The country road we took yesterday through the towns of Abrante, El Vinculo, and Champa on our way to the Laguna Aculeo was a journey through Chilean rural culture:  white flags stuck on farmhouse fences announcing homemade bread; small almacenes advertising Coca Cola, local cheese and Omo detergent; hand painted signs at roadside fruit stands offering watermelons, tomatoes and mushrooms. On our way home, we stopped and bought a fragrant honeydew melon, a kilo of plump dark cherries and a jar of honey. What satisfaction to return to the city with fresh country products. We sat outside in the cool night air – the daytime temperature was in the 90’s – and ate crackers and cheese and our own apricots.

We have apricots up to our eyebrows, yet there is a certain pleasure harvesting our own fruit in this small city garden, especially biting into one just plucked from the tree. As nature writer John Elder claimed, it’s a seasonal activity like this that contributes to a sense of place. 

Late in the evening, we were entertained by Penny the puma. Our son tucked into his suitcase a National Geographic documentary DVD, featuring the pumas or mountain lions in Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park. He’d forged a strong bond with the Park while living and working there for two years, which motivated Mr. S. and I to travel to the bottom of the world several times to experience that mystical landscape. Penny was such a regal, and, eventually, trusting feline, allowing the photographer to film her expressive face, powerful body and hunting prowess. I wanted to reach out to pet her. A perfect fit of animal and habitat, each enhancing the other's beauty and wild nature.

Mr. S. and I were married 41 years ago today. We both forgot until later in the day when a friend called to wish us “Happy Anniversary”. Ooops. 

 A visit to the Cementerio General of Santiago produced a mix of emotions. Surprise at the toll gate at the entrance. One thousand four hundred pesos (3 dollars) to drive in. Curiosity at the names on the tombs, old-fashioned first names like Zunilda and Berta and last names of mixed nationalities. Disgust at the stand offering candy bars and bags of potato chips for sale. Sadness at the concrete galleries of stacked columbarium niches, paint peeling, looking like public housing, poverty even after death. A chuckle at the niches sporting tiny, faded awnings.

We picked up the urn containing my mother-in-law’s ashes and carried it to the grave, where her husband and his five sisters are buried. Two workers pried open the heavy lid to the flat tomb. We all peered down into a deep dark concrete bunker. One worker climbed down iron steps encrusted in a wall and received the urn lowered down to him. Another worker then carried down a plastic bottle of water and a container of cement to seal the space containing the urn. A stray cocker spaniel lay on the grass watching the process. Mr. S. and his brother recalled those buried there and decided to have their names engraved on the lid. Mr. S announced he did not want to be cremated. I felt uncertain at the moment. I’d always thought I’d like my ashes to be dispersed partly in Marin County soil and the rest here in Chile. “Where?” my son asked. I’d often imagined a lush southern rainforest, but then I turned to Mr. S. and said, “Next to you, and I want my tombstone to read “Native of California”."

Leaving the cemetery, Mr. S. pointed out a grungy bar on the corner called “Quita Penas”, roughly translated: “Drown Your Sorrows”.

Our 103 year-old family matriarch chose the early hours of Christmas Eve to take leave of us to her place of peace. We felt she possibly planned her timing in order to have all the family – three generations of cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts and uncles - together at Christmas. Her absence feels like a gaping hole. She was just always there. The atmosphere at the funeral service was of mixed emotions with several of her 22 great-grandchildren running and jumping around the coffin. One little girl was intrigued by a tassel of silk protruding from the top of the coffin, tugging at it in spite of her mother’s admonishing.

This morning a turtle dove wandered through our open kitchen door. When I entered, it flew up, startled, and flapped wildly against the window. I moved slowly towards it, cupped it in my hands and released it into the garden. I said to Mr. S., “Maybe that was a visit from your mother.” “Yeah,” he said, “she always liked our garden.”

