Nogales, Sonora, Mexico

We're back in our little bus, bumping
along on dirt roads, on city traffic circles, people watching and getting commentary from out tour leader and three Mexican women who are with us.

They're pointing out everything from Technical Colleges to corrugated  little houses with no plumbing or electricity.

Many of the houses have large black water tanks on the roof.  Trucks come to fill them  and the sun heats the water.

Lots of the temporary housing use old tires for fences, walls, or barriers.  Our guide has no idea where they get all the tires.  We see lots of back yard, and front yard gatherings like this one.

The children are beautiful - calling, "Hola" to us. Some say, "Hi" in English.


Most of them spend long hours in daycare.  Their parents work in the maquilas  - foreign owned factories.

I forgot to take pictures of them because they look like modern plants you'd see in Connecticut or Colorado.




These are three-year olds.  The center stays open from 5 A.M. till 7 P.M. Some of the parents take three busses to get to work.

At the cultural center, the groups asked Pat Watson ( a Nova Scotian from our group) to sing........

and she does!  The tour leader later tells us that we were the liveliest group ever.  We're pretty sure he meant it in a good way!

I'll write more later, there's more to share.

Going to Nogales, Mexico

A group of us went on a cross border tour  to Nogales, Sonora, Mexico, sponsored by the Santa Cruz Foundation.

This picture shows us standing in Nogales, Arizona, being briefed by our tour leader before we walk across the border.

In the background going up the hill is the metal fence built by the U.S. to contain the border. Everything to the right of the fence is in Mexico.


We were a mixed group - some Samaritans, some Nova Scotians, educators, a business man.  Interestingly, a lot of us were artists.... and we were all curious to learn more about our neighbors to the south.  In years past, we'd all gone there as tourists, but now we're warned that it's unsafe, ruled by drug cartels, and told not to go.  We went in the daytime, felt perfectly safe, and learned a lot about this thriving city across our border.

                                                      Here we are on the Mexican side.

We started at a beautiful old restaurant ( and ended there -- more pictures of that, later).  That's our green bus waiting for us.

The first part of our day was in a section of town that is made up of dirt roads and shacks, in no real order, in a very hilly part of the city.  Newly arrived people from southern Mexico are coming to this part of town, claiming a piece of land and building on it.  Many have no utilities.  There is a lot of work available in Nogales, so people are flocking there. The government and organizations are trying to provide day care, after school, and recreational centers. We had to climb over trenches and up narrow steps to get to some of them.

 There were lots of dogs and wire loosely strung in the section that had utilities

An overview of this section of town.  Everywhere we went, the people were welcoming and a pleasure to be with. There was much more to this trip.  I'll continue showing it in my next blog.

Deck the Cactus with Santa's Hat

We’re forty miles from the Mexican border, and I love the traditional luminarias at this time of year.

The many other seasonal decorations and adaptations going up around town make me smile.

Right up front, I have to admit that I bought the plastic chili peppers to slip over the Christmas lights. They’re just plain cute.

On line, there's a place in Texas where they’ll sell you a Christmas Tree in the      shape of a Saguaro cactus... should you ever want one and are willing to pay $399 for it. 

Around town here, there are lots of saguaros with santa hats on top, cut out and lighted Javelinas pulling santa sleighs, and polar bears nibbling on all kinds of succulents.

I love the irony in a lighted snowman standing in front of a palm tree-- 

and the grace and elegance of the giant aloe with glamorous red balls attached.  I give that a “Best in Show”.

Thanksgiving

Giving thanks is often overlooked, trivialized, or is profound and fulfilling. It’s something I  know I don’t do often enough. 

An artist friend and I were knee deep in conversation the other day - and managed to move into memories of early days in our art adventures.  She told of being encouraged by a friend to have a first ever showing of her art. She said that she couldn’t afford to pay to frame the paintings and he subsidized the framing and the show.  It was a huge success and from there, she took bold moves in her art and in her life.

“I thanked him then,” she said, “but I’m only now realizing, he changed the course of my life.”

We celebrated  our Arizona Thanksgiving Day on Thursday. Ten of us - a small band of people away from the relatives we are traditionally taught to feast with. Eight of us had Nova Scotia connections - Nova Scotia lives.  Our neighbors who joined us visited once in Tidnish, so we counted that as a Nova Scotia connection - making it 100 %.

