tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89049194126344018432024-03-08T04:06:14.134-08:00curmudgeongalbajacurmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8904919412634401843.post-7214881003483362512012-09-13T13:24:00.000-07:002012-09-13T13:26:37.999-07:00Gypsies in Town<br />
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In the
war years of the 1940's, in the small town of Mamaroneck where I live, Gypsies
come to town most years. There’s an open
field near Mamaroneck High where they set up camp. They arrive over several days in cars with
tents and a few trucks with trailers. Many
arrive in closed wagons, painted and decorated in once bright colors and, to
me, mysterious looking scrolling designs and flowers. Those wagons are pulled by large, well-cared
for horses. Gas is scarce during the war
and hay is cheap. </div>
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Mom says
they are families that come together for marriages. She warns the Gypsies steal children and I'm
to play in the backyard while they’re in town.
I want to go to the Gypsy camp but I've only seen it driving by. I'm not allowed to visit there when Mom and
Nan go. They say I'm too young. The two of them whisper together about the
camp and it's possible dangers: pickpockets, child-stealers and black magic
spells; but it doesn’t stop the two of them from going to have their fortunes
told and later whispering together about their future. </div>
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When the camp is in town, a very handsome
Gypsy man comes to our street with a pony cart and a bell he rings so we know
he's here to take us kids on rides for a quarter. One time he has a monkey on his shoulder too.
Mom lets me ride in the cart all the way down the block and back. The pony’s buff colored with a long brushed
light blonde mane and a braided tail. It’s
glossy fur looks like gold in the afternoon sunlight. The cart is painted shiny
black like my patent leather Sally pumps, with some delicate designs in gold
paint and has red plush cushions with gold fringe. The harness and fittings are polished leather
with silver. To my innocent eyes, it's the
height of elegance.</div>
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I take
my seat alone in the cart, touching the softness of the red plush spread around
me. The driver turns to me and smiles,
his big black moustache is long and soft looking—much handsomer than Pop’s grey
and red one—and his teeth shine white against his dark skin. He flicks his whip over the pony’s head and
we begin our leisurely trip to one end of the long block and back. He walks
next to the cart with his whip in one hand and the other on the harness to make
sure the pony doesn't steal me, a delighted little girl with blonde curls and a
missing front tooth. He walks at a slow
pace, the pony clopping next to him, and I notice he has a ring in one ear,
pierced. I've never seen a pierced ear
before. It's almost as fascinating as
the pony and cart.</div>
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As we
turn the bend in the road, Mom and Nan
and our house disappear from sight. The big maple and oak trees on either side wave
their canopy over Stuart Avenue and change it from a country street to a
far-away place. The sun filtering
through the leaves dance shadows across my private coach, surely a magic spell
transporting us...somewhere else. The
lazy summer air fills with the drone of bees, birds and insects, the hum of a
few cars or an occasional truck left with enough gas to drive the Boston Post
Road, and the clop-clop of the pony on its slow journey. Several orange and black butterflies come and
visit this strange entourage.</div>
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The
Gypsy turns back to make sure I'm still there. I've been very quiet. He smiles.
I smile back. A tear slides down
my cheek. I'm so thrilled with this
adventure I can't control the joy. All by
myself. No one else to share the magic
with. I imagine for these special
moments I’m transported beyond imagination into the reality of my mind: a princess
riding in a magical coach. </div>
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We go to
the corner of Sophia Street and turn around.
