Bereft

In 1977, I was part of a creative team at Pittsburgh Laboratory Theater. We were planning a production of The Ruling Class, and I was stage managing. The central character was played by Bingo O'Malley, who immediately became one of my closest friends. During the run of the play, I took over a bit part and had the sublime pleasure of doing '"The Varsity Drag" number with Bingo et al. Over the ensuing years, Bingo and I enjoyed my free passes to Pgh. Pirate games, studied sign language together, joined his large raucous Irish family for Sunday afternoon Steelers' broadcasts, went rafting down the Youghiogheny white water, formed a scene study group called Stage Left, Pittsburgh, which also produced a few plays. Those years were especially precious, as our splendid circle of friends packed so much enjoyment into the monthly meetings, which absolutely included good food, juicy gossip, occasional tears, and plenty of laughter.

Bingo was a gifted actor whose instinctive artistry created layered performances in every role he took on. He and I played a warped husband and wife in an absurdist nightmare by Boris Vian called The Empire Builders at the Lab Theater. Some years later, I directed him in The Subject Was Roses, during which he became ill with what turned out to be hepatitis. He refused to quit rehearsing, all the way through final dress. The play never opened. He nearly died.

I left Pittsburgh in 2000, focusing on raising my son and spending my parents' last years close by near Johnstown. I kept in loose touch with Bingo. When his sister Kathleen died unexpectedly, moments after a joyful reunion as Bingo returned from a stint in a Kentucky production, a mutual friend called and urged me to contact him. Bingo was devastated; he never could handle the idea of death. And Kathleen had been a rare joy of a sister and best friend. Once, when I bought my first house, I had a pre-moving-in party at a time when Bingo had (shockingly) shaved off his beard to play the Pittsburgh artist John Kane on PBS.  Kathleen was enjoying the party, and spent some minutes talking to a new friend before she realized he was actually her brother, unrecognizable without the whiskers!

I saw Bingo a couple of times more when I would happen to be in Pittsburgh. His theater career flourished, including a tour of Ireland in a Brian Friel play, which must have been an ecstatic experience for him. I last saw Bingo at a one woman show by our mutual friend Barbara Russell. Being with him was as stimulating and satisfying as ever. Intervening years vanished and we caught up on each other's news with gusto. His charm and playful manner had never dimmed, and I distinctly recall telling him how much I loved him as we hugged goodbye. Somehow, I guessed that I would not want to leave that unsaid. The next few years passed. He stopped performing in his 80s, and I moved to Nicaragua. And yesterday came word of his death.

I had contacted a mutual friend through Facebook to get word of Bingo's status a few months ago. I guess that friendship has withered, as I never heard back. (Fuck you, Chris.) And now, this world is a much poorer place without my extraordinary friend Bingo, with his steely, frequently twinkling eyes, his impossibly erect posture, his truthfulness, his intense loyalty.

I've turned my house over vainly searching for a favorite photo taken in the Pirates' dugout just before I threw out the first pitch one summer evening. Bingo and I were chatting with manager Chuck Tanner, both of us giddy with excitement at sitting in the dugout! Here instead is a snapshot taken at Pittsburgh club Graffiti, when Luis Clemente, son of the great Roberto, was performing with me and my friends to raise money for my Nica sport project. Here we are together, in 1990, I think, in a badly lit, but precious memento.

16 February 2020 --
Found that photo -- note: I have just been taught how to hold the ball with forked fingers... we are both listening intently to Chuck Tanner explain the meaning of life. Miss you so much, Bingo.

Losing My Virginity

When, in April, 2016, I moved into this house in the Carazo hills, I had hooks installed on the front porch for my hammock, which I had bought in Masaya on a shopping trip with brother Bobby.
Then, my new housekeeper suggested I keep the hammock inside the house when I was not using it, as some unscrupulous ladron might help himself to it under cover of night. I ignored this advice as  it would have resulted in my never using the hammock at all. That was nearly three years ago.

July 2016 - My friend Ivan and his son Parzi, with Susie and Brynn, at our 4th of July party.

