Merry Freaking Christmas

Ghosts of Christmas Past bring memories of my large family lining up at the top of the stairs while our dad went down ahead to plug in the tree lights and exclaim "Oh, my!" and "Wonderful!" at the tremendous bounty of Santa's visit.  We would troop down the staircase in a riot of greed, tearing into the presents with abandon, and in ten minutes, the annual orgy would conclude in mixed sighs of satisfaction and "Is that all?"

Here in Carazo, my sister Mary Mary again shared her Christmas vacation with me, and we have enjoyed visits to Granada and Leon, and each other's company, with many cervesas and laughs together.

This morning, Mary Mary rose early and let out the dogs. She made coffee, as I slept on, until I heard her  say quietly, "Trish, wake up. I'm so sorry, but Mitzi went after your last chicken, and it's still alive and needs to be put out of its misery. With your machete, maybe? And Merry Christmas." My young German Shepherd has a sort of sweet tooth for live chicken, as previously noted. My sister was upset. She had heard the clucking commotion, and had seen the apparently lifeless bird on the porch, only to approach the poor thing and see it suddenly stand up, a large chunk of feathered breast dangling ominously.

"Okay, I'll do it," I said. I put on my shoes and went out to kill my last egg layer, a beautiful, sweet chicken I had dubbed "Soledad," after her five sisters met their own bloody end at the jaws of Mitzi.

In the dim light of dawn, I took the machete and aimed it toward the scrawny neck of the trembling bird and took a whack. "Oh, God!" Oh, no!" The chicken flapped and scrabbled about until Mary Mary took a shovel and pinned it to the concrete porch floor. I took a few more whacks until I was sure the head was clearly separated from the mutilated body, and my sister held down the flopping hen until it stilled. The deed done, Mary Mary brought buckets of water to rinse away the evidence of our Christmas morning execution.

Soledad had flown the coop, as they say. The coop door was still latched, and no one is to blame, except maybe Santa, who somehow missed my chimney-less roof. Today, we head to Managua for Christmas dinner with my poet friend Ivan and his family. We'll stay the night, and then tomorrow, MM heads back to Pennsylvania to bring in the new year.

I guess I really do need more chickens like a hole in the head. Rock on, 2018.

And Then There Were, Well, Hardly Any

Shortly after posting my last blog entry, I took a nap one day during the afternoon . When I awoke, I headed outside to refill the various water bowls for dogs and chickens, as is my usual wont. At first, I did not notice the unnatural quiet. No bird calls, no squawking from the egg nest, no barking... I stopped and stared at the lawn, over which were strewn bits of brown fluffy bits I recognized after a few moments as chicken feathers. I looked toward the hen house and saw, to my horror, that the door was open. It was empty, except for the closed off portion where the little black hen and her sole remaining peep were housed, along with the two pullets left from the original eight. My beloved layers were nowhere in sight, save for small clumps of feathers here and there.

On closer inspection, those clumps turned out to be whole wings, tatters of feathered skin, feet... chicken parts everywhere. I looked at Mitzi, whose bloodstained jowls told the story. Brynn, the corgi, had napped with me, and Susie had never bothered loose chickens before. My heart broke for my dismembered hens. I was doubtless to blame for carelessly leaving the coop improperly latched, but I was also furious with Mitzi, whose grim efficiency in dispatching the chickens raised no obvious hue and cry to disturb my sleep.

I walked over the yard, numbly collecting leftover chicken parts, and chanced upon a lone survivor cowering in some shrubbery. She seemed almost grateful to be picked up and stroked as I walked her back to the chicken coop. Mitzi's pricked ears and eager stance signaled her willingness to finish the job, and I wondered if I could ever feel the same affection for her again. The brute had destroyed my lovely chickens, no matter that I had bought her to be just that, a brute to ensure my security.

