" width="263" /></a>Last week when I arrived at <i>Rancho San Benito</i> after a five-day absence, I was presented with bouquets of flowers.<br />
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This is the <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ceiba">ceiba</a></i>, sacred tree of the Maya people, also known as the kapok tree. This example grows smack dab in the middle of the stone-walled corral.<br />
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I'd expected to see <i>ceiba</i> flowers this week because on my last visit, the buds on its branches were obvious. Not having lived near one of these trees, I hadn't quite expected this sort of show.<br />
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After admiring the glowing pink of the blossoms in the warm morning sunshine, I noticed the number of birds. Among others, I counted three hummingbirds in the tree at once and a pair of Altamira Orioles. A squirrel cuckoo, with its earthy-red body, flashy fan-tail and characteristic squirrel-like hopping behavior, was lurking nearby. The usual crowd, mainly jays, big-beaked Groove-billed Anis, blackbirds, grackles and a variety of other birds I still cannot identify, foraged among the blossoms as well.<br />
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But the most impressive visitors to the <i>ceiba</i> were the bees. Thousands of bees. They were busy going about their business, and the loudness of the hum was startling. As I stood beneath the tree, what was even more fascinating was the quality of the sound, which seemed to be everywhere. It was directionless and enveloping, as if the atmosphere itself was humming and vibrating.<br />
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I went about my work, carrying buckets of water for thirsty coconuts and lemon trees and packing compost and leaf mulch around their trunks to help the roots stay moist in this rainless season. I checked the plum trees, <a href="http://marcoyucatan.blogspot.mx/2016/02/the-hummingbird-showed-me.html">which budded last week</a> and also are in flower now, and they're doing fine. I cleaned out the one-room house near the corral, which needs a new roof, door and some structural repairs before I can move in. The cleanup is in preparation for measuring and a full inspection prior to starting that project some time this spring.<br />
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Then, after the twenty-minute walk back into the village, the afternoon's agenda consisted of lunch with neighbors and a siesta.<br />
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That's pretty much how the days go around here right now.<br />
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<i><b>Text and images copyright 2016 by Marc Olson</b></i><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-89206961620737231392016-02-06T16:37:00.000-06:002016-02-14T11:44:00.724-06:00The Hummingbird Showed Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Old wild plum (ciruela) trees at Rancho San Benito</span></td></tr>
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I have not been terribly productive at the ranch for a couple of weeks. The truck is in the shop for engine work, so I've been making weekly ranch visits by taking a two-hour bus ride to the pueblo and walking from the house I rent there out to the property. This means that I can't bring tools and materials, so on my visits to <i>Rancho San Benito</i> work is limited to planting, weeding, watering and other small projects.<br />
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Without the chainsaw and other larger implements, I work quietly and take it easy. While buckets fill with water I sit by the well and wait. I have plenty of time for observation and learning, which is one of the important reasons for having the ranch in the first place.<br />
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I was taking a coffee break late Thursday morning, seated under the oak tree that shades the well, when the sun was dimmed by gathering grey clouds. Soon I was feeling cool northerly gusts and bathed in misty drizzle. The morning had been hot, so I was a little surprised by the abrupt change in the weather. I started to think about getting my things together for a quick walk back to the pueblo, if necessary, glad that I had a large plastic garbage bag that would serve as an emergency raincoat if things got worse.<br />
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But coffee comes first, so I relaxed for another moment. Savoring the hot drink, I watched the changing weather through the branches of two wild <i>ciruela</i> (plum) trees, leaves fallen for the winter dry season, when my eye caught a tiny movement. What I thought at first was a moth turned out to be a hummingbird, a <i>colibrí</i>, nervously flitting amongst the twigs. The strangeness of this scene was heightened by the ominous conditions. What on earth was the tiny creature doing in a barren tree in such weather?<br />
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As the little bird continued busily my curiosity strengthened. Finally the hummingbird rested for a minute on a wind-buffeted branch. It then made a beeline for shelter in the thick brush.<br />
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I walked over to the trees, still unable to perceive what had attracted the bird's interest. It wasn't until I bent down a low branch and looked carefully that I saw what inspired the hummingbird's attention. Tiny purple buds, which must have popped out overnight, covered the branches. These trees lose their leaves in December, then flower and produce fruit before new leaves appear in spring. I guess the little bird was anticipating the readiness of the first sweet <i>ciruela</i> flowers in coming weeks.<br />
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If I'd been working in my accustomed way, it's likely I would have missed this. I am glad I had the time to notice what the hummingbird had to show me.<br />
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Meanwhile, I'll have to be more patient than the bird, since <a href="http://marcoyucatan.blogspot.mx/2015/05/wild-plums.html">the fruit won't be ready until late April or early May</a>. There are plenty of other things to learn about and to keep me busy until then.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2016 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-56921097625694169902015-12-06T11:49:00.000-06:002015-12-06T15:08:21.747-06:00At Rancho San Benito<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A spotlight of evening sun breaks through the gloom, minutes before sunset</span></td></tr>
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In May I mentioned that I'd agreed to buy a parcel of old ranch land outside of Mérida. The transaction was completed in June.<br />
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<i>Rancho San Benito</i> has not had cattle grazing on it for close to fifteen years. In the tropical Yucatán climate, the result is that what once was open pasture now has trees on it whose trunks reach the thickness of a human leg. Large swathes of land are inaccessible due to dense thorny brush. Basically, although in the early stages of succession, the land has reverted to a form of jungle. A few game trails are passable if one is willing to swing a machete, and it's possible to walk around the limits of the place since the owners kept most of the lot lines clear. The back section, more than half of the property, although used as a wood lot has not been cleared in a very long time, if ever. Trees there are larger and the understory less dense but it's still not an easy place to move through.<br />
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Most of the progress I've made so far on the ranch has been in planning. Even in passable areas, the rocks and thorny growth do not allow for casual strolling. In order to learn more exactly what I'm dealing with in the area where I hope to build a dwelling, I've had some help clearing brush. This work continues, but slowly. I enjoy having people to work with, and often the work is lighter and goes more quickly with pleasant company. But I enjoy the quiet and think time provided by days spent working alone.<br />
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Working by myself allows me to hear and see more, like a small flock of wild turkeys that rose startlingly one morning out of the brush and flew low-to-the-ground to hide themselves out of my sight. Where they had just been, I found these feathers. On a daily basis I see quail, chachalacas, orioles, green jays, vultures and a variety of small songbirds. I've listed about 25 bird species so far, and have seen many more that I have yet to identify. Birds are my constant companions when I am out there alone. Other inhabitants include various small mammals, snakes, armadillos and a large variety of colorful lizards.<br />
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Working solo and quietly also means that I am more likely to see the deer that several villagers have told me are plentiful on the land. For some reason I haven't yet seen them, but as I go about my business it's only a matter of time until I do.<br />