A dog barks off in the distance, probably chasing something down by
Guion Creek. No cars pass us. No one is on the street or in their
yards. We have the whole road to
ourselves. I look around our
neighborhood for the first time with total clarity and see the Victorian
houses, the large three story monsters with verandas that lace around them,
gliders on some, others with a chair or two to catch the cooling summer air in
the stifling heat of summer. Two story
houses, country farm style sprawling into lawns that languish down the hill in
back to touch the creek. A 1920's French
replica with stucco and odd shaped roof-line, and then our house, Mom calls it
a Dutch Colonial, with Mom and Nan standing talking together as they wait for
me to return from my journey. I can see
them as soon as we clear the bend. They turn
and wave.</div>
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As my
coach stops in front of the welcoming slate step, crooked and raised on one end
punched by a giants fist, a root from the tall maple that shades our front walk,
Mom and Nan have been joined by Gongie, my grandmother. They stop talking to greet me, their princess,
as is my due. I'm smiling so hard I fear
my cheeks will crumble under the pressure as I get down and turn to grab the
man around the waist and hug him. I
whisper so only he can hear, "Oh, thank you, it was especially wonderful." He seems shy. He pats me on the head and says
nothing. Do Gypsies speak our language?
I wonder.</div>
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"Did
you have fun?" Mom asks as she hands the man a quarter, plus a generous
ten cent tip.</div>
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"Oh
yes." My eyes must still be shining,
not dimmed by the fading magic of the ride.
"It was wonderful. Thank you Mom." I sigh.
A princess must be gracious.</div>
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He turns
the cart to back down the street and I wave goodbye to him. He waves back with a grin.</div>
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I give all
three of them a hug before I sweep majestically up the walk. </div>
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It takes
almost two days before the glow of my journey fades. By then the Gypsies have packed up their
tents and wagons, gone for places unknown.
I cross my fingers and with eyes closed, wish very hard that the Gypsies
come back again next year.</div>
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curmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.com0Stuart Ave, Mamaroneck, NY 10543, USA40.947750930283469 -73.71620178222656240.923764930283468 -73.755683782226569 40.97173693028347 -73.676719782226556tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8904919412634401843.post-64284132335331115782012-09-11T15:26:00.000-07:002012-09-11T15:26:15.136-07:00Mexican Patio Concert<br />
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The
sliding glass door opens to my patio.
Dog beds scatter the cracked stone floor while leaves skitter across,
stopping only for a detour around a chair, a table, anything in their way.</div>
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Seconds
ago rude birds intruded on the mornings silence in cacophony almost painful to the ears. Now it's quiet. Cat on the prowl? The birds have no respect
for the four small patio dogs, knowing their jumping skills are limited to the
dining room table when no one is looking to guard a cake left in the middle, a
wedge cut out perfectly for a snout to forage in. </div>
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There once
was a Jack Russell Terrier on the patio who, in his youth, could snag a bird
mid-flight, faster than an eye could blink he'd have a grin on his doggy face
and feathers out each side of his mouth.
He's long gone, beyond bird memory, and when he was on this patio he was
too old for bird-snagging, slow with arthritis and half blind with age. No, must be a cat on the prowl.</div>
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The
school across the street is quiet. No
singing, no children's voices lilting "Frere Jacques" over the fence
and across the street. Quiet. Where have the birds gone? </div>
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A car
passes in the street. One of those non-bird-catching
dogs jumps on a tarp protecting the outdoor loveseat. It's plastic creaks and crumples in complaint.
Somewhere close, maybe a block or so away, a loud bang breaks the silence left
by birds. Backfire? Firecracker?
Gunshot? Neighbor dogs bark up and down
the <i><span lang="ES-US">fraccionamiento</span></i>, but the patio dogs are silent.
They save their voices for skateboarders.
The bang must be too far away, outside their zone to protect. </div>
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An
electric saw rumbles nearby. Could be home repair. Maybe a new roof to brave the winter
rains? Maybe a new house bringing a new
family to a once empty lot. New dogs to
join the Hound Chorale as they stake their verbal claim. </div>
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But cats
challenge both birds and dogs in the contest of who or what makes the most
noise. Late at night, on the verge of
sleep, lights out and two patio dogs snuggled close, the howling, yowling,
crying, screeching begins. Generally
close—outside my bedroom window. For
some reason unknown to me, my corner attracts skateboarders and fornicating
cats. The skateboarders own the day, the
cats the night. Thankfully, the dogs
remain respectfully quiet when the cats sing.