Later, I reflected that the people who had bred Mitzi are in the chicken business, and they regularly feed their dogs the raw carcasses left after butchering the chickens for sale to restaurants. Of course  Mitzi saw my hens as meals, and when they strolled through the open door, she just picked them off.

Lonesome Soledad

This morning, one of the two remaining pullets was dead. I saw no signs of violence. I must be becoming inured to this constant death. My lone layer, now called Soledad, keeps laying and scratching and clucking as if all is well, and who knows if the scrawny pullet or the little hen and peep will survive. I have forgiven Mitzi for being herself. She really is growing into a beautiful Shepherd.

Mitzi , at seven months, is now the largest of the trio, shown here sitting politely for treats in the kitchen.

Some people who rescue abused animals stopped by today to ask if I minded boarding an unfortunate horse in the land surrounding my fenced garden. I said it was not my property, but if the landlord did not mind, I did not either. They showed me a picture of a skinny, pathetic white horse, and I expect they'll be bring him by any time now. I hope he doesn't keel over, too.

Miracle Metal?

Clearly, though the chicken coop could keep the chickens in, it could not keep the predators out. The word “zorro” seems to comprise any number of smallish predators, like foxes, skunks, lizards. If you lose a chicken, the word is dolefully murmured by all who hear about it. So whatever my zorro is, it apparently is not deterred by the mere appearance of a secure fence.

Here in Nicaragua, as in many tropical underdeveloped countries, corrugated metal is the primary construction material for many projects. And there is always plenty of rusty scrap metal around. Most of the scrap used to be roofing, but a rusty hole here and there requires replacement with new, and the original panels live on in other useful incarnations. It ain’t pretty, but that has never deterred a soul from using it to create an outhouse or outdoor shower, a dog house, or a water pump housing,

such as this, installed in my yard after a storm knocked out the pump’s motor. Jonathan built it entirely from scavenged materials. Can you believe it?

After the aforementioned massacre of half my new octet of half-grown peeps, Jonathan not only found me a little hen with three pollitos,

She's smaller than a football, and her comb is black! Mighty Mo and her babies.

but also went to work yesterday morning to try and varmint-proof the chicken coop.  As you can see, corrugated metal that used to be part of my roof has been stylishly refashioned to block any and all access points, save for the hinged door.

Jonathan thinks he has succeeded, and this morning, although all peeps were present and accounted for, the drama continued. It seems Mo, the mother hen (her peeps are Eeny, Meeny, and Miney),  is a total bully to the larger peeps, and they had to shelter in a hole in the hay, with no access to food and water. Now, Mo and her brood are in the dog carrier, awaiting a solution when Jonathan returns on Monday. I hope we have enough scrap metal on hand...

The Massacre survivors huddling in the corner.

You may also conclude that this scrap metal bears much responsibility for the shabbiness and makeshift appearance of so many barrios on the edges of towns and cities. Building codes are a luxury few can afford—that goes for curb appeal as well. I have a can of brown paint I’m going to open to try and disguise the rusty discoloration that now graces the chickens’ quarters. It will do little more than make it a bit less ugly, and if I didn’t love my chickens so much, I’d be tempted to chuck the whole thing. For now, I’ll have fingers and toes crossed that tonight, that old zorro—whatever it is—has met its match.

P.S. Tue. morning
Mo and brood are still in dog box; discovered two more dead peeps in the coop this morning. They were not torn up or mangled, but there had clearly been a violent scuffle. What is doing this? A snake? Rats? And are either of the last two survivors even female?

I cannot pour endless money into this hapless enterprise. Plus, last week, one of my cherished six layers got out of the coop (mea culpa) and was killed by Mitzi while I was asleep in the afternoon. A learning moment for both Mitzi and me, but this steady drumbeat of death is exhausting and utterly depressing. Johnathan could build a wood and mesh impervious container in which to raise peeps to adulthood, but that is another $100 or more. My eggs already cost about $1 apiece!

Well, I wouldn't bet a dime on the chance the remaining peeps will reach adulthood.