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Days spent working alone at the ranch may be less productive in the sense of concrete accomplishment, but they give me a lot more information about the environment in which eventually I will live. And I enjoy having time just to enjoy the quiet and solitude there. I take breaks and just wander, or open the thermos on the tailgate of the truck and sit there enjoying the silence and a cup of hot coffee or icy lemonade.<br />
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This project is so large that it will never be done. There is no need to rush. The process <i>is</i> the project.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2015 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-5683350598477375662015-09-27T12:41:00.000-05:002015-09-27T12:41:37.369-05:00Change<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” </span></i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">-- Viktor E. Frankl</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My "situation" -- life -- got so busy over the past year or so that I neglected to blog about it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The year without a doubt provided more material for interesting posts than any since I started this blog. But in the process of living through it all I didn't make much the time to write. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Most interesting of all is that more and more I found myself able to apply the wisdom of Viktor Frankl, a psychologist whose work and approach to life I have admired and attempted to incorporate into my life for many years.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Frankl said:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”</span></i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There has been lots of change in my life recently, not all easy, of course, but I do my best to <i>choose</i> for it all to be meaningful. Finding meaning is the key element.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Frankl was a young Viennese doctor who survived years in Nazi concentration camps. He became known after the war for using the time he was incarcerated under inhumane conditions, with wife, friends and family gone and others dying all around him, to develop his theories. Frankl's major conclusion was that people most likely to thrive, even under the most extreme and difficult circumstances, are the ones who have a compelling reason to live. His experiences resulted</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> in a book titled <i>Man's Search for Meaning</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We all know if we're honest with ourselves that control and security are illusions. The structures that maintain our sense of stability and safety are fragile and can come tumbling down quickly due to illness, death, accident, economic downturn, loss of employment, or any one of a number of other causes. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">How we react to the losses is the key to finding meaning and moving on. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As Frankl said, when you can't change a situation, you have to change yourself. I have done my best to put this principle into practice in my life.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As a result, over time I find myself happier, having more fun and worrying much less over things I can't control.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mexico has been a big catalyst of the change. There is a Mexican approach to living that a foreigner here can absorb by interacting with and thoughtfully observing friends and neighbors. Aspects of this attitude, which I think of as <i>la vida a la mexicana,</i> mesh well with what Viktor Frankl discovered for himself in a different place and time. It's something that keeps life refreshing. Even after a dozen years living in Yucatán, I am still learning.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><i>Text and images copyright 2015 by Marc Olson</i></b></span></div>
Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-69616302317908466452015-07-12T10:53:00.000-05:002015-07-12T10:53:29.623-05:00The Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Visiting the Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau with my Dad's parents. I now am older than they were then.</span></td></tr>
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As more years of our lives stretch out behind than we are likely to enjoy ahead, often the past becomes more interesting to us. I recall as a kid hearing older folks talking a lot about things that had happened before I was born. I was more interested in history than the average kid, but like most children, I naturally thought more about the moment, tomorrow, or maybe out as far as next summer's vacation than about what had happened long ago.<br />
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Now I find myself in the older generation's shoes. My parents are gone. I am older at this point than my grandparents were when the photo above was taken. The remainder of my life life looms like the visible portion of the iceberg, with a larger percentage -- experiences, events, the influence of ancestors --hidden below the surface, yet the critical ballast that steadies my course.<br />
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I have been thinking a lot about the past this year. My father's death one year ago and my mother's two years before that have prompted a lot of reminiscences with friends and family, and lately lost snippets of growing up in my family have been passing through my mind. I didn't really analyze it until I was back Mérida and had time to ponder, but on a trip north that I made last year, I was steeped entirely the past.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Graves of some ancestors on the old family farm in Virginia</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My great-great grandfather</span></td></tr>
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I visited my cousin Kim in Washington, D.C. She's done extensive family research, and we love to talk together about family history. One day we drove into Virginia, where my mother's family arrived from England in the 1600's. That was the start of a fascinating and humbling experience, exploring places where predecessors of mine had lived and died, and walking land that was in the family for generations. We met a distant cousin who still owns some of the family farmland, and she directed us toward a large, old tree in a field, under which we found the graves of several relatives, including my great-great grandfather, who lived to be nearly 100 and fought for the losing side in the Civil War. To be honest, there is a part of my heritage there which I do not deny, but of which I am not proud.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a teenager, my grandmother worked in this factory</span></td></tr>
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We visited the nearby country church where many of the family were baptized, married and laid to rest. We spent time exploring the town where the generations before my mother's had lived and struggled to keep the family together amidst grueling work, poverty, and violence which took two family members' lives and prompted the survivors eventually to escape by moving up to Baltimore, where my mother was later born.<br />
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I realized that in exploring this area I was visiting a painful past that my mother's family had mostly left behind, and which Mom never talked much about. And I have begun to understand some of the reasons why.<br />
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I stopped near Baltimore to visit my aunt and uncle, Kim's parents. They live still in the house they did when I was a child. Visiting there I sleep in my great-grandmother's bed and we eat off of grandmother's dishes, which my aunt brings out for the occasion. We spend hours poring over old pictures and talking about our lives and things that happened long ago.<br />
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On the same whirlwind trip I also visited with an old friend and co-worker in Washington, D.C., and attended my 40th high school class reunion. On these occasions as well, most of what we talked about was things that happened a long time ago. Once the conversations warmed up, sitting in a roomful of classmates I hadn't seen in forty years I felt strangely at home. I get along much better now with many of those people than I did back then. Time and maturity clear away the trivial and temper passions. And reminiscing about the best football games, griping about teachers, laughing and crying about friends who have passed away, finding out finally who was the kid who streaked across the student parking lot one morning my senior year, stuff like that, certainly gave us a lot to talk about.<br />
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And this was the central theme: through all of my trip, I told and listened to stories. Human beings love stories. Stories unite us. With the mellowing passage of time these stories become interesting and even entertaining -- even the events that made life difficult. In the retelling, we find meaning in the the bad and celebrate the good. This and the practice of telling makes the stories better. Stories of hardship and sadness become tales of survival, and help explain who we are now.<br />