I felt moved to toast - “ When you don’t have family close by, you make a family.  Today, we’re family”.  We shared the traditional foods made by all of us, and decided this family could really cook!

At the end of day, we were all standing together and one friend was patting our old dog, Baxter, and saying some lovely things about him. I added that I thought it was wonderful  that at his age (15) he still loved being with everyone, in the middle of things.

“I know,” she said.  “He came to the bathroom with me.”  

Now that’s family!

Weaving Vines to Vine Parties

Last Spring we planted star jasmine vines in front of six foot trellises to give us something soft to look at, and provide some privacy. Once they were established, we put them on the drip system and our neighbor, who’s a master gardener, did the nurturing while we were gone for the summer.

We returned to find them thriving, their long legs waving in the wind.  This week, I spent an afternoon weaving them gently in and out of the trellis squares, linking the structures together with the perky green leaves.

Like young children, they had their own exuberance and sense of direction. They didn’t always want to go where I intended, so I had to alter my plan and when I finished, the whole thing just flowed with its own joy.

It reminded me of one of our granddaughters who, one winter day,  just came up with the idea that she’d have a Vine Party.  “What’s a Vine Party ?” her mother asked, but never got a standard answer, so she helped decorate their house on Owl Drive and called to invite some of Anya’s friends to come over and join in the fun.

I loved the whole idea and wrote a poem.....

Dedicated to Anya, Who Knows What It Is

It leaped out like a freckled frog

singing soprano for attention.

“We’re having a Vine Party”

Nobody knows what a Vine Party is, 

but the four year old wants it 

and the giddy guests are on their way. 

Be gone you dull grey pigeons, grackles, and geese

This party will be a mystical affair

with ruby-throated la la birds

and irreverent cardinals on the porch bannister

In the Village of the Owl.

Vanish, you of the grouchy days

lying there with a case of the “guilties”.

March with us 

while the lilies sing lost concertos

to hip hop choirs

In the Nest of the Great Horned Bird.

And we, 

dressed in our tutus and neon tuxedos

We’ll pluck Joy from the Vine.

Because we’re four years old 

and we know what it is.

Baxter, Our Old Guy

There’s something about an old dog that brings out the best in people.  

On our walks, I step back and watch as folks interact sweetly with Baxter, our beautiful Australian Shepherd who’s turning 15 in January. 

I see them, I see myself, I see Bud give our best to this loving creature.

According to recent tables calculating dog years into human years based on the dog’s size, Baxter is on the brink of turning ninety-three on January 30th. .... a birth date he shares with Winston Churchill.

He no longer runs to greet us at the door when we return home. He doesn’t jump up to be with us on the couch, or onto my lap, as he did in his younger years. Instead, we come home and wander through the house to find him. He doesn’t hear us and so we wake him from his deep sleep. We lay a blanket on the floor for him, since he doesn’t like the unsteady feeling of walking on his old bed. We move furniture so he doesn’t get stuck in tight places. Our house looks different. 

We are all different.

But, at almost ninety-three, he is up and aware, whenever our young corgi/cairn terrier barks a herding signal, or anytime he sees the leashes come out.  


His walking pace is s-l-o-w.  He stops to investigate plants, recent dog markings, and anything else that catches his imagination. He smiles as he tries to catch up with the young dog.  He shows relief when Bud turns to bring him home after his half mile, and the young Louie and I continue on for a longer walk.

He’s still the same extrovert.  He wants to be with us, a part of the party, a part of life.

He lets us know what he wants, what he needs.

We’ve been through this before.  Our first amazing Australian Shepherd, Fundy, Baxter’s constant companion for nearly twelve years, died two and half years ago at 12 1/2.

My grief and mourning was hard.  Baxter’s grief was deep.

It will happen again.

Till then, we learn from this majestic creature.  I want to be like him when I’m 93.  

I love him dearly and thank him for all he teaches me.

The grief of losing dogs is overwhelming.  

The joy of having them is a hundred times greater.

Arriving In Arizona

It  takes time to truly arrive in another place. .. more than the hours to simply drive or fly there.

The brain, mine anyway, balks at the speed of modern transportation.  It has some wanderings, side trips and rest stops to visit before it calls itself fully arrived.  