Last night, the ladron finally showed up. I feel certain that lovely hammock is today worth much less than when this photo was taken. Three years' dry season dust accumulation has rendered the hammock a grungy grey, and our latest puppy, Lolita, has found the decorative fringe irresistible for gnawing, chewing and pulling apart into glorious shreds.

In truth, my robbery record in Pittsburgh dwarfs this solo event. Over 12 years in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh, I was burglarized five times. That works out to five stereo systems (Yeah, I know. "What's a stereo system, Mom?"), four televisions, various cameras and lenses, a microwave oven. And my cherished medieval lute. Sigh.

My garden hose is also AWOL this morning.  I can pick up a new one when I go shopping for a bear trap to set nightly as a welcome mat for my next nefarious visitation. Now that my robbery-free record has been stolen, can the next time be far off?

And She's Buying a Stairway to...

Two weeks ago, the now year-long construction project to widen the Panamerican Highway from two to four lanes made it to my literal doorstep. I awoke to the rumble roar of heavy equipment. When I went to open the door in the great sliding porton through which cars may enter or exit the property, I found it tied shut with heavy wire. Through the crack, I could see that the expanse between my wall and the existing highway had been excavated, leaving a deep earthen gap. I tried to squeeze my arm through the crack to alert the crew that there was a person imprisoned therein, to no avail. I was stuck inside for the weekend.

Happily, I had no plans to leave and had plenty of food. Alas, the electricity was turned off, so I had to carefully measure out my computer time, and with no pump for inside water, no showers or flushing. I briefly considered the possibility of a stroke or heart attack, but decided to read instead. Thus passed two days of clanking, bumpedy-bump grinding din from beyond the wall, and hours of excited barking within.

Monday morning, Maria José arrived at her usual time, and simply untied the door and let herself in. I do admire her anarchismo! Her brother cobbled together a little stairway of stones and earth to help me negotiate the drop to cross the gap to the road. It worked well when I left on Tuesday morning to go to San Marcos for tutoring duty. When I returned, the road crew were hard at work, having unceremoniously destroyed the stair. Two days later, I turned my ankle trying to get down from the wall, so Thursday's trip to San Marcos did not happen.

After endless hours of rolling back and forth, compacting the earth, the bulldozer disappeared for some days. MJ's husband Jonathan seemed to think the gash in front of my wall would be there at least two months. Months?  He rebuilt the little stair, adding a nifty handrail of scrap lumber. The next morning, the bulldozer returned, and while it left the stair intact, it neatly sideswiped the rail and snapped it off before my eyes. Anarchy works both ways.

Yesterday, Maria José and I went shopping in San Marcos, When we returned, the heavy equipment was back, with a big backhoe digging out the gap even deeper!  The steps, needless to say, were history, and when one of the crew helped us across with our parcels, he assured me that my path would be leveled before they left. And it was!

Looking north from my porton.

13 Dec.2018

Apparently, the backhoe is loading the dump truck at that end of the wall, and the earth is dumped at the other end. Why dig it up in the first place, I wonder.

And the backhoe looks like a dinosaur from inside the wall, hence the barking chorus!

The approaching holidays had me wishing to do somebody some good. I asked Maria José if she knew of someone who would be glad of a food donation. It took her no time to tell me about an old lady who cares for her adult mentally disabled son, with no income.  Our shopping trip yesterday began with the purchase of a plastic garbage can, which we filled with rice, beans, corn flour, oil and sugar, powdered milk, cleaning and hygiene supplies, and cookies. The lady will not know from whom the gift comes, but I hope it will give her some nights of good rest, comfort and joy.

Had Enough?

