Wednesday, 21 June 2017

A few words to try to see if the saddle is cinched right....

     We have the never ending problem about trying to gain possession of our photos due to the very, very peculiar process we must use.   We have to render our photos into some cavern deep inside the computer, then start trying to recover them.  That means finding my desired picture and then posting it to Facebook, then sending from Facebook to "downloads" so as to be able to then "select" the picture for posting on the blog.
     At times we can copy and paste the photo directly onto the blog manuscript, although not dependably.

     The blooms above are part of what is called a "rebrote" which in English means a "re-blossoming".   It is the "second blush" of the Flamboyan trees that are the signature of the beginning of Summer in the Mexican eastern tropics.  This year there were relatively heavy rains during the original blossoming and that seems to cause a second pass at the apple, so to speak.

     We have seven of these trees on our lot, ranging from small medium (15 feet) to relatively large for their age trees of 16 years reaching up to 30 feet or a little more.  The one pictured above is a smaller one that provides shade and colour near our little "cochera" (carport) in front of the Quinta Tesoro de la Sierra Madre.   The trees are normally about a time and a half wider in diameter than they are tall.    Lots of dried twigs in the early Winter, and lots of falling leaves right around Christmastide, but it all seems to be worth it.

     We had a bit of a contretemps about a week ago when I lost the absolute control over my legs, below the knees, and to a lesser extent of my forearms and hands.   Figuring my number was up, and I would rather sing the last  verses of Happy Trails up in the Adobe Hut, I began to try to trudge up from the banks of the Rio Corona, but such was not to be.
This is right where Prieto the Dog
 decided to slobber on me
     It was necessary to literally crawl up about 200 yards, over a gravel, bedrock, and gritty trail.  Luckily, I encountered a long piece of cardboard and used it to somewhat buffer the effect of the trail upon the knees and elbows.  My two "go-for-a-walk" cats (Calico and Cleopatra), and my black dog Prieto (meaning dark or "blackie") actually stayed with me all the way up.   Once there, with some effort, I managed to stand up, and promptly fell down backwards.
     The back of my head made contact with some well-placed, medium-sized rocks.  The next thing that we realized was that Preto was licking my face and doing some kind of whining-barking thing, while I began to call out for Ciro, the majordomo of the Hacienda de La Vega, which is adjacent.  Before long, Ciro was there along with my nearest neighbours who live on the lot at the Quinta's back door.
Bloody mess about which El Gringo Viejo was
completely unaware until the next day.
    That gave us three men, and the daughter of the neighbour and another woman who has a home and store about 20 yards up the "street",  facing my back-door neighbour's lot and home.   They helped me to the corridor of the Quinta, where I was positioned, comfortably, in one of the two complex bright-white plastic chairs (very heavy duty).   These chairs were a gift from the In-Laws of my daughter, who had them left-over from moving the their parents from one nice facility to another more appropriate for their needs.

     It was all rather comedic, except that the return of the use of my extremities was taking longer than I was willing to tolerate.  All were thanked, and my shirt was taken to the neighbour's to be washed.  As for me, I decided to chance at least a quick, warm shower.   This was accomplished, and it was decided to lay down for a moment and rest.   Thankfully, I had gotten fully dressed before starting my nap, because no more t han three minutes later, Ciro the Mayordomo came in with the other major householder in  the Ejido Francisco Madero, a retired lady and the two of them told me to get up and that we had to go to Ciudad Victoria to the "hospital".  They had been ordered by the owner of the Hacienda de La Vega to take me there at all haste.   It was neither worth the argument or the resistance.  Into the backseat of the lady's Focus, and off we went.
     Within thirty minutes we had arrived, including the traffic, lights, etc.  One thing that helped was that the little rural State highway we use to go to Victoria has been upgraded, sharply.   It is amazing how many small, medium, and even some large public projects have been done during this new Governor's brief period of service so far.
     We took the Periferico road and wound up very close to the Prison that had had quite a disorder the week before, once again quelled by this new National Action Party Governor,  Francisco Garcia Cabeza de Vaca.   We were going the wrong way, because the Hospital Civil was in the other direction.  In short order I learned that we were going in the correct direction because we were heading for the relatively new Red Cross Emergency and Trauma Clinica.   We pulled into the parking lot, and lo and behold, there was the owner of the Hacienda de La Vega, with a wheelchair waiting.
      He was accompanied by a doctorette, and a charge nurse, all of whom trucked me into a consulting room where other nurses began looking at the back of my head, and poking around in said region.  Blood pressure was taken, it seems like every 15 minutes, and a bit of blood was drawn, eye and retinal reactions tested along with other reflexes.  I revealed my two small plastic bags of snake oil that I requested by the owner of the as to orient the personnel at the Clinica de Cruz Roja Mexicana what my medicines are.   
     As usual, it was a bit of a task to convince them that this Gringo has no medicine, only vitamins, aspirin, probiotics, that are taken within a very regular regimen.   When a brief time had passed by and the personnel was convinced that this particular Gringo did not take any medicine, the lady Doctor asked if I had been drinking enough water and if I had been eating correctly.   My answer had to be no.....simply because of is just no fun to cook for oneself.
     A bevy of white uniformed, scowling females, holding their laptops, and swinging their stethoscopes in a not-to-aggressive way frowned at me while the Doctora informed me that I was between moderately to severely dehydrated.   My blood pressure upon entering was 88 / 56,  and the last reading was up to my normal 106 / 68, and she informed me that they could tell by my eyes and this or that .  They had been giving me what I thought was water fairly steadily, but found out at that time that they there plastic tubes of electrolytic waters.
      She told the owner of the Hacienda de La Vega that it would be necessary to take a good supply of electrolytic water and gatorade and Electrolit Suero Rehidratante back to the Santa Engracia area and check on the Gringo every few hours, because...." is evident that he is not capable of taking care of himself, apparently."

    I attempted to pay whatever bill there was, as did my friend Rafael, but there was no charge.  And, it is true, that at the Mexican Red Cross have no charge.   Back into the wheelchair (humiliating), and taking my little packet of four "starter" Suero Rehidratante plastic bottles.   After expressing eternal gratitude and so forth, etc.etc. we started back to my little mud hut in Nowhere, Mexico.   We stopped briefly, at my insistence, at a PEMEX service station where I bought 200 pesos worth of fuel for La Maestra, which was the least that I could do perhaps.
Image may contain: people sitting and indoor     After a couple of days of hanging around the house again, doing chores, and trying to be better about eating and hydration, the bloody chair caught my attention.  By that time, my Mayordomo had come up from his community about 70 miles to the South of us, in order to take charge of the decrepit old fool that owns the mud hut.   Interestingly, he and I are almost exactly to the month the same age.   We put ourselves to work on the "Bloody Chair", and turned it back into the really nice piece of comfortable, eye-pleasing furnishing that it is.
    We include a picture of the cleaned-up chair so that all will know that we are at least somewhat industrious.

Thank you all for putting up with this silly, self-involved story, but it might serve to let folks understand the comings and goings of life in that area where the above chair lives and works.   And is cleansed vigourously, frequently, and whether it needs it or not.

El Gringo Viejo