Perhaps they are jealous or maybe enjoy vicariously the thrill of
mating. Perhaps they don't give a fig
about cats.</div>
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One day
we had a feral kitten in the bushes. It
was thrown there by someone. To feed the
dogs? Maybe they thought with four dogs
one cat wouldn't be noticed? </div>
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Two
days, two friends, many scratches and several cat traps later this
three-quarter pound angry soul was out of the planter and into a home where it was
appreciated. Neither the dogs nor I
appreciate cats. It was cute, as kittens
can be. No thanks.</div>
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Still no birds.
An occasional car. Children's
voices chatter far in the distance. A
loudspeaker on a truck chants its presence in and out of hearing. The saw quiets. My coffee cup is empty. Time to take a shower. No patio concert to
miss.</div>
curmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8904919412634401843.post-59375772695215503032012-09-11T15:20:00.001-07:002012-09-11T15:20:13.128-07:00Mexico Sings<br />
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Everyone sings in Mexico.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Some well, others well...you know.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I hear the street vendors singing all day
long on their rounds through the neighborhoods.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I am a gringo living in Mexico, in a small city near the border to San
Diego.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Many of my friends live in the
large condo developments dotting the coastline south to Ensenada, but I chose
to live in the real Mexico. Hence my house in a community in town.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Not on the beach.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Not surrounded by other </span><i style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Norte Americanos</i><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">.</span><br />
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I live where I can hear
the music. The man who pushes a cart
through the neighborhoods sings about sharpening knives and scissors. Several different men sing about ice cream,
popsicles as I called them as a child, here called <i><span lang="ES-US">paletas</span></i>—flavors
of fruits, mango, coconut, papaya, kiwi, peach, strawberry and raspberry. The garbage men sing, I can't make out their
words, maybe it's just to let everyone know to bring out the cans please. Or maybe they just sing for the pleasure of
it.</div>
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A truck goes by with a
recording singing the gas man is here.
Then another truck, loudspeaker blaring songs of the circus and the
wonders to be seen. This is replaced
almost weekly by circus after circus; each with its own brand of miraculous
things under the various tents I can see the top of from my house if I look out
my bedroom window and crane my neck just so.
And their songs change to match the acts and events. Some sing louder than others, volume jacked
up to the max. I imagine the loud ones desperate
after five really bad money years, troupe not fully paid and complaints on all
sides. </div>
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I don't go to the
circus. I don't like to see the animals.
It worries me that they might not have
enough water in the heat, enough food to fill their stomachs. People tend to fill their stomachs first and
the animals are an afterthought. Hard
times are harder on those who stand on four feet, hooves or paws. And they can't sing for their supper.</div>
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We have concerts once
again, events with music flood the town with song because tourists are back. Many I can hear from my open window. Parties always have earsplitting music. It's <i>de</i><i><span lang="FR">
rigueur</span></i>. If the music isn't
loud the people aren't having a good time.
And no one seems to go to bed.
Ever. This past Sunday at 5:30 AM
someone parked their truck under my window and serenaded me with Mexican
ranchero music that blasted my sleep to pieces.</div>
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My neighbors occasionally
give parties with karaoke machines on the front porch. All partiers must join in, singing at the top
of their lungs to whatever song is playing.