Friday Night Massacre

Nothing like a loaded word like "massacre" to overstate the latest life and death incident at Chez Gringa. And yes, of course it involves chickens.

When my sextet of egg-layers showed signs of diminishing production, I bought some peeps at the veterinary store and turned them over to Maria José's 10-yr.-old son Alfonzo to raise until they fledged. The eight peeps turned out to be six hens and two roosters, and this past Friday, MJ and Jonathan brought the youngsters to their new home in Juanita's former digs in the chicken coop. Juanita, I am sorry to say, went to her eternal reward, thanks to a fox or other varmint who beheaded her about a month ago. The chicks were nicely fledged, and as motley as is normal here in Nica. The largest was black and white-striped, mainly Plymouth Rock, I imagine. Three were whitish, and the others were brownish and orangish and black. Mutts all.

I planned to take some photos of my eight new arrivals on Saturday, but when I went out to the coop, I found only four chicks. Some predator had made off with the other four, squeezing under the fencing, no doubt. Just like that. Half the flock gone. That evening, I moved the dog carrier into the coop and locked up the survivors until morning, and now they seem no worse for the trauma of Friday night. Here dey is:

As luck would have it, all four victims were hens, which nets me two out of eight for my massive

investment. I must go to Niquinohomo to buy some pullets, as I did when I bought my current layers.

Hurricane Nate blew down the chayotera -- a framework for supporting chayote vines that yield that green pear-shaped soup vegetable that is ubiquitous in Central America. Roger and his machete went to work over the weekend and now I have a nice new trellis. New plantings come in tomorrow, and with luck, in six months it will be a leafy bower.

Mitzi, at six months, is almost full-sized. She is a leggy tween, gallumphing all over de place, full of life and perpetually hungry, and now, the biggest dog on campus.

Can You Spare a Cordoba?*

The summer has given way to autumn without a cessation in the utter sloth that has been my guiding principle for nearly four months. There remain many topics to be addressed in these pages after more than two years in my adopted country. Yet, my days seem to drift by in such beguiling tranquility that I feel no compelling reason to go out, save for the usual food shopping and my twice-weekly visits to the Academic Support Center at Keiser U. nearby. My steady diet of (mainly) English literature has had George Eliot, Thomas Hardy, Graham Greene, and Richard Aldington on the recent menu.

*****

I am moved today to write a line or two about begging. I do not see a lot of it on my forays into Diriamba and Jinotepe, or even Managua. No more, surely, than one encounters on an average street in any North American city,  This is a country with incredible poverty, though, where even able-bodied people can find it impossible to obtain jobs that pay more than subsistence wages. Most of the individuals I see with an upturned palm are blind or missing limbs, or elderly and infirm. There are zero jobs for them; how else may they keep body and soul together?

During my first year here, I made several visits to the Department of Immigration in Managua. It's a big space, with numerous numbered windows to serve people wanting exit visas, emigres like me who want residential status, and visitors who want temporary visas. There are sometimes long lines, and there are a couple of people who work the lines of standees, looking for donations. One is a very old tiny toothless lady, to whom I regularly gave something. My lawyer, who usually accompanied me to Inmigración, conjectured that she might be comfortably well-off, as numerous persons cross her palm with folding money. I doubt it, but I don't mind the thought that she may do pretty well, in fact.

There are a couple of legless men in Diriamba who sit in particular doorways, with cups in hand. They do not beg, per se, there is no murmured verbiage or longing looks. Their obvious disabilities speak for them, and they do all right, I think. In this land of people who must juggle expenses and regularly do without, I have been impressed with the number who give what they can to these disabled neighbors. Spend a minute or two on the opposite corner, and you'll see nearly every passerby drop a coin or two.