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Of course my realizations here are not news, but I've been seeing it lately for myself. I think that this blog will evolve a bit. I believe I will start telling more of the stories.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2015 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-20470555809017045352015-05-02T08:34:00.000-05:002015-10-01T17:32:27.477-05:00Wild Plums<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you have been reading this blog, you know what I am talking about. Here they are:<br />
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In <a href="http://marcoyucatan.blogspot.mx/2015/04/wanderings-walk-around-ranch.html">a recent post</a> I mentioned that I would return to a parcel of ranch land I had been exploring so that I could enjoy harvesting and eating the wild plums that grow there, and perhaps daydream about the future. When I visited a couple of weeks ago, the plums (<i>ciruelas</i>) were hard and green. Right now they are maturing, juicy and delicious. The timing of my visit yesterday was just right.<br />
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In fact I arrived none too soon because birds have been having an easy meal in this tree. The ground beneath was littered with pits and yellow, orange and green bits of partially-eaten plums. A large flock of Yucatan Jays (<i>che'les)</i> was busily enjoying the feast. The positive side is that it seems the birds favor the higher branches, which means the low-hanging fruit is left for us.<br />
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Along with the jays, we saw a pair of Squirrel Cuckoos, orioles (<i>yiuya</i>), Kiskadee (<i>xtakay</i>), Blue Crowned Motmots (<i>Toh</i>), quail (<i>codorniz</i> in Spanish or <i>bechito</i> in Maya), plus the usual assortment of cardinals, doves, grackles, mockingbirds, hummingbirds and small songbirds. We also heard but did not see an owl and a couple of other species we could not identify.<br />
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After savoring some plums and stashing more in pockets for the trail, we took another hike, in a section different from the one we walked the last visit. Ramiro, the man doing some clearing of impassable trails, has been busy in the meantime. Passage alongside one of the overgrown pastures is now open (photo below), and the area around the corral and well is now clear. It was much easier this visit to walk and assess the condition of things.<br />
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When I ate the plums this morning, they seemed especially delicious, and not just because they are now in their prime. As I mentioned in the prior post, I have been very interested in this place for a long time. So without too much more thought, soon after taking that walk here and tasting the sour, unripe fruit a couple of weeks back, I signed a contract to buy and made a down payment on this property. We have a couple of legal hoops to jump through yet, but if all goes smoothly, soon I will be the proprietor here. This project will involve a lot of work and a significant shift in lifestyle, but I am looking forward to the change.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2015 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-45346277798087933442015-04-19T09:17:00.002-05:002015-04-19T15:54:13.686-05:00Cool, Cool Florida<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On this street we lived for four air-conditioned years</span></td></tr>
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When I was 13 years old we, an Alaska family, moved to South Florida. For about the first year or so I really thought I might die. It seemed so incredibly hot.<br />
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The whole family felt much the same. We kept the house central air conditioning temperature set very low and spent a lot of time inside except perhaps in the evening or to go to a nearby pool. When we had to go out we ran to the Oldsmobile, which normally had its AC cranked up so high that the noise of the fan made it difficult to talk. Sometimes the kids battled over who got to sit in front between Mom and Dad, where the center vent blew freezing air into the lucky kid's face hard enough to make one's hair fly. We loved that.<br />
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Thanks to my parents' ability to afford our electric bills, we survived in Florida for four years. Then we moved back to Alaska, and I did not expect to live in another hot place, ever again.<br />
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Now as a ten-year full time resident of Mérida, it's interesting to see how I have adapted. Until just a few months ago I have lived here, a place hotter than South Florida, without air-conditioning at all. Now that I have AC in the bedroom, I still use it only occasionally.<br />
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My sister came around, too. After a few decades of feeling always cold in Alaska, she and my brother-in-law moved back to Florida several years ago.<br />
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Now, strangely, I find myself looking forward to my visits to see them in Florida as a respite from the heat. Particularly this time of year, when the Yucatán temperatures hit their peak.<br />
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The weather in Mérida has been reaching about 39 - 40 Celsius (102 - 104F) lately, and the forecasters say it will get quite a bit hotter later in the week, possibly as high as 45C, which is around 113 on the Fahrenheit scale. Today's edition of Mérida's <i>Diario de Yucatán</i> featured the banner, "<i>Yucatán arderá</i>," "<i>Yucatán will burn.</i>" This morning's headline story tells us that record temperatures will be set in coming days.<br />
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I find it interesting that I often look forward to a Florida visit as a cool break from the Yucatán's blast-furnace heat. It points out how flexible we can be, and how much I've changed.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2015 by Marc Olson</i></b></div>
Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-37099632234289898592015-04-15T15:39:00.000-05:002015-04-15T21:47:10.079-05:00Wanderings: Walk Around a Ranch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Last weekend I took a walk around a ranch named San Benito, about an hour's drive east of Mérida.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This "ranch" is a parcel of old cattle pasture which hasn't been grazed in years. It definitely is not wilderness, but amidst swathes of <i>maleza</i> -- dense, thorny scrub where fields and pastures used to be -- there are some nice patches of old native trees, wildflowers and interesting plants such as orchids.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I drove out Saturday with my friend Victor and his niece Paola. We left the city early, to avoid traffic and heat, and upon arriving met a guy named Ramiro, who is being paid to clear out some of the undergrowth. Since in advance I'd asked permission of the caretaker, Ramiro knew we were coming, so he welcomed us and took a brief break from his work to chat. When we headed down one of the trails to explore, he resumed work with his hatchet and moruna.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This was not my first visit here. I had walked this parcel a few times in the past, starting in 2009 when first it was advertised for sale. The property suddenly sold before I realized just how interested in it I'd become, and I felt disappointed. Perhaps because I loved and lost, I've had a sort of long-distance romance with this piece of land ever since. Recently when I discovered that the new owners want to sell, I came back here to see if the feeling was still the same.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One of the things I like about the ranch is that because it has lain largely undisturbed for about a dozen years there are animals here. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have seen wild turkeys and a good variety of other birds. Bird chatter was a constant background music as we walked the overgrown trails. There are signs of deer, too, and I found the remains of an armadillo and a large snake skin as we hiked. Along with many native tree species, I spotted bougainvilleas in flower and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">a "flamboyan" (Royal Poinciana, or Flame Tree) that will be spectacular in season</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Although quiet now, this land was worked for generations. The entire place is enclosed and cross-fenced with dry-stone walls, "albarradas," and there is an old one-room stone house, corral and a deep well with an antique windmill-driven pump to keep the watering troughs and the cistern full.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">As we arrived, I'd noticed that the fruit on a great old <i>ciruela</i> (wild plum) tree near the well and house is nearly ripe. After our dusty, hot walk I was tired and parched. I picked and ate a low-hanging plum. Although still somewhat hard and bitter it tasted good. Maybe I'll come back in a few weeks to pick some when they are ripe.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">That would be a good opportunity, sitting in the shade by the well and eating those soft, tart wild plums, to consider again all that I might do on a piece of land like this one.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i>If you liked this post you might enjoy: <a href="http://marcoyucatan.blogspot.mx/2013/01/hacienda-dreams-revisited.html">Hacienda Dreams</a></i></span></span><br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2015 by Marc Olson</i></b></div>
Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-40234069896962255802015-04-13T10:52:00.000-05:002015-04-13T11:03:52.012-05:00A Life Well Lived<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>This post was originally published five years ago today under the title, "Goodbye Neighbor, and Thanks." Recently as I pondered the future of this blog (which has been inactive for several months), I have been reviewing old posts. This is one of my very favorites, and an inspiration to get the blog rolling again. Stay tuned.</i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My neighbor Alejandro died last week. I was out of town when it happened, and busy away from the house when I got back, so I didn't get the news until several days later.<br /><br />Alejandro and I were not close, but he was my first friend in the neighborhood after I moved into my house in Mèrida a few years ago. He was an outgoing, gregarious type, always waving and saying hello, and I guess it was just in his nature to be the first one to start a conversation with the new guy on the block.<br /><br />Alejandro was not a young man, but with his unlined face and continual smile he was energetic and always busy, so I was more than a little surprised when he told me several years ago that he was 75 years old. I would have sworn he was no more than sixty, and he might have passed for younger. He'd lost his wife at a young age and remarried, and worked many years as a taxi driver. He remained happy in his second marriage and together with his wife Ingrid raised a houseful of children, who now have families of their own.<br /><br />Alejandro was always busy with projects, such as painting and repairing old cars he would buy, fix up, drive for awhile, and then resell. He told me he liked to work, and the problem-solving and tinkering involved with the cars, along with the incentive of making a little extra cash when he sold them, kept his mind and body agile and gave him something interesting to do.<br /><br />Not that his days were empty. Various children and grandchildren were usually around, and the modest house full of activity. One of the last times I saw him, a few weeks ago, Alejandro was delightedly painting the house next door, which they had rented so his daughter and her family could move in. People from the U.S. often don't understand why different generations of a family would want to live in such close proximity. Here, people can't fathom how people from </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">el norte</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> manage living so far apart from the company, affection and support of their closest loved ones.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif; font-size: medium;">Passing by on the street when Alejandro was outside working often entailed more than a casual "buenos dias." He loved to talk about what he was doing, and to find out what I was up to. I sometimes brought him my car and home maintenance problems for advice. The give and take usually ran on for awhile. It seemed as if the socializing for him was the main point of being out on the street, and that washing the car or fixing the tire was something he would get done but not particularly important in comparison.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Alejandro's family owns a ranch about an hour's drive outside of Mèrida, and many times he invited me to go with him for a couple of days and hang out. Unfortunately that's something we never did because I always had something else going on. I started thinking about that when another neighbor told me Alejandro had suddenly died of a heart attack earlier last week. One of the reasons I moved to Mexico was because I wanted to stop living in <i>tomorrow</i> (laboring on and on for that retirement, saving all year for that brief vacation, etc.) and start doing what I want to do <i>now</i>. I have gotten better at living in the <i>now, </i>but the fact that I had put off the ranch visit time and again until it was too late bothers me. I looked forward to that trip as much as I liked Alejandro; he was a nice guy and we probably could have been better friends. I take all this as another of those little messages that life sends us, if we only will pay attention to them, telling us maybe we need to make an in-course correction along the way. I am taking it seriously.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Once my train of thought got rolling along these lines, I started thinking about how happy and successful this neighbor had always seemed to me. He was not a wealthy man, in fact by many Americans' standards he would have been considered poor. Alejandro and his wife raised a large family in a small three-room (not three bedroom, three <i>room</i>) house, where they lived for at least forty years. He didn't have a lot of stuff. His thirty-year-old cars were worth at most a few hundred dollars, and sometimes were broken down. But he always, even when under a balky car and covered with sweat and grease, seemed to enjoy living in the present and have a good time.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;">I read not long ago that Mexicans have among the highest levels of personal happiness in the world. I think that Alejandro is a good example of some of the reasons for this. It looks to me as if my late neighbor's success in life boiled down to a few simple points. He liked to be happy, so he usually was. He had a good attitude and didn't let small irritations or things beyond his control ruin his day. He was completely authentic: he had no "image" to maintain. He enjoyed everything he did as best he could. He seemed to be more interested in relationships -- his family, friends, and neighbors -- than in things or schedules. I think these qualities gave meaning to the life of a humble and modest man, and filled it with affection and love.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a2a2a; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><b><i>Text and images copyright 2015 by Marc Olson</i></b></span></div>
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-86251082735631600112014-10-27T11:41:00.004-06:002014-10-27T11:41:55.489-06:00Halloween (revisited)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This piece, originally titled <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Jack o' Lanterns,</span> was one of my very first on this blog years ago and remains one of my favorites. I reposted it again on Halloween several years back since my readership was so low virtually no one read it the first time. My blog output is slow these days, so here I repost it for those who have not read it before.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Three years ago on a weekend off from teaching in the summer course at San </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ildefonso</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tultepéc</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, in the state of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Querétaro</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, I took a hike on the outskirts of a tiny nearby pueblo named </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">El </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Cuisillo</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. It's located close to the border between Mexico and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Querétaro</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> states. That makes it about equidistant from the towns of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Amealco</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Querétaro</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Aculco</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, Mexico, along a two-lane highway that in two or three hours takes you, if you flag down and jump aboard one of the dusty buses that occasionally passes by, from this very small place to the world's largest metropolis.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For some reason here, I suppose it's the stillness of the air and the rock formations reflecting sound waves, once in awhile I mysteriously hear clear voices and laughter but see no people. Perhaps they are hiding in the bushes and watching this strange foreigner smiling and whistling to himself, writing in a little book and taking pictures of things that seem to them very ordinary and mundane. Perhaps, as many </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">acquaintances</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> of mine in Barrow, Alaska will attest, the "little people" </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">do</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> exist, and maybe they live here, too. It certainly seems like a place they would appreciate. It may be a mystery I will never solve, and I like that. I've walked in the vicinity many times over the years and always find something new to do or see. It's a place I have visited with others, but mostly I like to wander here alone.