Until late. Very late. Very loud. </div>
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But I don't say
anything. I remember years when no one
made a sound. We all stayed home and
were quiet. Very, very quiet. Fear does
that. Street murders and kidnappings stemming
from drug wars took away the songs. But,
thankfully, the music is back. </div>
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When I first moved to
Mexico, eight years ago, I learned to sleep to Mexican rap music exploding in
my window all night long. I was smart
enough to move to a quieter locale, but since then I've also learned an
excellent lesson: loud songs and music are more comforting on the nerves than
the silence of fear—so go ahead Mexico, sing your songs all night long and I'll
be the one applauding!</div>
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<br /></div>
curmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8904919412634401843.post-71788718644841877592012-08-04T13:35:00.003-07:002012-08-04T13:35:50.753-07:00A Matter of Hands<br />
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My earliest memories of
going to 'the city,' the borough of Manhattan
in New York City, was to visit my godparents, 'Aunt' Alice and 'Uncle' DeWitt. It was 1945, a long time and a different
world ago. They were best friends of my mother and pops. I was lucky to have been
born a girl, otherwise today I'd be sporting the monniker DeWitt. I guess it would have been okay, but I much
prefer Alice. </div>
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They lived on Park Avenue
and 77th Street, near the Lenox Hill Hospital where he was head of surgery, and
two blocks east of Central Park. It was
one of the apartment buildings built just after World War I to house the newly
wealthy professionals and businessmen. </div>
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When we visited the city
we often walked through Central Park amid its lush greenery, winding paths and
hidden places—like the lake with rowboats, the Tavern on the Green, statues of Alexander
Hamilton, and soldiers of the 107th Infantry from WWI and the 7th Regiment from
the Civil War. The Rambles, and Sheep Meadow, the old grazing commons, were
good places to stroll. I thought it was
funny to walk in Central Park when we lived in the country and never took a
walk, but somehow it must have made sense to my parents. I wanted to ride in the fancy open horse
drawn carriages lined up on Central Park South in front of the Plaza Hotel and pretend
I was a princess. </div>
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My parents took me to the
Central Park Zoo when we had the time. I
liked the elephants and tigers, but the monkey house scared me; I didn't like
their large staring eyes and the way they peed when they saw visitors
coming. </div>
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But my favorite was the
tank where the seals swam and played and clapped their flippers together. Their faces always looked so sweet that I
dreamed of taking one home and having it live in our bathtub. I would let it sleep with me in my bed at
night if it wanted. I was sure I could
convince pops to build a little pool in the backyard for it.</div>
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Their apartment was as
large, if not larger, than our big house in Mamaroneck. I remember best the living room—almost
cavernous with a grand piano in one corner.
I never heard anyone play it.
Maybe someone did once upon a time; Uncle DeWitt had a daughter and a
son, but they were grown and out of the house by them. Perhaps they took lessons as children. Their mother wasn't Aunt Alice but someone
else I never met. I knew about those
things, mom and pops had been married to other people once too.</div>
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On the piano was the
piece that interested me most, a sculpture of Uncle De Witt's hands, by some
famous sculptor of the day. Just the
hands and less than an inch of wrist. In
repose, one hand lightly over the other.
It was done in marble, a light color, lighter than skin but only
slightly. There was a delicacy, a
gentleness in the pose, the veins prominent on the top and visible as shadows
when the light hit them a certain way. </div>
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The adults sat on the
other side of the room by a big window overlooking neighboring buildings. They
laughed, drank cocktails or tea, chatted about whatever nonsense adults chatted
about. I was to entertain myself, keep
quiet and out of the way, <b><i>and don't get into any mischief!</i></b> </div>
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A little girl decked out
for the city in plaid pleated skirt, white blouse and navy jacket, white socks
and black patent leather sally-pumps, I sat on the piano bench and stared at
the sculpture. My blonde hair was just
above my shoulders with the top piece twirled and twisted into a bun held tight
by hairpins. The center of the bun was
left open, a convenient coliseum home for my pet turtle, George—named after the
wrestler—Gorgeous George, who spent much of his time there. If I had to go someplace, George went with me—seven
year olds can be very demanding. My