My New Yorker son is here and together we went to the recycling center to unload the paper, plastic and bottle accumulation from the family dinner and gift exchange on Christmas Eve. Unbelievable – the tons of post-Christmas trash at the recycling center. There it was, live and direct, the results of our society’s massive consumer frenzy. A thought-provoking perspective on Christmas.

This is the giving season, and our apricot tree is doing its part. The austral thrushes get first pick, having the advantage of flight. After a nibble or two, the fruit plops to the ground. First to reach the damaged fruit are the sow bugs. Then our tortoise Speedy cruises by and takes bites here and there in his rounds about the garden. Yet there are still plenty sweet, juicy apricots left for us. A true summer pleasure is to sink my teeth into a recently plucked damasco. Our tree is truly a Giving Tree.

Hugs are on my mind. Yesterday the grand-girls came to help decorate our Christmas tree. Artificial. I succumbed several years ago as every live, potted tree I bought over the years turned sad and spindly, and I couldn't keep it in a pot forever, so I’d end up guiltily euthanizing it. Tree lots are non-existent in Chile.

Back to grandchildren and hugs. We also made Christmas cookies and then they invented making lemonade on the back patio ("they" meaning the girls, not the cookies). Results: Lots of fun and laughs and VERY sticky surfaces inside and out.  But, well…..hugs. Children are made for squeezing!  I can’t resist those plump arms and legs, though they clearly let me know when enough is enough.

I spent this morning rubbing my mother-in-law’s hand (the one not connected to intravenous tubes), interspersed with hugs and forehead stroking. She is 103 years-old and stopped eating and drinking several days ago. I've never found it easy to hug or caress an older body. With my aging mother, I made a great step forward when I rubbed her swollen legs with body lotion. Now I lament that I didn't give her more hugs.

Maybe I’m trying to redeem myself with my mother-in-law. According to her children, she was not a physically affectionate mother, but in the past year she began seeking more contact. She’d rub my hands and lift her face for a kiss. Now I sit next to her deathbed and give her what I know she wants, though she can no longer express it. It has become easier for me. I hold her thin hand in gratitude for reminding me that we all need hugs and for showing me how to leave the living world with dignity.

The plop of apricots hitting the ground outside our bedroom French door was the first sound to interrupt my sleep. A pleasant way to start my day. But then…. a tremendous racket from our backyard birds, the austral thrushes (Chile’s robins) and the White- crested Elaenia. The clamor could mean only one thing – CAT. The squawking  grew louder. We've had several baby birds and parents feeding in our garden lately. I leaped out of  bed. Outside, I scanned for signs of a feline prowler, but found only a large pile of feathers on the grass. I felt sad. We feel responsible for the welfare of our garden frequenters. I know the cat was just doing what cats are wired to do. I wondered what robins feel when a baby or mate is lost.

    Robin racket was immediately followed by the loud voices of the two men who practice boxing at 7 a.m. in a patio just over the wall from our garden and open bedroom French doors. They seem to be unaware they have neighbors.

    This afternoon as I watered a few plants in the garden, I startled a robin….an injured robin. It was an adult and, in spite of missing a large portion of feathers on one wing, it was able to fly to another corner. Perhaps it will recover. Amazing it was able to fight off a cat larger than it.

A quick change of subject…I want to talk about tattoos. Two repairmen came yesterday, both heavily tattooed. I was particularly curious about a large face tattooed onto the forearm of the most muscular fellow. “That’s a cacique,” he said. “A Mapuche Indian chief.

“Which one?

“Colo-Colo.” On the backside of his arm he showed me a tall araucaria tree, native to the Mapuche territory. On his other arm he had a bar of music. “I’m a musician,” he said. “I sing and play the guitar and the bass.”

If I were to go for a tattoo, what would I choose? Maybe a sequoia. Or a woodpecker. Or a tarweed flower?

Election Day in Chile. Presidential run-offs. Hubby and neighbor lady report light turn-out.  I think many figure: why vote when the outcome is completely predictable?

