Author: Lynda Jones

Posted on

Osprey, Neto and Me

I love the osprey who spend summers on a tower at the edge of a pond at the Boulder Country Fairgrounds. The resident osprey pair fly in from separate far-away places about the middle of March. And the drama begins. 

Some of us follow the osprey every year, hoping for eggs to hatch and healthy baby birds who learn to fly.

 We don’t know where the osprey spend their winters and we wait anxiously for their arrival. We worry that they may not both arrive safely. Usually the pair arrives on different days. The fun begins as we watch them get to know each other once again. 

The osprey are bonded as a pair until one of them dies. Only then do they find a new partner.

It’s a policy not to name the osprey who return to Boulder every spring. But if they had names, they would be Lynda and Ernesto.

Neto and I are very much like the osprey. For one thing, I’m older than he is. We live far apart, in two separate countries, and once a year we meet up in a familiar place. We try to arrive on the same day, but never at the same time. When we get together, we trade stories about places we’ve been and people we knew together. I imagine that’s what the osprey do, too.

The birds spend time remodeling their nest and making sure they have food. The female shrieks, “Food… Food! I’m hungry. Bring me a big fat fish!” And Ernesto leaves the tower and swoops down to find a fish for them to share.

Nights are especially tender as they share space on their perch, high in the sky, and watch sunset together. 

This year both osprey arrived at the nest on the same day. That’s where mine and Neto’s story differ from the osprey pair. I arrived in Puerto Vallarta on Sunday, April 9, after an especially easy travel day. Friends met me at the airport and took me to lunch before I checked into Las Palomas, the sweet little hotel where Neto and I stay before going by bus to Mazatlán.

While my trip was easy and predictable, Neto’s journey was simply horrible. He boarded the bus in Mazatlán at 10:45 p.m., Saturday night, expecting to arrive in Puerto Vallarta five hours ahead of me. He slept all the way to the state of Nayarit. He awoke when two inspectors boarded his bus in front of a clinic, near the bus terminal in Tepic. It was 3:30 a.m.

“We believe some people on this bus have Covid,” the inspectors announced. “Everyone needs to be tested.” 

At 5:30 a.m., the inspectors allowed the young people to exit the bus, believing that only people over the age of fifty-five might be sick. A few elderly people in the front of the bus were coughing. Neto began to think he had a fever.

Passengers had to surrender their ID’s. They were not allowed to talk to each other or make calls on their telephones. Neto texted me to say he was going to be late. The passengers sat quietly on the bus for four more hours, until 9:30 a.m, when employees of the clinic boarded the bus and began testing people.

 At noon the passengers were informed that they all tested positive for Covid and would be quarantined for 24 hours. My plane was scheduled to arrive in ten minutes.

All the passengers were escorted off the bus and into the clinic. They were given a cot  and a sandwich. I received only sporadic texts from Neto, and most of them were too cryptic to understand. Was he really sick? Was he contagious? Should I catch a plane back to Denver?

I didn’t hear Neto’s voice again until noon on Monday, when he was allowed to make a phone call and leave the clinic. He was not allowed to get on a bus to Puerto Vallarta because, after all, he tested positive for Covid. 

Neto caught a taxi to a different bus company and decided to take a bus to Guadalajara. At 5:00 p.m, Monday afteroon,I received a text from Neto. He was in Guadalajara and expected to meet me at the hotel  in six hours, by 11:00 p.m. 

By midnight, Neto still wasn’t at our hotel. I called him. His bus was not the newer, faster, express bus that travels on the toll road. Instead, it was an older, slower bus that stopped in every small town to pick up more passengers.

At 3:00 a.m, Tuesday morning,  a lovely hotel security guard walked Neto to our room, where I was waiting for him. The trip, which normally takes less than eight  hours, took more than fifty-two. I was as happy as an osprey to see him again! It had been a long, hard flight!!

