The Showers of April

Nine months ago, when I first contacted the Center for Academic Excellence at
Keiser University's Latin American Campus in nearby San Marcos, I hoped that I could spend a few volunteer hours weekly being helpful to students in some fashion. There have been some days when I amused myself online in the absence of students needing help, and there have been other days spent proofing pages for the campus website. But truly, the best days are spent one on one with students, preparing for American history tests and/or refining term papers for English composition courses.

Anyone who has tried to master speaking a second language knows the pitfalls of also learning to write in that language. Speaking and writing are so very different. A casual conversation or even a proper speech in front of an audience is very forgiving of grammatical errors. One's personality is integral in live conversation, with facial expressions, gestures, pauses, and breaths taken for emphasis or by necessity. Written word is less forgiving, and less personal. Punctuation truly matters, as does grammatical usage to yield clarity, with no facial expressions or dramatic pauses to underscore meaning. In a second language, it may be necessary to toss out the rules for writing in the first, and adapt one's mindset to a wholly alien verbal logic.

My students exhibit such struggles to differentiate English usage and word order from Spanish. In the latter, a month is always preceded by an article, as in "Lloviznas del Abril traen flores del Mayo." Literally, "Showers of the April bring flowers of the May." Using "April" and "May" as adjectives does not come naturally. There are innumerable examples of linguistic roadblocks much more complex than this simple case, in every language. German word order, for example, was a revelation to me as it explained some of the "Pennsylvania Dutch" jokes I'd heard all my life ("Throw grandpa out the windows the keys!").

My point is, I am frankly in awe of these students who bravely forge ahead in their efforts to comprehend and utilize the sometimes incomprehensible rules and foibles of written English. My own feeble attempts to write in Spanish are always accompanied by apologies for their paucity of correct usage. As a retired North American with little need for approval, I can get away with it. These young students who hope to further their studies in the U.S. or do business with U.S. and global concerns must pass muster at every level. They are bold and persistent, floundering sometimes, but keeping at it with tenacity and good humor. Bravo, I say. You are amazing.

Love Story

Love is in the air, or rather, the lengthy sustained singing of cicadas here in the hills of southwestern Nicaragua. This species makes a sound like tinnitus, a nearly electric tone about two octaves above middle C, lasting 15-20 seconds, followed by a sort of chuckle or clucking sound. It starts at dusk, and continues until dark, about a half-hour later. Not much time to attract the ladies, but this evening, I actually caught a male cicada in the act of performing in one of the tecca trees in the garden. The photos are not ideal, but just look what I saw!

There he is, upper right.

A flash photo shows markings which suggest he is a Spotted Cicada.

A bit blurry -- I was about to leave, when a second arrived...

And lo, they made sweet, sweet love right then and there!

And now we know the birds and bees have nothing over cicadas!

Behind Walls, a Wonderland!

This past Saturday. at my friend Erlinda's invitation, I accompanied her to Quinta Gloria, just east of San Marcos, near my home. The "Gloria" of the B&B's name was a classmate of Erlinda's when they attended a residential girl's school at the site of present-day Keiser University, just up the road. The school had been in the name of the wife of the dictator Anastasio Somosa, and Erlinda's class will observe their 50th graduation anniversary next January. They hold monthly lunches to raise money for the reunion, and Gloria, who now lives in Managua, graciously opened her childhood home on this occasion.

Pheasant

Behind the walls that surround the property, there is much to delight and beguile a visitor, beginning with a number of large avian enclosures which house hundreds of quail (Gloria served quail eggs as an appetizer), oriental pheasants, exotic chickens, and pigeons. Peacocks strut to and fro all around the grounds, amid decorative plantings of ferns, tropical trees, flowers, and vines. Fountains burble, pheasants call, pigeons coo, quail shriek (who knew?) and the peacocks cry.

Pigeon house

Teeny weenie...

Behind the plumes is a hard-working tail, keeping up the act!

Many whimsical touches: fish, owl, brahma bull overlooking the patio, horse head...

Sitting nook

And always a Virgin...

Inside the house (sorry, no pictures) are heavy carved wooden furniture, paintings, a beautiful collection of old rocking horses, and plenty of interesting curios in every corner. Quinta Gloria is magical, a wonderland behind its stone walls.

Chasing Sleep and Recalling a Son's Visit

So far, my insomnia nightmare has shown at least one hopeful sign – a combination of two drugs seems to have produced three nights of restless sleep. I say ”restless” because I am feeling little benefit as yet. My brain is foggy, my body feels tired and achy, and my sense of general unsteadiness is unnerving and, well, tiresome. This is no way to live.

It took me more than ten minutes to write that first paragraph.

I wanted to share a few pictures that resulted from my son’s recent visit, and they have finally arrived in my email. Gabriel’s a busy teacher, or, at least, I buy that excuse. One in particular had me stymied for a second, and then I realized it was a view of Managua’s fairly new cathedral, which I had seen from a distance and wondered about what looked like breasts popping up from its roof.

See what I mean? The cathedral features ugly colors in its interior, and is rather stark and unappealing in general. It’s like something out of the old Soviet Union, devoid of romance and beauty.

One evening at home, the dogs were chasing a bug on the floor, and I went to remove the offender, only to find it was a tiny (baby?) lizard, about 1.5 inches. Gabe got this shot of the little guy against the wall. I escorted the lizard outside to safety.

We went to Catarina to shop, and had lunch overlooking the Laguna Apoyo, a crater lake. This photo faces south, to Granada and huge Lake Nicaragua beyond.

