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!

Bits and Bobs

My next door neighbor, Fatima, has a beautiful house and an enormous garden full of pineapples, cashews, plantains, bananas, papayas, mangoes, avocados -- you name it. She is rather well-to-do, and her husband has a California company which keeps him in the States half the time. A trio of large German Shepherds guard the place and are very fierce indeed, until a word from Fatima, and then they become positively adorable.

I have posited once or twice that I would feel safer with a pastor aleman at the ready, and to my surprise, Maria José turned up with a "mainly" German Shepherd puppy in tow, a skinny thing, with beautiful markings and a mutt face. She asked if I would want to buy her, and I said I would have to think about it. The pup stayed for the weekend, eating up everything in sight and driving Brynn and Susie crazy. I decided I would pass on the dog. It was not the cost - 500 cordobas, of about $17 -- but its dubious breeding. Would it be an impressive, bold guardian when it reached maturity, or just another small-headed long-legged Nica mutt?

Alas, my empleada's crestfallen look when I informed her of my decision told the tale. She had already paid for the dog, and could not return her to the original owner. Nor could she afford to keep her. I told her that I did not want the added commitment of a third dog, but that the puppy could remain here for the time being. I know what this really means. And yes, she now has a name - Juno -- in tribute to Gabriel's first dog who perished under the wheels of my dad's truck. I'll have a chat with MJ about ever again spending her own money on anything for me that she has not discussed with me beforehand.

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I have voiced my admiration for Maria José numerous times in these pages. She is truly such a capable, hard-working young woman, and her husband has proven himself to be a valuable asset as well -- fixing fans, mending the roof, building the chicken coop. They are both so industrious in their efforts to earn a few pesos here and there. They never complain of their poverty, and it is easy to forget how tough it really is to make ends meet. It also makes for awkward moments, as when Maria José cleans out the refrigerator and asks if she can have the slightly moldy tomatoes or the limp celery. Or when she goes through my waste can and pulls out the empty mustard jar and asks if she may have it. She makes chili vinegar with chilis, onions, and carrots and can sell a jar for 10 cordobas. I am learning not to throw away as thoughtlessly as a lifetime in the States taught me to do.

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I buy hueso rojo - red bones -- which are sawn up chunks of beef ribs, vertebrae, and so forth, with some meat still attached --to give to the dogs. It costs about 60 cents a pound, and I buy about 15 pounds every two weeks. The thing is-- hueso rojo is normally purchased to make beef broth for soup, for people, and I buy it for my dogs. The discomfort may be mine alone, and I'm not likely to deny my dogs their treat, but I confess I do feel it.

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You may recall that just before Christmas, I replaced my gardener, who had gotten a job in Managua and had too little time available to do the heavy yard work. This, just after he and his wife had had their first baby. I felt rotten about discharging him, but I really needed a functioning gardener. Well, Byron and Brenda turned up unexpectedly for a visit the other night, with baby Evan Yair. It was so very nice to see them, and catch up. Which took about 30 seconds. Yair is five months old, Byron is still working in Managua, and, well, that's it. They are sweet, and so happy with their baby. I hope Byron can get a phone soon, so he can keep in touch. I'd like to buy some baby things for them. I remember Brenda coming by when she was pregnant, wearing a shirt that was popping its buttons -- clearly not maternity wear. I gave her a couple of my shirts, too big for her, but fine for pregnancy.

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My present gardener, Roger, cut some fence posts to support a fence to keep the dogs out of the veggie garden. These posts were parts of trees, and incredibly, almost immediately sprouted leaves and branches. I am so taken with their determination to survive being cut and de-twigged that I now water the posts to encourage their clear mission to remain growing trees!

Last year, Byron gave me an orchid, unblooming at the time. We attached it to a tree, and all through the dry season, I spritzed it nearly every day. I was afraid it would not survive, but it has surprised me with blooms this week. Welcome May!