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Many of the families in the region are indigenous </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Otomí</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, like these boys, and live a subsistence way of life near the poverty line. Besides keeping some animals and planting a small garden and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">milpa</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, or cornfield, some families make fired-clay products to produce cash income. The area produces a lot of these ceramics, such as pots, planters, platters, small replica churches and houses, sun plaques and other decorative, kitchen and garden items. Apparently someone in the area realized that with well in excess of 20 million persons living within a couple of hour's drive, there might be a market for jack o' lanterns. It seems like every clay workshop produces them. Halloween is not a tradition in Mexico, but some families do observe the day.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">pumpkins, for sale. I purchased two at the asking price of about a dollar each. I managed somehow to get them back to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mérida</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> in my luggage without breakage. They have served me well now for three Halloweens. I have yet to receive a trick-or-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">treater</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> at my door, but if one comes, I am ready.</span></div>
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-26892509126254438632014-09-01T10:49:00.002-05:002014-09-19T18:29:38.954-05:00Wild Neighbors: A Tiny Surprise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'd pretty much given up on the turtles. <a href="http://marcoyucatan.blogspot.mx/2013/09/wild-neighbors-were-expecting-i-think.html">Last September I wrote </a>that the pair of young <i>Furrowed Wood Turtles</i> I'd kept in the patio for several years appeared to have reached sexual maturity. They were "trying," at any rate.</div>
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I've found a number of their eggs in various nooks and crannies of the patio, and none that I've ever observed has hatched. I've also seen a couple of broken shells, and assumed since I never saw young ones that the eggs (or perhaps the vulnerable newborns) had been scavenged by birds, opossums, iguanas or cats.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Kb_WqxxIujJEJyXHjqibTiZ4K7tLdbglQOvW0nEknH0RVhFOrFzFNegjNHLLSz1xWaZ5aXdrFFnegKlWJHMgAyn_S2HYT47amRdyzkjjERzXfKD6I_yw0yrhfREN5pZGgLrCTq3DglQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-08-26+at+12.10.46+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Kb_WqxxIujJEJyXHjqibTiZ4K7tLdbglQOvW0nEknH0RVhFOrFzFNegjNHLLSz1xWaZ5aXdrFFnegKlWJHMgAyn_S2HYT47amRdyzkjjERzXfKD6I_yw0yrhfREN5pZGgLrCTq3DglQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-08-26+at+12.10.46+PM.png" height="226" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a>I discovered a couple of rotten eggs amongst the plants just recently. I've assumed that the couple was infertile, and stopped hoping for a turtle family. Then Tuesday morning I was greeted by a small surprise in the patio. The little thing appeared weak and very dry, as if it had been struggling for some time to extricate its hind quarters from the shell. I put it in a clean bucket and dribbled a little water over its head.</div>
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The moisture seemed to revive the tiny creature, but when after another hour it hadn't made progress extricating itself and was barely moving, I began carefully to chip away at the edges of the egg. A tiny, hourglass-shaped turtle emerged, its carapace indented where the half-eggshell had restricted it from expanding and drying.</div>
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Within minutes the hind legs began to stretch out and move a little. After an hour, the newly-hatched critter was getting around fairly well. I picked it up and it snapped at me, so I took advantage of the situation and held out a tiny piece of banana. The turtle quickly snatched a sliver and after a moment swallowed it. I then tried out other food: tiny pieces of tuna and tender leaves of succulent <i>verdolaga</i> (purslane) that the adult turtles seem to like. It ate a little bit of each. A day or two later, the baby began to exhibit evidence that its digestive system is functioning properly.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiaNQZeNdrQZ6KeaASPSY3OEadTsr5dqtf4hUII0uHgIfADCR0NgSV89gOmDtMdHCUdid7n0soDs8BFQzkHmDs6dZrMjoAH3_8ysVNawklILGw2RVTYJe3uayZ6UnHlt_PB0qLiNCSPwQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-08-29+at+8.00.04+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiaNQZeNdrQZ6KeaASPSY3OEadTsr5dqtf4hUII0uHgIfADCR0NgSV89gOmDtMdHCUdid7n0soDs8BFQzkHmDs6dZrMjoAH3_8ysVNawklILGw2RVTYJe3uayZ6UnHlt_PB0qLiNCSPwQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-08-29+at+8.00.04+PM.png" height="320" style="cursor: move;" width="211" /></a>As I write this, the little turtle is six days old. I put off posting immediately because her (I am not sure of the gender, but I am calling this one a girl) appetite and energy levels seemed low, which along with the fact that she did not seem able to hatch unassisted raised the concern that perhaps she would not survive.</div>
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But now after almost a week of life this young turtle seems to be doing OK. And I've figured out a few things. She does not like to eat in the morning, but will take off running if I let her loose outside her temporary small habitat in the bucket. Physical activity gets her juices flowing and stimulates a hearty appetite in the afternoon. After the first days of only eating food that I held up to her mouth, she finally is finding and eating some food on her own.</div>
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Here's an image of the newborn with her mother. Mom seemed a bit aggressive when I put them near each other, so I think the smart thing is to keep the little one in her own area until she can take care of herself. I have a large plastic tub that will serve as home for the time being.</div>
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Read another post on the turtles <a href="http://marcoyucatan.blogspot.mx/2012/05/wild-neighbors-part-5-tortugas.html#comment-form">here</a>.</div>
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2014 by Marc Olson</i></b></div>
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-83035045243960703572014-08-24T17:26:00.004-05:002014-08-25T08:04:58.872-05:00Secret Beach<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">I don't normally head out to the beach during the high season, but this morning the pull was so strong that I went anyhow. Some people go to church on Sundays. I find renewal swimming in the ocean and feeling the sun on my skin.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">Today is the very last day of summer vacations in Yucatán. School starts tomorrow, so although hot weather continues for at least another month or two, the beach scene calms down after this.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">But on a day like today, at most favorite beach spots, parking areas and restaurants are jammed, and the sand is lined with beach chairs, umbrellas and all types of fancy and home-made sun shelters. It seems that all of Yucatán and their cousins are swimming, building sand castles, listening to music and drinking beer along the fringe of the Gulf of Mexico.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">So I headed out to Secret Beach.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">This is undoubtedly my favorite beach in Yucatán, not because it's spectacular or beautiful, but because of the solitude. Today, on one of the busiest beach-vacation weekends of the summer, I took the above photo at this wonderful little spot.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">Tracks in the sand showed the path of a horse and rider that had passed by earlier. Curious, I followed their trail for a bit, but the heat drove me into the water. They'd obviously been out in the morning when the sun was not so intense.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">The bottom here is sandy and the water clear, warm and calm. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">Fish raced through the waves and jumped around me as I swam. Pelicans, vultures, gulls, overflying flamingos, and a few lizards were my only other company.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">After a while, a fishing launch passed by and dropped a handful of tourists off a few hundred meters up the beach. I'd had enough sun, and now the place was starting to feel crowded. I walked the rustic path back to the car and headed for a shrimp cocktail and fish-fillet lunch under a palapa a little ways down the sandy road.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">Creeping development is a threat to the wonderful solitude here, and things are slowly changing. Power lines sprouted along the road several years ago and fancy beach mansions are going up not far away. When they build the houses, they put up walls or barbed wire fences which block off trails and roads to beaches like this one. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">At least for the moment though, along the stretch by Secret Beach, access is still unrestricted and free.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">I try to get out here and enjoy it while I still can.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"><b><i>Text and images copyright 2014 by Marc Olson</i></b></span></div>
Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-15875153502320662612014-06-15T08:40:00.000-05:002014-07-31T21:52:07.672-05:00The Only Perfect Thing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
I have missed blogging the past couple of months, but I just haven't been ready to write about other things until I've gotten this big one off my chest.<br />
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My father passed away in April. It was peaceful and without anguish or pain. And because we knew it was coming the family was together with him. We couldn't have hoped for more than that.<br />
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Now that a bit of healing time has passed and I have thought clearly about the big picture of it all, I realize that my family has a lot for which we can be thankful.<br />
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As Dad got more forgetful at home in Alaska, he used to joke that his memory had "gone south." Several years ago for medical reasons, with the family's assistance the rest of him made the same journey. My father lived most recently in a nursing home near my sister in South Florida.<br />
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Although back when Dad was better able to consider his options he never considered leaving Alaska in his old age, in later years it really didn't matter to Dad where he lived, geographically. The past -- career, accomplishments, losses, disappointments, his treasured Alaska book collection -- none of these mattered terribly much to him any longer, either.<br />
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What was important was the quality of Dad's daily life and the care that he received. Where he lived recently, the quality of these things was high. With his physical needs taken care of and limited by poor vision and a fading memory, Dad concentrated his attention on what was left.<br />
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Fortunately, what remained was the important stuff. Dad expressed love for those around him. It didn't matter who was there. They might have been family members, friends, doctors, nurses, nursing assistants, therapists or just other folks who happened to be there. Whoever it was, he loved them and he made sure they knew it. And because he expressed his love for people, the love was returned in abundance.<br />
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Relationships and simple pleasures that can be enjoyed in the here and now -- things like singing, listening to music and birdsong, feeling the warmth of the sun, eating a cookie, holding a hand, a hug -- these he still enjoyed to the fullest. And he seems to have found a good level of contentment in them.<br />
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Dad had long been interested in Buddhism and had practiced meditation. Thinking about all this, I realized that in his final years he refined the art of living in and appreciating the moment.<br />
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I have a close friend who often points out that "to love is the only perfect thing we do." I think that in this respect my father passed his final years in the most perfect way he could. Of course over the past few years there were moments of despair, stress and anxiety. We wouldn't be human without those. But now looking back, I know that Dad and the whole family endured it all because of the love.<br />
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And in that I can find comfort.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a2a2a; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><b><i>Text and images copyright 2014 by Marc Olson</i></b></span><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-8913988487330410442014-03-29T08:24:00.000-06:002016-02-06T21:41:09.882-06:00Huevos de Patio<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If you like eggs, there's nothing else quite like them. They are called <i>huevos de patio,</i> or "back-yard eggs," here in Yucatán.<br />
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That means that these eggs come from hens kept in the back patio of a house. Of course quality varies depending upon how the chickens are fed and cared for, but usually it means that these are what a friend of mine used to call "happy chicken eggs."<br />
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The hens producing these eggs don't spend their lives in tiny cages under artificial lights, being pumped full of chemical-laden industrial feed and hormones. Instead, they run around outdoors, squabble amongst themselves, take dust baths, scratch for bugs, worms, tender green herbs and sprouts, and probably mate frequently with a rooster. In the world of chickens they lead social, fulfilled lives.<br />
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Last Sunday, as I occasionally do, I visited with friends in Abalá, a pueblo less than an hour's drive from Mérida. Often when I am in the pueblo we take a walk, visiting one of the local cenotes, birdwatching, searching for orchids and unusual wildflowers, or perhaps walking the paths out to the ranch and looking at the family's twenty-or-so head of cattle. However on this visit, by the time we got to the pueblo the weather was already pretty hot, so we spent the remainder of the day staying in the shade and not moving too much.<br />
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The result was that we had plenty of time to hang out with the chickens. We prepared the daily feeding that supplements what the birds find foraging in the yard and made sure they had fresh, cool water. A bit later we shooed the birds into the coop so that the hens could lay in clean, dry grass where the eggs would be easy to gather later on.<br />
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There are about a dozen laying hens here, and three roosters. Although they mostly look alike to me, I have discovered that their keepers know each animal individually. I now know which hens are the best layers, and that one, although fully grown now, has never laid an egg. She may be headed on a one-way trip to the kitchen one of these days. The same holds for a confused rooster who jealously fights to keep the other males away from the hens, but never mates with them himself.<br />
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I learned about the old great-great-grandmother white hen who continues to lay as prolifically as a youngster although at the age of five or six she ought to be far past her prime. There were some jokes that the secret of her youthfulness has to do with "getting plenty" of attention from a much younger rooster. She is prized for her large eggs and is a favorite, more like a pet, in this family.<br />
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Although they may know their stock pretty well, country people who raise their own food normally don't get too sentimental about animals. Chickens around here rarely die of old age. Although the old white hen may be an exception, most of these birds eventually end up in dishes like the rich <i>mole</i> we ate Sunday afternoon. The killing is not something anyone in the family likes to do, but it is necessary if they are occasionally going to eat meat. And culling older and less-productive animals makes room for the younger generations.<br />
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But the best reason in my book for having chickens in the patio is for the eggs. These <i>huevos de patio </i>are organic and fresh daily. Eating these eggs, we know exactly what we are consuming. Sunday evening after getting home from Abalá I ate an omelet made from eggs that I had gathered, still warm from the hens' bodies, that very afternoon. It doesn't get much better than that.<br />
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You may be wondering why there are no photos of the chickens. The reason is that until I got home with the eggs pictured above and ate that omelet, I wasn't planning to write a post about this. But the omelet was <i>that</i> good. I'll try to write again about the backyard chickens, and include photos, in a future post.<br />
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<b><i>Text and images copyright 2014 by Marc Olson</i></b><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-62262803014922259392014-03-21T19:58:00.000-06:002014-03-21T19:58:16.902-06:00New House: Little, Tiny Steps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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For many years the only residents of my new house were a few neighborhood cats, who left abundant evidence of their tenancy in the form of stinky corners and sooty footprints under the ledges of broken windows they climbed through as they came and went.<br />
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Seeing these markings, I thought of the line about "little cat feet" in <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174299">Carl Sandberg's poem "Fog."</a><br />