I state the obvious that these posts are arriving with less frequency. This I chalk up to two realities in my somewhat spare existence here in Carazo. The first boils down to the rather severe limitations of my day to day life. I spend almost all my time at home, seeing no one save for the people who come to work in the garden or do housework. Twice each week, I go into San Marcos to do my tutoring shifts at Keiser University, and enjoy the opportunity to speak English. And once or twice a week, I go into Diriamba or Jinotepe to pay bills, shop for perishables, pick up medications, and buy a newspaper. I almost never do anything new, which was the point of many past postings here. I do plan a future trip to the east coast, the Costa Atlantica, to Bluefields to visit my old friend Carla, and that could give me the grist for a couple of entries. And one of these years, I really should go south to San Juan del Sur, a beach town with a large ex-pat community. People say it is a fun town, though I could not be less interested in going. Someday, when and if anyone ever visits me again...

The second reality is my waning relationship with the real world. I retain my need for news and views of the Motherland, but the first half of the tRump presidency has tarnished my sense of America and Americans.  Whatever is true of the US now, it bears little resemblance to the land I called my home for 64 years. It isn't just the Orange One; it is the millions of people who put him in charge and throng to his partisan rallies, and who hate people like me. I keep hearing about the blue urban areas, with their well-educated, well-heeled progressive voters. And the rural red zones, with (presumably) poorly educated, financially less-secure voters. And the gloves are really off now. Trump stokes the angry fires of resentment, fear, suspicion, and hatred to excite his fans and deepen the divisions between them and everyone else.

I wish I could understand why it is so important to so many that the U.S. be the "greatest country,"the richest, the most powerful, the best of the best of the best. Clearly, the U.S. is far from the best at, well, pick a category. Taking care of veterans, old people, and the indigent; making healthcare available to all; responsible stewardship of natural resources; reducing corruption in government and the justice system; fair and just enforcement of intelligent laws. I could go on and on. I think I have Denmark envy. Or perhaps Finland. Those populations seem so much more content to have small defense budgets and high taxes. They feel optimistic.They like the way their taxes are used to provide healthcare, education, welfare institutions.

By now, you are wishing I would just go back to travelogue posts, or none at all, for that matter. Perhaps this blog has run its course. I seem to have found a very small niche for myself that is not especially interesting or productive, a perch from which to watch the U.S. implode. It all makes me feel incredibly sad, and very forlorn.

Listen to Me!

A friend writes that he suspects that the noise of electronic media has rendered even old-fashioned conversation suspect.

"Face to face with another person looking at them straight in the eye and talking just doesn’t seem to work because, in my estimation, the other person is just too distracted to have their voice hearing senses turned on and tuned in to another human voice  - I think it is because they fear missing some other information that may be coming, at any second, his way."

Think about it. A population so attuned (addicted) to the siren call of a text message beep or an email blip that they are incapable of truly listening to what a person standing right there is saying. 

This is distressingly sad, to me. Like my friend, I have thus far avoided the "smart phone" obsession, if not by design, by my sheer ignorance of how to use one. I can barely manage a flip phone, a necessity here in Nicaragua in the absence of landlines. I rarely carry it with me, as I almost never use it. I think I can count the texts I've sent on one hand!

This is a very poor country, to be sure, yet half the people seem to have cellphones -- are they even still called that? Here, as everywhere, the sidewalks are full of people hunched over their phones, scrolling away, ignoring the potholes in their paths. Or on the bus, earbuds in place, grooving to tunes while checking email or horoscopes. Thank goodness only half the people are living in digital reality. It is still possible to pass the time of day with disconnected individuals who wonder if it will rain or worry about rising bread prices.

Mind you, my demonstrated preference is for written communication. I like to think out what I want to say and find the best words to clearly communicate my thoughts. And I so appreciate a well turned phrase or piquant metaphor when I am reading another's thoughts on a page. But there are times when a person needs and deserves our unreserved attention. When one soul aches for intimate connection with another and only 100% concentration will suffice. If we lose the capacity to be one on one for as long as needed, we may well have lost the best aspect of being human.

We might think about reserving space for deliberate face-to-face communication, careful listening and hearing each other, in our busy schedules, so we do not lose this precious ability. Of course, I am not busy in the least. And heaven knows, I never hear the text beep. All I need is an actual person to listen to. Or perhaps my dogs.

Elementary?

And now for something completely different...