 

Posted on

Doc Evans

My father, Bob Jones, worked an average of 72 hours/week as a pharmacist at Swanson Drug on the east side of St. Paul. He worked three nights a week until 10:00 p.m. and every other weekend. On the Sundays he wasn’t working, we went to my grandparents’ house for dinner. My mother wasn’t happy about the arrangement, but I loved seeing my grandparents and my Aunt Margaret every two weeks.

When my grandparents died in the mid-50’s, we needed a new place to go. My dad found the perfect replacement: The Rampart Club in Mendota, Minnesota. Doc Evans, a local Dixieland celebrity, played there during the week. On Sunday afternoons, he opened the restaurant to families with children. There was free popcorn and pizza for sale. The restaurant smelled of beer and cigarette smoke. My most vivid memory, however, was the sound of toe-tapping, happy music.

My father was a pharmacist, but he was also a trumpet player. Someone stole his trumpet while he was in the Navy, and we never had enough money for him to get another one.  For years, Dad rode the streetcar to work. We were one of the last families to get a television. Any extra money went to pay for piano lessons.

When my grandparents died, they left my parents enough money to pay off our mortgage ($9000.00) and to buy my Dad a trumpet. Because we no longer went to my grandparents’ home on Sundays, there was time and money for family trips to the Rampart Club

These are some of my happiest memories. Doc’s band was one of the best in the Twin Cities, an area known as a mecca for good musicians. Doc was an excellent cornet player and band leader. You can still hear his music at: www.docevans.com. 

Two musicians, in addition to Doc, stand out for me. One was a blind piano player named Dick Rambert. It was the first time I realized that someone could “play by ear.” It was a skill that our teacher, Sister Aimee, strictly forbid. She insisted that we read music, instead, “like real musicians.”

The other musician who made us smile (and sometimes laugh out loud!) was Red Maddock. Red was a drummer and singer. He was also a clown. Doc, a serious musician, wanted us learn about the songs he played each Sunday. While Doc was teaching us music history, Red would sit behind him, twirling his drumsticks and making faces. Some of his songs had bawdy lyrics that only the adults understood.

Occasionally, other musicians would join Doc on Sunday afternoons. Harry Blons, a wonderful clarinetist, and Hod Russell, an incredible piano player, would sometimes add to the fun. Harry had his own band and Hod was his regular piano player. When they joined forces with Doc Evans’ band, the music was fantastic.

At some point on Sunday afternoons, Doc would announce it was time for “Name That Tune.” My father cringed. There never was a Dixieland song that he couldn’t identify just by hearing the first four notes, but he was too shy to shout out the answer. He pretended he didn’t know the answer or that he needed to go to the bar and order us a pizza.

Dad should have whispered the name of the song to my brother who would have gladly shouted out the answer. I was in Dad’s camp, being every bit as shy as he was. I would have rather cut off my right arm than raise it in the air.

After an unfortunate incident with Sister Aimee, in which she finally lost patience with me and slapped me ~ HARD ~ across my face, my father finally broke his silence and actually spoke. He called Sister Aimee on the phone and told her I would not be returning to classical piano lessons. Then he called Hod Russell and asked if he had room in his schedule for one more student. ME!! I was ecstatic. No more Beethoven!  My days of auditions and recitals were over. I was going to play Basin Street Blues and St. James Infirmary.

Thanks Doc! And Dad! And Hod Russell! You changed my life. Your music always made me smile.

Posted on

Eagle’s Birthday

 

I went to a very special birthday party a week ago. My friend, Eagle, turned forty-six. Eagle’s mom, Georgann, hosted a party at Old Chicago Pizza for twenty-five of Eagle’s friends. It was a great gathering of friends and loyal supporters. The only person missing was Eagle’s sister, Jennifer, who called in via FaceTime from her home in North Carolina.

I loved meeting Eagle’s friends. Steve, Andy and Colleen are Eagle’s dear friends from pre-school. Others, like Chaurice and Debbie, are good friends from elementary school. Eagle’s massage therapist, Lizzie, came with her two children. A lot of family friends, including the family doctor, were there because they love Eagle and wanted to wish him a happy birthday.