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I can't really come up with an apt use of the literary reference here except to say that the start up of this renovation project is creeping along as carefully and gingerly as a feral cat in an abandoned house.<br />
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There are reasons for the delay.<br />
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First, I've learned that taking time to plan a project like this is important. When I bought my first home in Mérida in 2003, I had all sorts of great ideas about what I wanted to do with it. I then inhabited the house, "as-is," for three years without doing any kind of work beyond some cleaning, painting and minor repairs. When eventually I finished the renovation effort I noticed that ninety-nine percent of my initial ideas had been thrown out the window. The time spent living in the house before making changes had allowed me to work out how I would actually use the space. That made all the difference in the quality of the results.<br />
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So although this time I won't actually move in and live in the new house before renovating, I am not in a huge hurry to start. I've been getting a feel for the place. The rental I am living in is only a short distance away, so at different hours of day or night I sometimes walk over to the new house to hang out. I've left a pair of comfortable, old chairs there, and have moved them around the rooms, sitting, observing and working through ideas. I've slung my hammock there and slept over a few times. This "think time" has produced good results and I have a good list of questions and ideas for the architect.<br />
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Speaking of the architect, <a href="http://www.estiloyucatan.com/englishversion.html">Victor Cruz</a> is on board and we've had a couple of planning meetings. His crew has drawn and measured the house and blueprints of the existing structure are in the works. In the past I've had Victor do a couple of smaller designs for me and I have seen a number of his projects. I like his work. I believe that Victor's style and skills will mesh well with this project.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cleaned up, the floors look pretty good</span></td></tr>
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The other delay right now is due to the fact that I bought two side-by-side properties. The original house was subdivided years ago and I am reuniting two houses with separate deeds. We can't obtain building permits to knock down partitions and open up doorways between two legally-separate structures, so I am waiting for my lawyer to work through the bureaucratic process and produce the single deed I need to restore the building as one house.<br />
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Added to that, I've got another new project in the works that could take priority and delay the start of construction for a few months. It looks as if this project may creep along on little cat feet for a while longer.<br />
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<i><b>Text and photos copyright 2014 by Marc Olson</b></i></div>
Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-22964921062159081772014-01-25T19:25:00.001-06:002014-03-21T15:42:51.768-06:00Finding Stuff<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As I work cleaning up my new Mérida <i>centro</i> house I find myself resuming a life-long pastime.<br />
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I've always liked to pick up interesting objects I find. I started as a child collecting rocks, shells and fall leaves. I collected whenever the opportunity presented itself.</div>
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I learned that certain rock formations and stream beds in Interior Alaska are rich areas for fossils. As I grew I also found that historic long-abandoned dumps and derelict buildings far out in the country were rich sources of Alaska mining-era relics, such as old bottles, kerosene lanterns, tools and hardware. </div>
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These types of discoveries excited a childhood passion for history, archaeology and random collecting in which as an adult I still indulge occasionally. I always enjoy the anticipation of finding something interesting.</div>
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In Juneau, Alaska I bought a historic house in the downtown area. As I repaired and renovated, the yard, dirt crawlspace, attic and walls of the house produced boxes full of gold mining equipment, coins, keys, silverware, dishes, marbles and many other everyday objects that were discarded or lost during the early days of the city.</div>
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The next house I owned, in Mérida, relinquished a small statue, vintage bottles, kitchen discards and broken pottery as we dug and built there.</div>
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So now I've begun accumulating interesting objects found as I explore and clear out my new property. Some of what I find is trash, and goes into garbage bags for removal. Other material such as metal, stone and cement block is sorted into piles for reuse or recycling.<br />
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Then there is the "other" category. Pictured are three items I've put aside so far.<br />
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I found the ceramic cable insulator still mounted atop a rotten, wooden pole in the patio. Although not terribly old, it's of a type no longer employed, and the brown glaze is shiny and undamaged after decades out in the tropical sun. Unless I find a better use, it will probably end up on my desk as a paperweight.<br />
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The hefty bronze spigot, called a <i>llave</i> in Spanish, was on one of the rainwater storage tanks in the patio. Although it's old, replacement washers for it are still available down at the <i>tlapaleria</i> in Santiago, and it ought to work perfectly. This antique is of a lot higher quality than one I might buy today. It's threaded for a garden hose and undoubtedly will be put back into service as I restore the house.<br />
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The third item is a mystery to me. It's a stone disc with a hole through its center, about the size and shape of a large doughnut. If I'd found this on an Alaska beach, I would assume it to be a fishing weight, of the sort threaded along the bottom of nets to keep them hanging vertically in the water. Had I found an object of this design made of wood or cork I would assume it to be a float for these same nets. However I found this item in my Yucatecan patio near one of the wells. It's formed of natural local stone, not cast of concrete. The green stain is due to mildew that formed on the side which was touching the ground.<br />
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I have no idea what this is. I will show it to some local friends to see if they can generate any ideas. Meanwhile, in my spare time I continue to work my way through the detritus in the patio. It's hot and dirty work, but interesting because it has the aspect of a childhood treasure hunt. I never know what I may turn up next.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a2a2a; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><i><b>Text and photos Copyright 2014 by Marc Olson</b></i></span></div>
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-49297219556040043652014-01-17T12:03:00.002-06:002014-01-17T12:03:43.512-06:00Water, Water, Everywhere<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I lowered my camera into the hole</span></td></tr>
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I stood in the patio of the new house and said to myself, "Well, well, well," then recognized the pun and added, "well." <br />
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That's four wells I have found so far on the long-uninhabited downtown Mérida property I bought a month ago. <br />
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In Yucatán, this is not unusual. This is a flat, porous land where water does not run off. It filters down; there are no rivers or streams. In a place where people have lived for many hundreds of years and city water utilities have existed for only a few short decades, wells have long been a necessity for human survival. <br />
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The Maya drew water from natural caves, cenotes and hand-dug wells, and also collected rainwater. The Spanish continued these same practices, and as Mérida grew, large numbers of wells were excavated.<br />
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Most of the older buildings in Yucatán have hand-built stone-lined wells, used to produce fresh water (a practice no longer common in the city), and now used also for runoff and for sewage. These wells are large enough in diameter for a person to descend into. For that reason they can be dangerous, especially where they have been abandoned, have partially collapsed and are hidden by undergrowth and debris. <br />