There's an elderly woman who regularly stations herself at the door of the supermarket in Diriamba. She has no cup, and does not actually ask for money, but it is clear that she is needy. I always give her something, quickly, unnoticeably. She is my sister, I think. I'm the lucky one. There but for my pension and Social Security go I. And this kind of basic need is not grounds for social shunning. It happens to all kinds of people, and if there is no safety net, reasonable people must try to offer support.

I have traveled abroad and been warned about responding to beggars on the steps of some big church or at a famous attraction where tourists congregate. Throngs of beggars are unnerving and scary, really, and I can understand why we're advised not to encourage them. But somehow, when I see the quiet, rather reserved behavior of unfortunate individuals for whom there is no alternative but to accept assistance, I want to be on the side of being helpful. I actually budget for it.

In Nicaragua, I have learned that over-paying (i.e. giving a bicicleta driver 20 cordobas rather than the 10 he asked) is both smug and insulting. But I also understand that even little donations, offered with respect and simple human caring, can be the difference between sleeping well or hungry.

* At present, the cordoba is worth about three cents.

My Current Crush

The immortal Samuel Johnson has enjoyed perhaps the most robust afterlife of any other human being in history, thanks to the labors of his great friend and biographer James Boswell. I daresay most educated people know some of Johnson's oft-quoted witticisms, perhaps without knowing whom to credit. 

"Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel." 

"I never desire to converse with a man who has written more than he has read."

Or one of my favorites:

"The true measure of a man is how he treats someone 

who can do him absolutely no good."

We are indebted to Mr. Boswell not only for carefully recording so much of Johnson's wit and wisdom, but also for preserving the character and substance of the great man himself, his essence. And one need only peruse a few pages of Johnson's Dictionary of the English Language to grasp the vastness of his prodigious reading history.

My present absorption with Sam Johnson is that after nearly more than five decades of somewhat cobwebby awareness of Boswell's masterwork, I am actually reading the thing that has been called the great-granddaddy of all biographies, certainly the standard-setter for the genre for the past 225 years.  I do not know why it has taken me so long. I actually bought my copy some years ago, and I expect the small print and the gravity of its pedigree, in both subject and author, were intimidating.

It needn't have put me off. The book is a complete delight, interlacing the events of Johnson's storied career as an essayist, literary critic, lexicographer, and raconteur with verbatim accounts of conversations with the great man. The narrative is so delicious and compelling that I feel almost like an intimate of Johnson, along with Boswell and other members of the literary club that generated so much of the book's wit. It is a rare delight, to be carried along in the company of great minds, as I was also when reading Goethe's Italian Journey.

The descriptions and observations of Johnson by Boswell recreate a lively personage; I note that in film and BBC productions, Johnson has been played by Robbie Coltrane (Hagrid in Harry Potter films) and Peter Ustinov. I would cast Timothy Spall, another of the great, unpretty British character actors who fill the screen with the force of personality. And I have been further delighted to learn that Sam Johnson and I have much in common! We both have only one usable eye, are prone to melancholy (depression, in today's parlance), dress appallingly, cannot suffer fools, and read widely, guided only by the moment's appetite. Indeed, Johnson said that if one reads by design or plan, for the purpose of gaining specific knowledge, as we do in college, for example, we read with only 50% of our minds, as the other 50% is busy keeping us to the task at hand.  Clearly, Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson is a book to engage 100% of one's attention. Why did I wait so long?

Sacuanjoche Update

My query regarding the mysterious appendages my little sacuanjoche treeling was sporting last month has been satisfied at last. No, the twigs were not evidence of a branching out of the original single stem, although that, in fact, has happened, as several new junctures have occurred just below the twigs in question. The pictorial below attests:

A brand new sacuanjoche, the national flower of Nicaragua!

