Saturday, August 8, 2009
Hymns For Real Life
Saturday morning and the crickets are buzzing with either news or heat. If it's news, I don't know what about. Things look the same to me but maybe that's what they're saying.
Same, same, same. Hot, hot, hot. Sing, sing, sing.
The Church of Batshit Crazy meets daily here in Lloyd. We don't wait for Sundays, uh-huh.
The flowers are on the altar every day, begonia blooms right now, and impatiens, and the phlox are still serious about the color lavender.
Just went out to check on the chickens and there were no blood sacrifices in the night. Mr. Moon laughs at me for cutting up grapes to feed them. "Expensive chicken food!" he sniffs. But when we get out there, he loves feeding them by hand as much as I do. Having done a little bit of web surfing on the subject of chickens I have learned one thing for sure: Kathleen and I are not the only people who are in love with their chickens. People ADORE their chickens. They watch TV with them. On the couch. And I don't have one bit of a problem with the obvious- I have refilled my empty nest with fourteen chickens.
(Mabel- or, as the young ones call her, She Who Will Destroy Us)
(Suzie- Perhaps. My he-she bird.)
(The babies- from L to R- Penny, Lucille, Buttercup, Shalayla, Elmira.)
Yeah. I love my chickens. So what?
Still no eggs but I am keeping empty egg cartons on the top of the refrigerator for the day in which they start to appear. I am going to have so many eggs! Eggs for us, eggs for the children, eggs for Petit Fleur. Eggs for all! You betcha!
Every day will start with an egg hunt which will be another ritual in the Church of BSC.
Things are rolling right along here. The AC parts which needed to be replaced a few weeks ago came in and two fellas came over and took apart this unit and put it all back together like a comedy team. They were amusing and cute but the damn thing is that they obviously didn't do it right because one night of great, cool air was followed last night by not-very-cool air so the freon is escaping. Now here's the thing- everyone that works on this unit says, "Wow. I've never even worked on one of these. They never break."
Our compressor went out the second day it was in operation and we've had one problem after another ever since. One of the guys said it was made in Mexico so I'm thinking it was made on Seis de Mayo and hangovers were involved. Quien sabe?
Well, what are you going to do?
We left Mexico one week ago today and that just seems like a dream I dreamed when I was dreaming. That dreamy. That far removed from my reality. About this time last week we were sitting in the patio area of the place we were staying, ordering a breakfast of avocado, bacon and cheese omelets and listening to an American woman grilling some poor guy on whether or not the pool (which was as clean, clear and blue as the Caribbean beside it) had chlorine in it to "kill the bacteria" and whether the fruit had been washed in purified water. She was wearing a resort outfit with hat, turquoise blouse and matching earrings and necklace. "Are you sure?" she kept asking. Like a place that hosted hundreds of tourists a day wouldn't do everything in their power to make sure that their guests not only had a great time but lived to come back and do it all again. "Si, si, is all purified," the guy kept saying earnestly.
"Lady!" I said, because I CANNOT SHUT UP NO MATTER WHAT. "The pool has chlorine in it. You can smell it." She seemed satisfied with this information because I WAS AMERICAN.
I sighed, knowing that I was about to return to the good old US of A where of course no one ever gets sick from eating fruit or drinking water. Or swimming in a pool. We ate our perfect omelets and the iguanas rustled in the bougainvillea beside us and the sea sparkled and I knew the tiny neon fishes were swimming and darting and nibbling and pooping in the reef and I cried, knowing I wouldn't be back in such a long time to see them.
And this morning for breakfast I had some twiggy cereal with soy milk and a regular old banana and that omelet I ate with salsa is as much a dream as the breeze in the palm trees, the red banana and mango I sliced and served with yogurt drinks on the balcony of our room one morning in Mexico. The best mango and banana I ever ate, without a doubt, and which I had bought at the new Mega Store where Mr. Moon and I danced to the piped-in music, much to the amusement of all.
Which is fine. Here I am, sweating on my porch which is a nice place to be, waiting for one of the children to call me up and ask me for help.
Kids? Need any help? Call me.
Let it ring. I'll probably be out in the yard, picking up branches and pulling weeds and fooling around with the chickens. The Church of Batshit Crazy is tuning up again. And instead of parakeets in cages at the mini golf
We have juvenile cardinals at the feeder.
Instead of giant iguanas
We have giant spiders.
Instead of palm trees and splashing fountains
We have Bradford Pears and a chicken coop.
The chorus is already humming and buzzing and so let's all join in.
Come on. You know the words:
Same, same, same. Hot, hot, hot. Sing, sing, sing.
Don't forget the chorus:
Sweet, sweet, sweet. Dulce, dulce, dulce.
The sweet, sweet life. La vita dulce dulce.
Same words, different language. Different sights, same heartfelt gratitude for them all. Let's raise our voices in praise. To whom, I'm not sure and I don't think it matters. Ixchel, Sweet Mama Virgin (as if) or Great Turtle Mother. Hell, you can even praise a manly god if you want to. Praise 'em all, have a hot flash, drink some coffee, eat a mango, dance in the grocery store, smell the chlorine, go pick the cucumbers, think about getting some chickens, put on your overalls, wear your silver, kiss your lover, be reassured that all is well and good and that the AC will be fixed again some day and meanwhile, sweating won't kill you. I swear.