parents gave in on that point, they knew where to pick their battles. Also, I think pops was secretly amused when people
realized a sleeping terrapin was nestled in the blonde top-knot. They'd see something green, take a look and
recoil.</div>
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My mother knew how to
keep me quiet and well mannered, several books usually did the trick. I learned to read at an early age and was content
with my nose in a book. But at that apartment, I was fascinated by the hands. I
assumed George was too since I occasionally talked to him.</div>
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The fingers were long and
tapered, but there was a strength that emanated from them. I could imagine them doing wondrous things,
and in fact, what attracted the artist to them was Uncle DeWitt's reputation as
a famous surgeon. </div>
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As I sat on the piano
bench I mulled over the dual questions of how an artist could make hands look like
flesh and bones with such a hard piece of stone (once I had secretly touched
it, although I was strictly forbidden to touch anything in anyone's house) and
how a person's hands could learn to be so skilled that they could fix people.</div>
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At the dinner table after
cocktails, Uncle DeWitt sat at the head of the table, my father sat at the
other end, Aunt Alice on one side opposite mom and me. Mom sat between me and Uncle DeWitt. I always wanted to change my seat but mom
said "Aunt Alice made the seating arrangements and a good guest never
changes them." There I was, one
place setting down from the hands I was so desperate to study. I wanted to make sure they were exactly like
the sculptors rendition, and from what I could tell, they were, down to the
last trailing prominent vein. There was
no way of knowing how skillful they were with a scalpel but I watched with
interest as he cut his meat and gracefully changed his utensils from one hand to
the other. That was as far as I ever got
in answering my questions. I still don't
know.</div>curmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8904919412634401843.post-16078283494341759382012-08-04T13:19:00.000-07:002012-08-04T13:19:38.708-07:00The Mountain<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel golden rays on my shoulders. It's good, warming my insides with a gentle
caress. Thank you sun, I think to
myself. I needed that after the harsh
winter. Snow makes me sad, covering me
with cold as it does. But I've learned each
season brings both good and bad. The bad
is coming now, I can feel it even as the sun, the good, coddles me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first one comes, I can feel his heartbeat as he climbs. Harsh
feet tramp along my sides, spikes digging into the soft flesh of my spring
offerings and buds. I can always hear
the harsh breath of those who wish to mount me as they strain to attain my peaks. They make me mad, these hikers, these stupid
trekkers, interested only in heights.
Never looking when uncaring boots stomp whatever grows across their
path. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dearest friends, the little ones who emerge new and
shaking from their mothers' wombs, and stand, knees not yet straight and
strong, to wobble on my sides, nuzzle nearby teats and nibble at the succulent
grasses and herbs I provide for them. I
love them. They are proof of life and
they honor me by using me as their home.
My joy is watching them grow, gain their horns or learn to hunt in
stealth, limbs grow strong, climb my rocky
heights and mate to start anew the cycle of life. All watched with pride by me, their home, the
mountain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But those hikers, the climbers, the ones who poke sharp
sticks into my flesh, drop careless fire in dry brush, they make me mad! I try my revenge on them, place rolling
stones in their paths, loose gravel that spills them down the track. But to no avail. They come, ubiquitous fancy clothing, hooks
and spikes and ropes meant solely to spoil and injure me. They come, endless in their processions of
conquest, packs flung over their backs holding supplies to aid in their
constant quest. Damn them!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In winter, they should go home to their fires and hearths on
the flatland. But no, they seek me
still, with different poles to guide them down my now silken curved ribbons of
ice and snow. Is there no respite? It seems mankind refuses to take a hint when
I sneeze, tumbling crests and moguls of snow and rocks to bury them as they
make their futile attempts to glide to safety.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They cut into my being to make their roads, perch their
villages on my flanks, dig into my core for stones only they value. They think they own me, can take what I
offer, hunt my friends who live on me in peace.
It saddens me to see how arrogant they are. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They don't understand. I am the mountain, and when I have had
enough of them, I belch and shiver as my wounded sides easily shake them
off, tumbling helpless to the hard arms
of the flatland below. It is my joke on humanity. In case they forgot. I am mountain. I. Am. Eternal.