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As the back patio in my new place was slowly cleared of many years' accumulation of brush, weeds, leaves and trash, wells became obvious. One looks something like an old-time storybook water well. It's easy, looking down into its rock-walled cylinder, to see the water about eight meters (26 feet) down. The well straddles the lot line and is shared with a neighboring house. The wall separating the properties goes right over the top, a very common situation around here. <br />
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Another well in the patio is identified by a round concrete slab embedded in the ground, with a smaller concrete cap sporting a crude metal lift handle centered in its middle. Once brush was cleared, it was easy to see.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's a well under this floor</span></td></tr>
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Later, I got curious when I started clearing out a covered outdoor laundry area and saw that the drain tube went straight into the floor, which was finished with colorful, antique pasta tiles. By stomping with my foot, I found a hollow area beneath the floor. Later, I asked about it when talking with an elderly neighbor whose family had owned the house. She confirmed that there is a drainage well under the laundry sink.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfD3EpWICRmu8F7BfdaAXxTX9ejzi_ZEtY7JNgFH1unp8UCD7apXCvOqAyR6qfrnbxJGfC72pAZLLMkQBtpaHO7isjzW-xg_LLTWldZE1DjDG7FM0WTsgnvEesRP5KJkc6hoXzdNEN9DE/s1600/DSCF7156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br /></span><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfD3EpWICRmu8F7BfdaAXxTX9ejzi_ZEtY7JNgFH1unp8UCD7apXCvOqAyR6qfrnbxJGfC72pAZLLMkQBtpaHO7isjzW-xg_LLTWldZE1DjDG7FM0WTsgnvEesRP5KJkc6hoXzdNEN9DE/s1600/DSCF7156.JPG" height="360" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbTAcV5O-xJzRr1UNWFgQh58JEiMdhaOT6YgCezSUltdet1Wc4oa3-Puuchlx9fE_jpcrK5rBxMj0JOWYtZ6lUW2GSm3324gD4apCTctCEqkOnHv3imhmdO-7mGwgv7bDNnPSHZxyhfU/s1600/DSCF7180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbTAcV5O-xJzRr1UNWFgQh58JEiMdhaOT6YgCezSUltdet1Wc4oa3-Puuchlx9fE_jpcrK5rBxMj0JOWYtZ6lUW2GSm3324gD4apCTctCEqkOnHv3imhmdO-7mGwgv7bDNnPSHZxyhfU/s1600/DSCF7180.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
That's three wells. The fourth was the most obvious, marked by a large concrete slab, recessed into a low rectangular stone foundation, with a pipe leading into it through a small aperture. A rusty, old-fashioned water pump sits to one side. All this is enclosed within what was a three-sided hut, now roofless. The size and proportions of this one made me think that this could be a <i>noria</i>, a larger, rectangular well, easily large enough to climb down into.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkULWyv_gthvDguh4Opp-3BoAaWquDPtGQXDivnwTf-reDlRWcfpj0xLs9kp0lEL71TDXFMeM04f69zqvSKnBZLL5LsqmjS8dxjiGQNJGrTOmmTLc-WhDbtxsCzsuXzmz-I72cjnLY-Y/s1600/DSCF7160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkULWyv_gthvDguh4Opp-3BoAaWquDPtGQXDivnwTf-reDlRWcfpj0xLs9kp0lEL71TDXFMeM04f69zqvSKnBZLL5LsqmjS8dxjiGQNJGrTOmmTLc-WhDbtxsCzsuXzmz-I72cjnLY-Y/s1600/DSCF7160.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></div>
I couldn't see anything by looking into the tiny opening, and it would be dangerous to try to stand on the deteriorated roof over what could be a very deep hole and try to lift the concrete well cap by myself. I concentrated instead on a pile of wood and old doors and windows, weighted down by rocks and concrete blocks, covering the other end of the large slab. After letting scorpions and thousands of ants disperse, I moved one final panel of termite-eaten wood and discovered a round opening leading down into darkness.<br />
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Not having anticipated the need for a flashlight, I was unable to see much, so I lowered my camera by its strap into the hole and took a few flash pictures. They don't help much to clarify what's down there, but there definitely is stone construction below ground. However, parts of the cavern look irregular, raising the possibility that the well may have been built where a natural fissure or cenote already existed. There are many cenotes in Mérida, including a small one under the patio of the house I am renting right now. It's a possibility here, too.<br />
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Only time and further investigation will tell what I've really got there under the patio.<br />
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Meanwhile, I may have detected another large hollow, possibly indicating a cistern, well or cenote under a floor inside the house. More exploration is on the agenda to sort that one out.<br />
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<i><b>Text and photos Copyright 2014 by Marc Olson</b></i><br />
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277313567524932904.post-60519988966786620992014-01-07T12:43:00.001-06:002014-01-07T12:43:05.879-06:00New House: The Secret Garden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Inpenetrable in the beginning</span></td></tr>
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I've been cleaning up and getting to know the house I bought last month.<br /><br /> On my first visits a year or more ago to look at the long-abandoned Mérida centro property, the back yard -- called the patio in Yucatán -- was so overgrown and full of debris that I wasn't able to appreciate it. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwWK7ZNQ-AjfhFhIpAJijb2RopLP18LBJbVQSgt0rAnDSkkoaVLg3O1_pOl2z12edrEHx2Q3jaFuB2M4NqMRU2E11N7rOXIT9cNnYFc2Qh7hPXveFd6v0gmt7MfDEmkGu_cU02PDFdQI/s1600/DSCF7136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwWK7ZNQ-AjfhFhIpAJijb2RopLP18LBJbVQSgt0rAnDSkkoaVLg3O1_pOl2z12edrEHx2Q3jaFuB2M4NqMRU2E11N7rOXIT9cNnYFc2Qh7hPXveFd6v0gmt7MfDEmkGu_cU02PDFdQI/s1600/DSCF7136.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cleared, but still a maze</span></td></tr>
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Then in August, at my request the sellers paid someone to remove out-of-control thorny brush, creepers and high weeds. This enabled me finally to walk to the back of the lot. Until then, I'd been limited to looking at it from the house, staring into a mass of green from the rear doors and peering over the railing of the second-story terrace. From these vantage points I made the logical assumption that the high walls I could see out there in the tangle were the limits of the property. <br /><br />Even after the lot was cleared, the patio was a maze. Two large, round rainwater storage tanks dominate the area near the house. Old property-line walls, roofless rooms and what look like a chicken coop, laundry areas and kitchen, split the lot lengthwise and from side to side. I hadn't yet seen the plat and didn't have precise measurements, so the dimensions of what was on offer were still indefinite.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The lot widens out at the rear</span></td></tr>
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By ducking through low doorways, twisting and turning through this labyrinth, I was delighted to find that the lot widens out toward the rear by including a five-meter-wide rectangle of land behind the neighboring house.<br /><br /> Then came a bigger surprise. When I walked to the end of this section I discovered an opening that leads back in the direction of my patio. <br /><br /> This entry led to a space behind the high wall that until then I had assumed was the rear of the property. Here I found what I've been calling "the secret garden," a walled-in, secluded strip of land running across the back of the lot, containing the remains of an animal pen and some sour orange trees.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Secret Garden</span></td></tr>
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The existence of this space probably is due to the fact that the patio, like most in Merida centro, has been in use for many generations. The property was split up when passed down to heirs, who later further divided it into apartments. The divisions reflect changing uses of space over time, primarily for keeping animals, washing and drying laundry, and growing lemons and sour oranges (which no true Yucatecan kitchen can do without). All of this construction and division resulted, probably unintentionally, in a sliver of land completely isolated and invisible from the neighbors, the rest of the yard and from the house. You only see it when you are there. <br /><br /> My lawyer did the legal due diligence and all of the paperwork was in order. To be certain, before signing a contract to purchase I returned to the house with copies of the deed and plats to put the puzzle pieces together, measure and be sure that all of this belongs to the house. <br /><br /><div>
It does. <br /><br /> So that's my secret garden. It would be tempting to plant aromatic herbs and flowers in this space, bring in a little table and chair, and maintain it as a secluded place to enjoy my morning coffee. </div>
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<br /> However my plans to make the best use of the land mean that the high stone wall probably will come down to incorporate this tiny refuge with the rest of the patio. I guess I'll have to enjoy it while I can. But then who knows, perhaps I'll get inspired while I'm hanging out back there, and figure out a good way to keep the secret garden intact.
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Marc Olsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289566244668566622noreply@blogger.com17