More Bits and Bobs

A Case of The Blahs
Soon, classes at Keiser University Latin American Campus will resume, and my twice-weekly tutoring schedule with them. The past two months since my vacation have seemed hermitic (Is there such a word? Hermitically sealed?). I have spent most of my time alone, in the company of my little Greek chorus, the three doggies who follow me inside and out, constantly craving attention and treats. Of course, Maria José and her brother Roger have come to do their work in the house and garden, and I make my usual rounds to pay bills and buy groceries, but I have felt zero inclination to see anyone or do anything in particular. Likewise, my energy level has been quite low. On humid mornings, I feel incapable of walking even a quarter-mile. Napping is my favorite activity, and I wonder if I shall ever feel like doing anything ever again.

I'm chalking it up to rainy season malaise. When the humidity drops, I'll perk up.

Walking in Nicaragua
When I was a little girl, my eyes were not straight. I have always used only one eye, as the other sees a different angle, and using both would result in a double image. Surgeries and eye patches helped straighten out my appearance to some degree, but because my classmates at Our Mother of Sorrows school in Johnstown were so cruel (especially the son of my eye doctor!), I always walked home looking down at my feet, so as not to invite comment.

I got over it; further surgery in adulthood helped. Lately, though, I have reverted to that earlier form. Here in Nicaragua, I dare not step unmindfully, or I risk ending up prone and bruised. Most sidewalks, when there are sidewalks, are narrower than we have in the States, and have lozenge-shaped access holes for water pipes below. Some of the holes still have cement lids, but many do not, and some have crumbled to twice their original size. It's a perilous path indeed.

Not only that, but everywhere, there are lingering stubs of metal sign posts that have been mostly removed, save for two or three inches of steel sticking up in the middle of the road or sidewalk. Twice, after descending from a bus in Jinotepe, I tripped and tore open my knee in the exact same place because of a metal obstacle embedded in the concrete. When I finally saw what had tripped me up, I simply could not believe it had been left in place. But I have since seen many such examples.

Owners of stores and houses often pave the sidewalk in front of their buildings with distinctive tiles and mosaics, some very slippery when wet. Woe to anyone who goes striding down the walkway unaware that the hausfrau has just emptied a bucket onto her front stoop!

The colors and flowers and displays of fruits and vegetables do tempt the eye, but far better to stop and look around, and then continue on, eyes downward.

Salvation in Reading
Anent my above observation that I have become a hermit, I must add that the two to four books I read every two weeks afford me a rich and varied life of the mind. For the past year, I have been working my way through the English and American Literature shelves of Keiser University's library. My tastes run to 18th and 19th-c. English lit, but I also enjoy Homer, Dante, Euripedes, and Virgil. Also more contemporary efforts, from Elena Ferrante to Abraham Verghese (just finished "Cutting for Stone" - wonderful!).

When my mother was in her last years, I discovered the novels of Anthony Trollope, who chronicled Victorian England in his many tales of middle-class and better-off people of trades, professions and the aristocracy. His comic yarns of pompous clerics and scalawag barristers, and romances with long-suffering devoted daughters and feckless lotharios are charming, absorbing, amusing, and often heartbreaking. My mother relished Trollope's novels, devouring them as fast as I could order them. She was in the grip of dementia, with impaired short-term memory, but as long as she was reading, she was free of the limits of age and ill health. She may not have recalled the characters and plots for long, but while she was in the moment, reading and enjoying Trollope's lively tales, she was 100% herself, wholly engaged.

Growth Factors

The explosion of life that accompanies the rainy season continues to astonish my temperate-zone psyche. True, my so-called veggie garden is now a mass of weeds and vines, and Roger has had to cut back the "lawn" to a virtual sea of mud (which is rebounding rapidly), but also notable are a couple of species that were added to my landscape about eight months ago. These both involved planting a fresh cutting -- no roots-- into a hole in the ground, and nurturing with near daily watering throughout the dry months. The sacuanjoche, or plumeria tree, which is the national flower of Nicaragua, was a foot-long stem with five leaves, all of which fell off and were replaced by five more. Here's what it looks like now having added about five inches of additional height, and many more leaves in the past two months:

And in its center, several new spikes, which may be flower buds or growth twigs for adding new branches to the original stem. Will update as needed down the road.