Until that  happens, I go through the motions of unpacking, moving in and hanging out the “I’m here” sign.

Ten days after reaching Arizona,  I’m now seeing the cholla, mesquite and saguaro cactus in real time.  


There were eight havelinas slurping around our garbage tonight.  

We removed a six foot snake skin from our back fountain.  The next door neighbor said he saw a bull snake on our wall in August -- about that same size.

The mountains are stark and beautiful, especially in late afternoon when the shadows of the rumpled pillow clouds lay a deep blue on them.

Fruits and vegetables are fresh and fully ripened - and cheap. Their colors match the shades you see in photo set-ups in food magazines.

The sound of Spanish is everywhere. 

It’s warm.

It’s good to be here.

I Just Like the Sound of Meddybemps

Journeying west, the New Brunswick fog met with the Maine fog and we handed our passports to the U.S. border agents and continued on to the  last of our Irving gas stations - the one we always stop at. 

Robotically, we changed the dog i.d. tags to American addresses, got out our reserve of U.S. dollars, tucked away the last of our Canadian money and switched the car's readings from celsius to fahrenheit, kilometers to miles.  

We were physically here in the land of our birth, but it wasn't till somewhere around  Meddybemps, on Route 9, the old Rum Runners Road that my emotions arrived.

  

We had a grand summer in Canada and it's a spiritual home to me, but  

I also love my native U.S.A.

I think I'll just call myself a North American.  It's the perfect fit.

Continuing west, we helped celebrate the 375th anniversary of the First Parish Unitarian Universalist church while visiting brother Bob and sister-in-law Judy in Concord, Mass.  It was Henry David Thoreau’s home church and  Dr. Kevin Radaker ( a Penn State grad ) did a reenactment of a speech Thoreau gave to the congregants in 1860.  He was dressed as Thoreau, with a black wig , beard and astonishing eyebrows, and his material was rich and well-documented.

At the end of his talk, we were told by the current minister that we could ask questions of “Thoreau”, but they must be in the context of 1860 - nothing more modern than that.  The audience knew their history, and the questions and answers were enlightening.

I asked “Thoreau” if he could comment on his writing process.  “He” told me that it was Emerson who taught him to use journals, then reminded me that he (Thoreau) was a great walker and observer. Often, he said, he would wait to get home to write in his journals, but sometimes, he would stop mid-walk and think and write. “You know,” he said, “walking while outwardly observing nature is a part of my writing, but writing is a great inward process and I have walked a thousand miles within my self.”

 “Thoreau” made several references to places he called by name as swamps. At home, my brother got out a map of “Thoreau’s Concord” to show us that when Thoreau went walking  in one of his beloved “swamps”- the one he named that was  between his home and the church - it brought him through Bob and Judy’s back yard.

We Sold the Casita, But Not the Dog

As the little 17 foot trailer left the driveway, we waved it off with good wishes and great memories. The new owners were enthusiastic about the adventures it would open for them, and knowing it was going into good hands sweetened the sale for us.

Eight years ago, we picked the Casita up in Rice, Texas and drove immediately to Austin to learn from my cousin how to transform the table  into a bed, deal with delicacies like emptying the latrine, and the art of securing doors, windows and vents for travel.

Then off we went each year on trips as far west as Arizona and east to Nova Scotia.
Along with our two sixty-five pound dogs, we learned to fit and function in the little space.

Once, somewhere out west, I was inside a convenience store while Bud was outside pumping gas. Another customer came in and said to the clerk, " Did you see that tiny rig out there from Pennsylvania?  I don't know how they fit, but the guy has two big dogs that go with it."  "Plus me," I said.

At other gas stations and grocery stores, strangers asked if they could come in and look around.

In all our travels, we tested its heater in December in the Rockies, the air conditioner in Arizona, and cooking capabilities across the land.  When we stopped to visit friends and relatives we turned down their offers of guest rooms and spacious baths, and stayed in the Casita.

It was cozy and had everything we needed.

It served us well, but we hadn't really used it much in the last two years.  We almost sold it twice last year, but both deals fell through and we never tried very hard to find another.

This time, though, it was so syncronistic around the sale to the new folks, that it felt like it was suppose to be theirs.

And they bought it for all the right reasons - to get out there and enjoy a new adventure in life!