Eagle got his name when he was born. Georgann and Jim Hall talked about having another child when Jim achieved his Air Force Colonel’s rank. “When Jim puts on his Colonel’s Eagle insignia, we will add a little eaglet to our family,” Georgann told all their friends. Eagle was born three years later. 

Eagle’s birth was difficult. He didn’t cry immediately and needed to have fluid suctioned from his lungs.  He was whisked away to the Neonatal ICU, where all the nurses referred to him as “Baby Eagle” and described his as “strong, determined, tough, and wants to live.” Eagle has been his his name ever since. He is still determined to meet every challenge that life puts in front of him.

Life hasn’t always been easy for Eagle. He had numerous surgeries at a toddler, including one to rebuild his windpipe. His father, B. Gen. Jim Hall, died in 2014, after a long illness. Both Eagle and Georgann have ongoing medical concerns that require frequent monitoring. They have shown amazing resilience, throughout, and always smile and live their lives with tenacity and grace.

Eagle graduated from special education at Overland High School in 1996. Now he lives in his own apartment and works the three busiest hours of the day in the kitchen at Anschutz hospital. He likes to write and loves watching sports and current events on TV.

He is on a Special Olympics bowling team and belongs to a weekly men’s group with his friends. Eagle and his friends like going to community activities before getting something to eat. He is a wiz at using the computer, and navigates his cell phone better than a lot of people I know. Eagle loves learning new things and helping others learn, as well. He is a kind, patient, enthusiastic teacher.

Georgann made a beautiful speech at Eagle’s party, thanking everyone for being there. “You’ve been with us through the worst of times and the best of times,” Georgann noted. She gave credit to the school programs that were available to the whole family. Although I didn’t know Eagle when he was in school, I worked in the same district. I agreed with Georgann that Eagle was fortunate to work with some of the best teachers and mental health professionals I’ve ever known.

The most important thing to know about Eagle now, is that he is incredibly cheerful. He believes it is his job to learn to take of himself. He loves people and makes lifelong friends wherever he goes.

Happy Birthday, Dear Sweet Eagle! Happy Birthday to you! 

Birthday photos by Debbie Harrington.

Posted on

I Love My Uber Drivers

I love my Uber drivers! If I could, I would live in a community of nothing but Uber drivers. They are friendly and smart. They hard-working and interesting to talk to. And, for the most part, they are unrelentingly cheerful.

In September, 2022, I sold my car. It was a cute 2015 red Juke. It was a nice car but I was tired of driving. I was tired of traffic. I was tired of people honking at me, for no reason at all.

I did the math. I drove less than 6000 miles/year and I paid a lot of money for insurance, gas, and maintenance. And then I hit a “no left turn” sign. You’re right! I hit the sign, just as I tried to turn left.

The paramedics who came were kind and helpful. One directed traffic as the other one dislodged my car from the sign post. I wasn’t hurt but I was embarrassed as I took my car to the body shop for repair. That’s when I decided I was ready to turn in my keys.

I sold my my car for $16,000.00. That’s a lot of Uber rides! So far I’ve had only one not-so-great experience. The driver yelled at me when I pointed out an easier way to take me home. I hate being yelled at. I spoke up and told him that if he wanted a tip, he’d better not yell at me. He was quiet for the rest of the way, but then he gave me a “one star” review as a rider, making sure he’d never have to drive me anywhere again.

I love that my drivers are from all over the world. They remind me of my Airbnb guests. My favorites are the drivers from Africa and Mexico. They have great stories about how they came to the United States and how their families have adjusted to being here.

I usually choose Uber Green because I like to support electric cars. And, mostly, because a lot of those cars are Teslas. Tesla has an agreement with Uber to rent cars to drivers for a nominal fee. I’ve ridden in Teslas of every color.  Often I have a different driver, with a different color Tesla, on both legs of my trip. I tell people “I traded my Nisson for a Tesla.”