</div>curmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8904919412634401843.post-49956722602370249442011-08-25T12:48:00.000-07:002011-08-25T12:48:42.710-07:00Colors of Baja<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UfZadNyal9g/TlaHgF5EDoI/AAAAAAAADFk/2XkKEOCwmLQ/s1600/P2180588.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qaa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UfZadNyal9g/TlaHgF5EDoI/AAAAAAAADFk/2XkKEOCwmLQ/s320/P2180588.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ga2wjbpa8SI/TlaHMnitaOI/AAAAAAAADFg/rydeUToghfU/s1600/P5070590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qaa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ga2wjbpa8SI/TlaHMnitaOI/AAAAAAAADFg/rydeUToghfU/s320/P5070590.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A3-77dXCLVk/TjHGxyRXuhI/AAAAAAAADCo/qKQ8DuVQamg/s1600/P7250176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qaa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A3-77dXCLVk/TjHGxyRXuhI/AAAAAAAADCo/qKQ8DuVQamg/s320/P7250176.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mtLEGfiNbfA/TjHG-AdXHWI/AAAAAAAADCs/cSJ2KMP4p9U/s1600/P7250181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qaa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mtLEGfiNbfA/TjHG-AdXHWI/AAAAAAAADCs/cSJ2KMP4p9U/s320/P7250181.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EhN8RhcGA2w/TjHAcm8PqtI/AAAAAAAADAI/SayDi-pAiJA/s1600/P7270184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qaa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EhN8RhcGA2w/TjHAcm8PqtI/AAAAAAAADAI/SayDi-pAiJA/s320/P7270184.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Every turn around a corner in Mexico is a feast for the eyes. If you love color, come join us in Baja, a place where the food is great, the locals are friendly and the prices are right.<br />
<br />
My house is yours to rent for a week, a month or, if you go visit Tacos El Yaqui and Mariscos El Cabo like a friend of mine did and decided never to leave...for years.<br />
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Find the colors of friends, of comraderie, festivals, parties, things to do, things to learn, places to go. Get out of your rut and decide to have fun!!! All it takes is a trip to Baja.<br />
<br />
For rental information, rates, and availability, contact <a href="mailto:curmudgeongal@gmail.com">curmudgeongal@gmail.com</a>curmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8904919412634401843.post-74785643526275784102011-08-25T12:42:00.000-07:002011-08-25T12:42:20.749-07:00BajaMexico has taken it's lumps in recent years with a nasty combination of drug cartel wars and violence, lousey economy, flu scares and more violence. Life has quieted down, Baja violence has moved to the Texas border where it should stay and plague our past president, fitting I should say.<br />
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Be that as it may, our little part of heaven is back to it's old smiles of sunny days, cool evenings and mornings, parties, mariachi music and fun. For the 15,000 plus ex-pats who call northern Baja home, it's the usual round of fiestas, bridge games, tango dancing, art shows, wine tastings and too many events to do them all. Restaurants are opening again, parking is not easy to find on the main streets, and life has returned to the joy we found so enticing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eFv_9BMw3RI/TjHArAbB2bI/AAAAAAAADAw/CstjjmjsIss/s1600/P7270194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qaa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eFv_9BMw3RI/TjHArAbB2bI/AAAAAAAADAw/CstjjmjsIss/s320/P7270194.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My vacation house becons you to come, bring your t-shirt, a pair of jeans and the desire to enjoy life at a fraction of the cost in the USA. Smiles are cheap and plentiful in Baja. Come share some with us.<br />
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Rental information, rates, more photos availabel on request from <a href="mailto:curmudgeongal@gmail.com">curmudgeongal@gmail.com</a><br />
curmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8904919412634401843.post-16736554721232068652011-08-25T12:25:00.000-07:002011-08-25T12:25:04.976-07:002908 Guanabana<a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_66025553"></span><span id="goog_66025554"></span><br />
<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/qWQEsp7ouV" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UcEuX0MMkxw/TjHATmswZ9E/AAAAAAAADFs/rRXFfa_V3KY/s160-c/2908Guanabana.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_66025551"></span><span id="goog_66025552"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a>curmudgeongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991267154559693372noreply@blogger.com0