The other planting involved several cuttings of a variety of bird of paradise flower, which, again, we just stuck into the ground and watered frequently. The cuttings barely survived the dry season, but as soon as the rains saturated the earth, they began to flourish, growing large, glossy leaves, and then producing these:

Just after I returned from the States a month ago, I acquired a pure German shepherd puppy named Mitzi. She's an East German variety of shepherd that has darker fur, including a nice black stripe down her back, and a black face, with black markings on her feet and tail. She is growing at a good clip, too, and is fitting in well with Brynn and Susie. Here she is just after arriving, and then earlier today:

Mitzi looks forlorn, but she is actually very lively and sweet. She is bold and assertive, as hoped for, and will doubtless prove an effective deterrent to intruders.

A Visitation

My six brown hens are champion egg producers. Daily, four to six eggs appear in the common nest, far too many for me alone, so Maria José takes a dozen or so each week for her family. A few months ago, her husband Jonathan presented me with a black pullet I may have mentioned a few posts ago. When I put her into the coop, the other birds immediately signaled their displeasure by pecking her mercilessly. I quickly removed the newbie, dubbed Juana, to a separate part of the coop where she has grown into a very nice black hen, with gold feathers beneath the black which, despite her big feet, lend her a touch of glamour.

Lately, I have worried that her solitude and limited quarters have offered her little beyond shelter and food. Not much of a life, really. But I'm afraid she'll not survive long if she joins the beldams on the other side of the cyclone fence.

Two days ago, I noticed a visitor sitting atop the chicken coop. A white dove—Una Paloma Blanca!— had joined the ranks of the various grackles and sparrows who daily raid the coop chicken feed. Doves normally return to their home turf, so I was surprised to find the bird the next morning, inside Juana's quarters! He (I have decided the dove is a "he") did not freak out when I put in new feed and water for Juana, and he tucked in for a good meal shortly thereafter.

I have named the dove "Casper," (the friendly Holy Ghost) and he is still with us, blithely perched in the coop, seeming not to mind the dogs or me. I wonder if Juana likes having a live-in suitor.

The gang's all here!

Might be love...

Post Scriptum - 2 September 2017

Casper stayed with us nearly six weeks, until a pair of grackles harried him into fleeing for the trees. He lingered for another two days last week, and eventually was seen no more. Perhaps he'll visit again when he has a yen for chicken feed.

La Gringa Loca

Having reached an age when I no longer care very much what people think of me in a positive or negative way, I do sometimes wonder how I am regarded by my Nicaraguan neighbors. I am the only Norteamericana around, to my knowledge. Certainly I am the only gringa on the bus most times. But this morning, something happened that may have cemented my reputation forever.

I rose early. determined to put in a brisk walk before the day's heat set in. Brynn is my regular walking companion, and we started out in fine fettle, greeting folks at the nearby bus stop, when suddenly the leash came undone and Brynn took off on the highway. Well, I just snapped. Visions of her being run down have always plagued me, living here on the famed PanAmerican Highway as we do. And now, I ran, yelling her name and trying to slow traffic, gesticulating wildly. She gaily zipped along, me running behind, gasping for air, calling her name, and, I admit, sobbing in terror of her imminent death.

A family of four ran up from the bus stop, and the one young man took off after Brynn into a bean field. She ran faster, into a woods beyond. A car stopped, and the driver, another young guy, got out and joined the chase. Then, a motorcyclist stopped and after a minute, crossed the bean field, too, and disappeared into the woods. The rest of the family marched through the field, save for a daughter, Carla, who waited with me. Eventually, I heard faraway yelps of fear and panic from Brynn, plainly unhappy to be caught, and in a few minutes, the whole group emerged from the trees and crossed back over the bean field.