I’m glad I decided to sell my car and stop driving. After sixty years behind the wheel, I love being in the passenger seat. When I reach my destination, I say goodbye to the driver with the same speech every time.

“Thank you for getting me safely to my destination. I’ve enjoyed riding with you. I will probably never see you again, but I’d be happy if I did. In the meantime, I will hold you in my heart for the rest of today.” And then I add, “Please give me five stars.”

Posted on

The Luck of the Irish

I have always thought that the Mexican people and the Irish had a lot in common. In addition to being from devoutly Catholic countries with a distinct tendency toward alcoholism, they both have some of the worst luck in the world. They just don’t know it.

I am lucky to be one-fourth Irish. That comes from my dear Grandmother, Irene Fay Jones. My grandmother and her family were Irish to the core.

I was also lucky to marry into an Irish family. My mother-in-law, Dorothy Gorman Hein, was my mother, too. Her sister, Margaret Gorman Gessing, was my beloved aunt. 

Irene and Dorothy had a lot in common: Both lost their fathers at a very young age. Dorothy’s father died in the flu epidemic of 1918, when she was eight years old. Irene’s father was crushed between two boxcars, working for the railroad, when she was eleven. 

Both Irene and Dorothy grew-up poor, raised by single mothers at a time when jobs for women were scarce. They both became hard-working, brave women who loved their spouses, their children and their grandchildren. Both Irene and Dorothy had sisters who were their best friends, and both married men who were stable, hard-working, and NOT Irish. Irene and Dorothy also loved to drink, now and then. Dorothy and Margaret drank wine out of a pretty glasses. Irene drank whiskey, with her sister Ruth, out of lovely porcelain cups.

St. Patrick’s Day was the most important day of the year for Dorothy and Margaret. They had their own booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern in downtown Denver. They arrived early and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe.

 

I don’t know if Irene Fay was proud of her Irish heritage. My Welsh grandfather didn’t approve of her wild Irish family. Too often the Fays were in trouble with the law and Grandpa was embarrassed when their names appeared, yet again, in the local newspaper.

Irene Fay was a serious woman. She married my grandfather, Robert Jones, when she was seventeen and he was twenty-four. Grandpa was a studious, sober Welshman, who never drank a drop of alcohol. Irene’s younger sister, Ruth Fay, was Grandma’s opposite. Ruth was fun-loving, friendly, exceptionally pretty and always ready for the next drink, even if it wasn’t legal.

Ruth married Johnny Quinn in the St. Paul Cathedral in 1923, three years after the start of prohibition. I can only assume it was a Roaring 20’s courtship, filled with music, dancing, and bootleg liquor. Ruthie’s hair was short, she dressed as a flapper and she loved to drive a car. Johnny was a small-built, dapper, charming Irishman.

As a child, I loved to hear Johnny and Ruth tell stories of gangsters running out the back door of their house. I grew up hearing stories of machine guns hidden in guitar cases, of people being gunned down in the streets, of crooked policemen and gangsters “with a heart of gold.”  Uncle Johnny taught my sister how to shoot Craps when she was seven years old.

Johnny Quinn killed a man at the Green Lantern Saloon in St. Paul in 1931. He said it was self-defense, but it probably wasn’t. Grandma’s brother, Frank Fay, and her brother-in-law, George Hurley, were also implicated in the Green Lantern “situation.”  Johnny was eventually convicted of the murder and spent time in the Stillwater, Minnesota prison before being pardoned by the governor. Meanwhile, Frank escaped to Canada, and George ran away to California. 

I wish I could tell you that Johnny and Ruth lived a straight life after he returned home from prison, but that wouldn’t be true. Prohibition was repealed, so they needed to find another business. They bought a small dry-cleaning business in St. Paul, and set up an illegal gambling operation in the back room. They ran that business until Uncle Johnny died of natural causes in 1963.