At Volcan Masaya. Look closely to see lava in the crater...

This morning, Maria José’s husband Jonathan came with her to try and repair one of my electric fans. While he was here, he cut down a coconut to give me a glass of coco water. He broke open the coconut to feed to my chickens, and Susie grabbed a sizeable chunk and went to town extracting the meat. Who knew dogs would love this? Brynn finished it off when Susie had had her fill.

There. This only took me about two hours. Hurry sundown.

De Profundis

Excepting you, who has the fortitude and loyalty to be reading this drivel, the nonexistent readership can kiss my gringa ass. I haven't been writing this blog for its reader(s?) so much as for myself. It is a method of processing life, largely confined to events and circumstances. I see now that I have neglected a chunk of my story that has bedeviled my inner peace for over half a century. I regard my depression less as mental illness than as a glitch in brain chemistry. After all, I have succeeded at least 90% of the time in having a fairly interesting and challenging life, raising a reasonably wonderful son, and have succeeded sometimes in ferreting out opportunities to have a good effect on the lives around me.

So, to answer my rhetorical query of the last post, I suppose the "point" is living.

Living lately has been in a trough of misaligned brain chemistry. It is like a parade of utterly sleepless nights, watching the digits change on my bedside clock, tossing about and screaming "I NEED SLEEP!" Daytime hours drag on, punctuated by absurd crying jags, hoping for death - the ultimate cure - and teetering about in slow motion, feeding my chickens, washing clothes, paying bills. Weeping. Feeling an absolute fraud.

Everything I wanted for my post-US life is here. I love my little house and its large garden, I love my routine and my hours at the university, I ride the bus system like a pro and daily discover new things to enjoy about my adopted country. True, I have few real friends, but that has ever been my story. Many friendly acquaintances, my adored dogs, my gang of gallinas in the chicken coop. All is well, except that I cannot seem to climb out of this morass on my own.

I hit bottom the other night and contacted my lawyer. He must have been appalled by my desperate, rather chaotic tearful plea for help in finding a psychiatrist to help me find a medical solution to this agony. It embarrasses me to have been so pathetically out of control, but it did the job. I have met with this new doctor and tests have been ordered. I am still stuck in the trough, but I think I can see someone extending a lifeline far above me. And when my sister called me last night, I could practically feel her love for me buoying me up. Oh, let this dreary, heavy burden fall away. I am so very tired.

What's the point?

A moment has arrived which I had not the foresight to expect. My blog has clearly become a bloody bore, and almost no one is reading it anymore.

Let's face it. My daily life is pretty mundane. The first year in Nicaragua was full of new experiences and new people. I was learning to fit in and taking photos of interesting and colorful sights. I was developing a network of people to know and learn from, and I felt cared for by my empleada and her family, by my family in Managua, by my lawyer and once dear friend who helped me through the maise of governmental requirements.

Suddenly, the phone isn't ringing, my messages on Facebook get one-word answers, if any. And I am feeling fairly friendless. True, I am a depressive person. These sorts of small negatives have a habit of assuming tsunami proportions. Something has ruined my precious friendships and I do not know if it is something I did, or perhaps I became a big drag, or a cranky old lady. And I have no one to ask.

Well, this is a pretty debacle. I am using my blog to wallow in self-pity. So unhappy. So lonely. Another chicken died. My son just left after just five days. My special dinner was a disaster,

So I expect I will not be posting for a while now. Sadness and despair are not especially edifying under any specie, and I will spare you the intricacies of self -medication. Oblivion looks pretty good.

An Unexpected Departure

Diriamba lost a good friend this past week. My friend Erlinda called me Friday to let me know she had died suddenly and that the funeral was that afternoon at Saint Sebastian's church, where Mary Mary and I attended Christmas Eve Mass.

Lulú was the daughter of a late well-respected physician, a Chinese-Nicaraguan man who had a large family, including Erlinda's brother-in-law. Lulú ran the family pharmacy with her sister Blanca, and I knew Blanquita and Lulú via my regular visits to the store. Last month, Lulú complimented me on the improvement in my Spanish, her broad smile lighting up her round face. She was only 56.

When I arrived at the family home behind the pharmacy, located on an opposite corner from St. Sebastian's, a crowd of people had gathered outside and in. I had only a short moment to express my condolence to Blanca, and then headed to the church to find Erlinda. The church was packed by the time the pall bearers moved up the aisle. I was very touched by the obvious sorrow and piety in the faces of the mourners. Clearly, Lulú had earned the affection and respect of many many people, and I felt the loss of a generous soul in my somewhat limited Nicaraguan world.

Every country has its saints and sinners. No society is without its shortcomings. But here in Nicaragua, I am daily impressed with the generous spirit and sweetness of so many strangers I meet. In the mercados or on the microbuses, I am addressed as amor (luv), madre, mamacita, senora, hermosita (lovely lady), querida (dearie). The security men and groundskeepers at Keiser University know me now, and are so kind and welcoming. I have an absolute crush on my vet's father, a tall, elegant charmer who shares the responsibility for their shop servicing farm animal and pet owners.

All these people on the fringe of my solitary life are important to me. I shall miss Lulú very much, her ready smile, her kindness to me. When I consider how important my own sisters are to me, I can imagine Blanquita's unfathomable loss. Her daily routine is forever altered most painfully. I hope she can find solace somehow in the knowledge that she, like her sister, is well-loved and appreciated in her town.