I was pathetically glad to have my dog back, safe and sound. I begged the man who carried her—and suffered a small bite on his arm for his trouble—to let me give him something for his efforts, but he wasn't having it. All these people who had joined the fray to save my dog, who is ridiculously important to me, simply smiled and left at the happy conclusion of this sudden drama.

Am I now the gringa loca, who is crazy about her dog? Who bursts into tears when her dog runs away? People hereabouts love their pets, but cannot lavish treats and care on them, as I and other Norteamericanos do. I wonder if the exigencies of poverty render devotion to a pet, such as I have for Brynn, absurd, or at least unseemly. Today, in any case, I saw much evidence of basic and immediate empathy for a fellow human, and her runaway pet. And I am most humbly grateful,

A Peripatetic Pastiche

A few months ago, my siblings and I planned a several days' stay on Lake Ontario at brother Bob's home there, for fishing on his boat, eating, drinking and having fun being together. I locked in air travel to be in the States and Canada for ten days total, hoping to fit in a quick visit with my son and a few days at the family farm in Pennsylvania. Those best-laid plans were flooded out as Lake Ontario rose rather devastatingly, so my trip took a different route.

My sister Mary Mary met me in Philadelphia, and the next day, we set out for Boston for a two-night stay. Gabriel was finishing out his final weeks at two elementary schools in the Lynn School District, teaching music and putting school concerts together for the end of term. We lunched at famed Durgin Park, where my mother loved to go when she taught music in Boston after college. The "Tall Ships" were visiting Boston Harbor that weekend, but the security check lines were so long that we settled for a glimpse of the riggings and masts from Quincy Market. We opted instead for a stroll down to a green space where a public art installation featured two wooden buildings half submerged in the earth. "Meeting House" modeled an historic Quaker building (I think it was Quaker) and a smaller one  symbolized the decay of something or another. A number of fashion models and camera-people were draping themselves over the houses, despite signs requesting they should not.

By some Facebook miracle, I had a two-minute reunion with dear old friend Bruce Genero, from college theatre days. He is still handsome and charming, and publishing his first novel! So sweet a moment, but too brief...



Gabriel treated us to Chinese that evening, and next morning (Sunday), we set out early for New York City, where we met brother Bob at a new hotel just at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge with a great view of lower Manhattan. The 1 Hotel is all iron and wood -- industrial chic -- and incredibly stylish. We enjoyed rooftop drinks later that evening with our niece Maggie Rose, who lives just across the river in Jersey.  What a view!

We spent the afternoon in the F.L. Wright-designed Guggenheim Museum, admiring Kandinskys, Magrittes, Mondrians, and Calders. A great venue for people-watching, too!

The next day, we lunched nearby with a much-loved old pal of mine I had not seen since at least 1980. Jodie Lynne McClintock was a gifted aspiring actress I was lucky enough to work with in the late-1970s in Pittsburgh's lively experimental theater scene. She sought her fortune in NYC where she made it to Broadway (O'Neill's Long Day's Journey... with Jack Lemmon!) as well as many other Off-Broadway and other theaters, TV shows (Law & Order, Louie, 30 Rock) and film, notably United 93. How the years just melted away as we recalled a period when we were roommates, plays we'd done. Jodie is as lovely as ever, and now enjoys an additional fine reputation as an acting coach. A beautiful friend!

It was terrific to see Bobby, who travels the country for GM Financial, and managed to squeeze us into his busy schedule!

Our trip concluded with a couple of days at the Beatty farm near Johnstown, PA with Jack and Dick, with a side trip to our sister Anne's new home in Greensburg, where her husband Rudy cooked a good lunch. I have no pictures of the beautiful farm or Anne's cool pool. Here's farmer Jack, outstanding in his field:

My sister Mary Mary is the dearest person I know, and put 2200 miles on her SUV ferrying us around several states. She and her Great Dane Sophie made me very welcome, bought luscious sushi, salmon, and goodies I cannot enjoy in Nicaragua, and I am so grateful for her love and care. How lucky am I to have such a warm and wonderful family?