Reading books is my primary daily activity. I will happily read anything I find to be well written and interesting, and since the library at Keiser University has been closed all summer, I have invested in a Kindle. My bank account tends to limit my purchases to books costing less than $2.99, free if I am lucky. I read voraciously, so it is not unusual for me to churn through three or four good-sized texts per week. To my disappointment, I find the vast majority of Amazon's low-cost volumes to be popular action or romance gack, or spin-off genres like an enormous latter day supply of Jane Austen-inspired blather. Wading through the Kindle library is a troublesome bore, especially as my weak internet service takes forEVER to load each page! Yet, there are gems lurking there.

I was happy to see a 16-volume collection of English mystery works on offer for about a dollar a book, the first of which turned out to be a selection of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories of Sherlock Holmes, which I have just enjoyed over the past few days. It is hard to imagine a more perfectly realized, affectionately rendered, singularly memorable character than Holmes, with all his eccentricities, attitudes, failings and triumphs. Likewise, his faithful chronicler and frequent investigative cohort Dr. Watson establishes himself as the reader's trusted friend and confidant. He is ever ready to drop everything in service to his friend Sherlock, and respectfully records the various individuals and case studies they encounter with graceful language and only occasional lapses into melodramatic extravagance. Arthur Conan Doyle was not above the purple prose his readers loved, but Dr. Watson manages to surmount the temptation for the most part.

Something I have noticed about reading authors from more than a century ago is the characterization of people over the age of 50 as, well, elderly. At 67, I am only recently retired, and enjoying mature living, shall we say? But I hardly feel aged or particularly antediluvian. Dr. Watson's favorite descriptor seems to be "grizzled," or graying, as hair, if you will. It puts me in mind of a Rooster Cogburn-ish sort of rough, aging cowhand, but Watson even describes a "once-lovely woman of about 40" as grizzled. Well! He invariably describes most male characters as "handsome," though they may also have thick long beards (grizzled, usually) and bushy eyebrows. How does one find handsomeness under all that fur?

The episode in which Holmes meets his end (Or does he?) plummeting over a waterfall in a climactic struggle with his nemesis Moriarty allows Dr. Watson to express his tender affection and admiration for his extraordinary friend in some of Doyle's most lyrical writing. The author's creation of a longtime, occasionally fractious, but consummately loyal and trusting friendship between two quite different men as a conceit through which to spin his tales of mystery is a joy to read.

I do not know if this collection is comprehensive or if there are other Holmesian adventures to enjoy, but I must observe that only once in the whole of some 20 hours or so did Sherlock say "Elementary!"

Unreal News

This evening, I watched Channel 2, an Ortega-owned television channel, to see its version of the current situation in the country. After a story about some millions of dollars of aid from Taiwan for four national projects came an analysis of the state of affairs regarding Nicaraguan production of basic grains – rice, corn, beans and sugar. Smiling experts attested to bumper crops at good prices, with lots of footage showing mounds of corn, beans, etc. and many smiling workers. This was followed by a story about tobacco production, with footage of dozens of workers rolling cigars, smiling and rolling.

After a short break, a story about a new campaign by INTUR – the government tourism ministry – to promote, of all things, upcoming religious festivals. The irony being that the Ortega government has roundly criticized the country’s bishops and clergy for supporting the popular uprising. Another story featured lurid video of wounded and murdered victims of “terrorismo,” the latest descriptor of the uprising, put forth by Ortega in some recent U.S. cable news interviews.

Things have definitely quieted down, but I wonder how many citizens will turn out for the religious festivals this September. Tough to tell, as so many people feel proud of their towns’ festivals, and are devoted to their various denominations. Certainly, there will be few tourists. 80% of the country’s hotels have closed. Don’t nobody want to come to Nica now.

In the meantime, work continues on the project to expand the PanAmerican Highway from two to four lanes. A crew passed by the other day, cutting down trees that obstruct the planned expansion. The little tree just outside my porton is now no more. I guess I will step through the gate directly onto the righthand lane heading north when it is all finished.