Aunt Ruth lived fifteen more years after Johnny died. She outlived my grandmother by twenty-two years. Ruth was always the life of the party. She was always beautiful. Always everyone’s favorite aunt. Always a baseball fan. Always generous.  And like the Gorman sisters ~ Dorothy and Margaret ~ Aunt Ruth was always ready with a laugh and another story.

I was lucky to have Irish men and women in my life. They taught me to work hard. To believe in leprechauns and four-leaf clovers. To ask for forgiveness, instead of permission. To look for fun and laughter. To make music and tell stories. And to take a drink, every now and then. Everyone should be so lucky.

Posted on

Leaving Mexico

Two weeks ago, on my way to the airport, I was giddy with excitement, knowing I was going back to my happy place ~ being with Ernesto in Mexico. I couldn’t wait to get there.

I pictured seeing the ocean again and smelling the wonderful salty air. Watching sunsets over the Pacific.  Having breakfast on the patio. Swimming in the pool. Taking long walks after dinner, when the nights were cool, through the beautiful grounds of our rental community.

None of this happened. Once we arrived in Mazatlán, Ernesto disappeared. I was lucky to see him a couple of hours of day. I never saw the ocean or swam in the pool. I watched glorious sunsets from my bedroom window, before the world went dark.

Ernesto made excuses for his absence. He had to work. He quit his job and needed to wait at the job site for a final paycheck. He wanted to meet with an attorney to find out which of his brothers had taken out a loan and used his mother’s house as collateral. He was beaten up by thugs who demanded he turn the house over to them. He had to go to the social security office to apply for a pension. He lost his phone. None of this was true.

Twice Ernesto was gone for more than 24 hours. I didn’t know where he was. I knew I was safe but I didn’t know if he was. My Spanish isn’t good enough to survive on my own. My lack of a sense of direction is legendary. I wanted to go for a walk but I was afraid I wouldn’t find my way home in a community where all the streets and homes look alike.

In the few hours when Neto was home and not asleep, our conversations were ugly. Neto was quiet and kind,  telling me what he thought would keep me from screaming at him. I was not rational. I didn’t mince words. I was bitter and angry. I barely recognized myself. I thought some crazy woman was sitting on the couch in my place. I knew that things were not going to get better. 

Tuesday, when Neto again didn’t come home overnight, I went to the airport, bought a last minute ticket and left. Neto called me from a pay phone as I was on my way to the airport. I told him I was leaving and asked him to go to our Airbnb rental and pick up his things.

On Wednesday, Neto texted me to let me know he is in residential treatment again for drugs and alcohol. Those of you who have read Neto’s story know that these are demons that have chased him all his life. 

Did I suspect that Neto had relapsed? No, I didn’t. He was clean for such a long time. He hasn’t abused drugs for almost 20 years. He’s been sober for ten. But I knew Neto was lying when he said he lost his phone. There were other things he said that were fishy but I never suspected he was using pills and alcohol. 

I am glad Ernesto is in treatment and getting help. Services for addicts in Mexico are available and good. Neto has been in rehab before and has made it work ~ but it is hard work.

I believe that Ernesto will work hard in order to be clean and sober again. And I have work to do, too. Our time together was a nightmare. I was like someone out of a horror movie. I really was! 

Ernesto was selfish and deceptive. My response was frightening. I never want to be that person again. I said horrible things in language that was shocking. Now that I am away and now that Neto has finally told the truth, I know that both of us reacted in ways that are understandable ~ but unacceptable. We both have a lot of healing to do. It all starts with telling the truth.

Posted on

A Rough Beginning

I landed in Puerto Vallarta on Sunday, October 2nd. I knew it would be rough because there were warnings of a Category 4 hurricane up the coast, from Puerto Vallarta to Mazatlan. I didn’t know how rough the beginning would actually be.

First the hurricane. My plane landed on time, without incident. Neto took off from Mazatlán the night before. Usually his bus ride to Puerto Vallarta takes seven hours. Because of the hurricane, his ride took seventeen.

I heard from Neto after my plane had landed and he was still four hours outside of  Puerto Vallarta. He’d been on the bus all night, while the bus was battered with wind and rain. Roads were washed out by mudslides. I waited sitting in the only chair I could find, at the Subway restaurant inside the airport.