Sometimes, Bureaucracy IS Chicken Feed

Although it has been tempting to tackle the subject of Nicaraguan bureaucracy, I have thus far limited my comments to the paper chase that is the residency process. It often seemed as if each step in that convoluted path generated double or more additional requirements, each with its accompanying paper to be signed, notarized, or apostille'd, in triplicate. I exaggerate but slightly.

The fascination for documentation extends to hardware and chicken feed, among various commodities. Actually, it is appropriate to create a good paper trail for building materials that must correspond with exact measurements or dimensions. Chicken feed, not so much.

Happily, my property lies side by side with the farm of Mr. Vonn. You may recall that I bought hay and a slaughtered lamb from Mr. Vonn's place last fall. (It is unclear if there is an actual Mr. Vonn.) The farm entry road is surmounted by a large "V" mounted on a cross bar, and opposite is a small community called "Mr. Vonn," where I visited a small health clinic last year. And about 200 yards down the highway is San Francisco Industries, another company operated by Mr. Vonn, which manufactures and sells dog, chicken, and other agricultural feeds.

When I need to buy a 100-pound sack of chicken meal, I hire a bicicleta—a human-powered conveyance—to take me to Mr. Vonn's farm office where I visit a spartan office with two windows. At the left, I order my chicken feed and receive a purchase order which I then present at the right window—the caja—for payment. (Caja means "box" in Spanish, but it also can mean "pay station." Banks, hospitals, restaurants, and stores have cajas where you pay your bills.) I am given a receipt to add to my purchase order, and I then travel via my bicicleta down the highway to San Francisco Industries. I show my P.O. and receipt to pass through security, and head up to the large warehouse, where I again present my documents. The gentleman at this caja asks my name, and then asks me to sign another form documenting my purchase. He saves a copy for himself, and gives me its mate, and another guy loads the sack of feed onto the bicicleta. As we pedal back toward the entrance, the security guard takes the latter form, and copies its information onto his clipboard. Then, he asks me to sign his paper, staples all my paperwork together, and gives it back to me.

In hindsight, it makes sense for purchases of large quantities of feed to be well-documented, to avoid having a dozen or so sacks "fall off the truck," as it were, and have thorough accountability for deliveries and drivers. I am very small potatoes in this scenario, but my single sack has just as much paperwork as the big guys.

My Great Good Friend!

My oldest friends in Nicaragua are Ivan Uriarte and his wife Erlinda. Ivan had earned his Ph.D. at the University of Pittsburgh, and when I made my first trip to Nica in 1987, I visited his home in Managua to deliver some books from a Pittsburgh friend. They generously provided me with a home base for my subsequent sports project over the next six years, and their friendship has given me a real anchor here since my arrival in 2015. Ivan has supplied me with many books, and I greatly enjoy discussing literature with him. He is wickedly funny, often flamboyant, and deliciously salty, flinging about four-letter epithets with incredible gusto. He is also a bit of a national treasure.

Yesterday, at the National Theater in Managua, I and Ivan's family and many of his friends and colleagues gathered to celebrate as he accepted the 2016 Premio International Rubén Darío, a distinguished award in poetry.

With friend Carlo.

Ivan and Erlinda, left.

A number of poets from other countries were present, including Rosina Valcárcel of Peru. A glamorous cultural representative from the Honduran embassy sat beside me. It was all very international and celebratory, and everyone had many wonderful things to say about Ivan and his long career as a poet and scholar. I felt very proud of my dear friend, and was very pleased to witness his triumph!

Meanwhile, back in Carazo, the rainy season has brought along a flood of insects. It is impossible to relax in the hammock with all the flies and mosquitoes. Happily, not all the bichitos are little bloodsuckers. This katydid-like visitor is about three inches in length, and has a super-loud sustained call at night. Gorgeous color! Locally, it is called "Esperanza," (hope) and is a good omen!