Looking at Fundy Houses

Every year, Deanne Fitzpatrick and I do one or two  art days and they vary each time.  Once, we took an encaustic workshop on Nova Scotia's south shore. Another year, we did a weekend of painting and eating near Pugwash. We've also gone to special exhibits, and artist's studios for inspiration and artistic exchanges

One day we visited  a nun who carves large abstract pieces. Her studio was a dusty marvel of poignant sculpture that spoke volumes. Large circular statements were connected with enormous metal chains ... and were beautiful!

I had met the nun at her art installation at a university nearby and she invited me to come to her studio. On the day we went to her place in an idylic New Brunswick village by a meandering  river, our stay ended with tea in the ?? nunnery? Is that what we call it?  I had never been to such a place, but its austerity reminded me of Amish homes I'd visited when we lived in Pennsylvania.

This year we decided to go to the Fundy coast between Parrsboro and Advocate.  We'd visit Krista Wells, an artist friend in Dilligent River, then go for  a meal at the Wild Caraway in Advocate. We'd talk art with Krista about art and technology, then  focus on photography.










This is a  shore I visit frequently. It's a shore I love.  Our first dog was named Fundy. The sea is amazing and I've photographed it frequently.  I decided, on this trip, to look at the structures, the architecture, the details of things built to contain and serve the humanity and animals who inhabit it.
It's a place to love, to document, to keep in my heart in the special category of " return to as often as you can"

Just Enjoy Your Life

I've been taking a writing class this summer with Harry Thurston, a well known Canadian author and a neighbor and friend.

One of our assignments was to write about something magical that happened in your life.  I narrowed it down to three incidents. One, involving a monk in an elevator in Albuquerque just seemed to beg to be enhanced and so I turned it into a short story.

The actual incident was real.  About 8 years ago, I checked in to the Albuquerque Hilton a day before my friends Kathy and Carol were arriving there from Pennsylvania.  I was coming from Colorado, and I can't remember why I arrived early. Our plan was to go to Santa Fe and furnish Kathy's newly purchased condo.  When I checked in to the Hilton, there was a large spirituality conference going on, and after wandering around among the booths and book stalls, I got on the elevator to go up to my room.  The elevator was filled with people from the conference, talking enthusiastically about the sessions they had attended.

The last person to get on was a tall, broad monk in a long orange robe.  As the elevator whined its way up to our floors, only the monk and I were quiet.  When it got to the fifth floor, the door opened, the monk stepped out, turned and lifted his arm to hold the elevator door open.  He looked at each one of us, waited till everyone stopped talking, got eye contact with each one of us and said,

" Just enjoy your life, that's all there is."

 Then he let the door close,  turned, and walked away.

Just enjoy your life, that's all there is!

My story goes from there, and stays in the magical vein that I felt on that elevator on that day.

In the  writing class with Harry, he gave some great comments, but asked, " Does the monk have to keep coming back?" ( In my short story, the monk keeps coming back, mostly through messages.)
I said yes, the monk had to keep coming back or there was no story.

Since the class, in my real life, the monk and his message keeps coming back in all sorts of mysterious  ways, and I'm choosing to keep living in the magic of "Just enjoying my life."

 I did this  illustration on my ipad - drawing it with my finger and printing it to give away. My latest "monkish" adventure was to make it into a wine label for our newest batch of wine.

Happy 104th Birthday, Virginia

The mother of my friend, Heather Ricker Gilbert, turns 104 today!  Virginia is an unforgettable character and I have a stash of  memories of  her. 

She was a professor of English at Penn State, and you knew you'd "arrived"  when you made it onto her Christmas Tea list. 

When Heather got her Doctorate in Education, Virginia gave a party for her.

Bud and I were invited, but we had a conflict. We had already made plans to go to Nova Scotia and we really wanted to get our vacation started.  I talked with Heather and said we'd have our own private celebration with her when we got back. She was fine with our going.  

That was the easy part.  Next, I'd have to call Virginia with my regrets.

I told Virginia that because we were leaving for Nova Scotia a few days before the party, we'd be unable to come.

"Nancy," she said, "it isn't that you're unable to come to Heather's party, it's that you choose not to come to Heather’s party"

Whoa, Virginia, I still liked you in spite of that uncomfortable moment and right now I'm choosing to come and see you next month in State College.  

Happy 104th Birthday!