We spent the next two nights at Las Palomas, a lovely small hotel in Tondoroque, across the road from the crocodile farm and Flamingos golf course.

Tuesday morning the weather was beautiful. The hurricane missed Mazatlan but hit Rosario, a small town south of Mazatlán. By the time it made landfall, the hurricane was downgraded to a Category 1. Roads and fields were flooded but damage was minimal.

We went to the bus station early Tuesday morning and bought two tickets to Tepic. The ticket agent assured us that we could get a connecting bus in Tepic and be in Mazatlán by 4:00. Not so.

We arrived in Tepic and was told that there was only one seat available on the bus to Mazatlán. Another bus would be available in three hours, at 2:15. p.m. 

We waited outside, eagerly watching for bus #2008 to arrive on time. Aye, no! An official looking woman let us know that the bus coming from Guadalajara had a flat tire. 

“It will be here in two hours,” she assured us. I should have known better. Mexican people are famous for telling you what they think you want to hear, rather than what is actually happening. It was almost 5:00 by the time bus #2008 arrived. We were still four hours from Mazatlán.

Ernesto called our host throughout the day, to let her know we were going to be late. When we arrived the host told us she couldn’t meet us.

“I’m sorry but I have a commitment at my son’s school.” Really?? By this time it was 10:0, on a Tuesday night.

Between Ernesto and the taxi driver, we were able to get through two security gates and find the key to our unit. It was not at all what I expected.

The kitchen cupboards were broken. Doors were off their hinges and the drawers wouldn’t close. Living room furniture was dirty and worn. There is a washing machine but no dryer. The patio is not warm and inviting. In fact, it is downright ugly. The host has mostly 5-Star ratings. I thought we were in the wrong house.

That’s when Ernesto let me know that his boss called and he needed to go to work “for a few hours.” He arrived home at 9:00 the next morning. The security guard who was supposed to relieve him, never showed up. Neto has no access to his phone at work and I had no idea where he was.

“All the guards stayed home during the hurricane and never came back,” he explained the next morning.

The same day (Wednesday) when we were going to go to the store for groceries, Ernesto was called into work at 3:00 p.m. His boss promised him double pay and reduced hours. He made a quick trip to the local convenience store for a loaf of bread, some mayonnaise and a package of Chihuahua cheese for sandwiches. 

“I should be home by 10:00.” By now, you know what happens next. Neto wasn’t home by 10:00 p.m. He was home by 10:00 the next morning. I told him to quit the job. 

“Don’t expect to be paid,” I told him. “We’ve been through this before.”

On Thursday, Neto went to work, cleaned out his locker and resigned. He waited until 5:00 to pick up his final paycheck, which never arrived. None of the other guards were paid either. They are all still waiting.

On Friday, Neto got up early, in search of his paycheck. While he was at the job site, he decided to go for a swim in the ocean.  We still hadn’t been to get groceries. I was out of patience. We were out of food. I hadn’t seen the swimming pool.

I sent pictures of the broken cabinets to the Airbnb host and told her we were not responsible for the damage. I made myself yet another cheese sandwich. I was a screaming banshee. I told Neto I was miserable and wanted to go home. 

But today is better. We finally made it to Walmart for food. I’ve seen the pool and it is lovely. I’m looking forward to a more promising week ahead.

Posted on

I Loved Lucy

My friend, Lucy, died last week.

Lucy and I moved into Heather Gardens Building 210 the same week and we quickly became friends. In a building where most people stay hidden behind closed doors, Lucy was an exception. She was out and about every day. A day without Lucy was a day without sunshine!

Here are the Top Ten Things I will miss most about her.

#10. Her wicked sense of humor. She loved telling me whenever there had been “a murder on the golf course.” She was referring to a goose who had been killed, usually by a coyote. She took me see the murder scene. We never found the goose but the area was littered with  feathers. I helped Lucy gather up the feathers to take home, much to the chagrin of her family, who are still cleaning feathers out of her apartment.

#9. Her laugh. Lucy was often the first person I would see in the morning. Her big smile and hearty laugh always started my day out right.

#8. Her stamina. Lucy walked all day long. She put more miles on her walker than I did on my car. 

#7. Her stories about growing up in Texas. Lucy was a great story-teller. She had a big life and her stories of rodeos and boarding school were magical to me. I grew up in Minnesota, where life is “pretty friggin’ boring” as Lucy was fond of saying.

#6. Her authenticity. Lucy told it like it was. There was no bull-shit from Lucy. 

And #5 … no filters. She maybe never had any filters. I found it refreshing to hear her swear every now and then. I hope this isn’t new information to any of you who knew her. I’m losing some of my filters, too.

#4. Her genuine love of people. Lucy made friends wherever she went. One day she sat on a bench with a new friend. They had such a good conversation, the woman gave her one of her old straw cowboy hats to wear. Lucy wore her new cowboy hat all day long, as she pushed her walker up and down the sidewalk.

#3. Her ability to amuse herself, especially when it was challenging to do so. She talked to her cat. She called dumpster-diving “my new hobby” and was delighted when she found a new treasure to haul home. She watched squirrels steal food from her bird feeder. She took special delight knowing that bird feeders are against the rules at Heather Gardens.

And #2. Lucy didn’t mind breaking the rules. I only wish she had lived a little longer, so we could break a few more.

#1. Her love for her cat. But mostly her love for her family ~ two daughters, one son, and her grandchildren. She loved above them all.

Adios, mi amiga. Vaya con Dios!

Posted on

A Gaggle of Geese

Now it is fall. A totally  different season for me to admire from my balcony and my daily walks through the golf course.

There are still leaves on the trees, although they are beginning to drift toward the ground.

There are still golfers, although a lot fewer of them every day. Their days start later and end sooner. Instead of wearing bright shirts and cute shorts, they arrive in sweatshirts and long pants..

Squirrels still chase each other along the paths and tease the dogs. A few ducks still swim in the ponds. Some things never change.

 

Something else that doesn’t change are the geese that peck their way through the grass and poop on the sidewalks all day, every day. Legend  is that there are about seventy geese that make Heather Gardens their permanent home.

I like the geese. I like their bad-ass ways. I like their swagger and the fact that they own the place. The own the sand traps and the putting greens. They own the roads and the ponds. Although they still prefer to waddle and swim in follow-the-leader lines, they aren’t practicing for a flight to a warmer climate. They have found a warmer climate and they are staying put.

I will miss the geese and this beautiful view while I am in Mexico. I will miss the smell of fresh-cut grass, and greeting the dog-walkers on my path.  I will miss the crisp early-morning air.

But I won’t miss dodging goose-poop.

Photo by Joan Obeslo, Bldg. 210, Heath Gardens

 

Posted on

Mexican Brownies

When I lived in Mexico, I couldn’t wait until the weather cooled enough to light the oven. I made these brownies as a special treat for two Finland boys who lived with us for nine months while they attended Spanish language school. Mika said they were the best brownies he’d ever eaten. The cinnamon gives a Mexican flavor to the brownies. There wasn’t be a single brownie left in the pan the next morning.

 

1, Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease an 8 x 8 inch baking pan.

2. Cut into small slivers: 3 ounces of semi-sweet baking chocolate.

3. Melt in the microwave: 1/2 cup butter (1 stick.) Add the chocolate and stir until melted and smooth.

4. Stir in:

  • 1 cup brown sugar
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt

5. Add and stir until combined:

  • 2 large, beaten eggs
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla

6. Add and stir until combined:

  • 2/3 cup all purpose flour 
  • 1/2 tablespoon ground cinnamon

7. Fold in: 1 cup semi-sweet or milk chocolate chips

Scrape the batter into the prepared pans. 

Bake for 20-25 minutes. Let cool completely before cutting into squares.