    Yesterday two belated birthday cards arrived for me. Postmarked in the States on November 25^th.  Twenty days to be delivered to my door. Perhaps they took a little side trip along the way. My son enlightened me. “No one uses postal services anymore. It’s either email or courier.” True, I seldom send cards or letters anymore. My yearly Christmas letter travels by email. No more writing out each card by hand, licking envelopes and stamps as the perspiration drips down my brow. The exceptions are cards sent to a few computer-less elderly ladies and goofy birthday cards to a few close friends. Give me humor any day rather than the flowery, sentimental Hallmark verses.

    I do enjoy receiving cards though, delivered by Cristián my mailman, wearing his red cap. He stops his bike and rings the doorbell. We exchange a few friendly words and comment on the heat as he hands me a clutch of white envelopes and maybe a magazine. Within a span of two weeks he delivered the August, September, October and November issues of the one U.S. magazine I subscribe to. I said, “They must have all come in the same ship.” I was being kind. No doubt those magazines languished in some deep, dusty bin in a dark Chilean postal warehouse. The white envelopes are growing fewer and fewer as I’m given the option to receive the information by email and ‘save the trees’.

    I read that the biggest tree-consumer is toilet paper. I have yet to locate toilet paper manufactured with recycled paper. I suspect that the one brand of grey-green toilet paper, known as “Confort” (someone’s idea of a joke?), available in Chile in the early ‘70’s, may have been recycled. It was a tad softer than newspaper.

Mr. S asked me what he could give me for Christmas. This question is an event in our house every December. It’s a dilemma for both of us because I haven’t a clue. I don’t need or want anything. I’d like to get rid of half of what I have. My motto for years has been “travel lightly” and, with the passing years, I’m more convinced that things are a burden.

    But families accumulate stuff. The detritus of daily life.  Humanity’s flotsam and jetsam. I know. I’d be ashamed to show anyone our attic. When my mother moved out of the family home of almost 60 years, it took me three days just to go through the boxes of Christmas decorations, wrappings, cards, candles and napkins. I did save some of the ornaments and will put them on the tree next week….if I get around to putting up a tree. Not too motivated in this heat.

    Last week I attended a Christmas choral concert at our church, along with my four sisters-in-law and a neighbor friend. I felt I might sprout wings listening to the music and their soaring voices, but afterwards, my companions were indignant that almost all the carols were sung in English. I agreed with them. In the mall it’s “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas”. What happened to the Spanish villancicos?

FLAT

A desert. The surface of my desk. A pancake.

A plate. A sheet of paper. A wall.

Chile con carne sin chiles.

Wonder Bread.

The smell of water in a glass and bean sprouts, too.

Old Monsignor McGarr’s Sunday sermons.

The word flat.

Tender new grass beneath a boot.

The ears of a mad cat.

What I feel when I don’t want to feel,

but great if it’s my tummy or a crepe.

The earth was flat…until it was round.

There is no flat in

rushing water

a beating heart

bee’s wings

a candle flame

a tear

a laugh.

This wee poem was the outcome of a Tuesday Word Prompt in my writing group, the Santiago Writers.

See our blog at:   http://www.thetuesdayprompt.com/

 The apricots at the top of our tree are starting to blush – the color of a setting sun. We and our tortoise, Speedy Gonzalez, will soon be biting into their juicy sweetness. I worry about our apricot tree. It was in the garden when we bought our house over twenty-five years ago and has become very fragile. Last year several large branches crashed to the ground under the weight of the fruit. One of the two remaining main branches went dry. I called in an expert and began fertilizing the tree as instructed. Only time will tell.

    Although ours is a small, walled city garden, it requires constant attention. My trees and plants are like my pets, living things for which I am responsible. I've begun fertilizing the old lemon tree which bears fruit year round. When the leaves on my California sequoia began turning brown, I panicked.  I could not lose my beloved redwood, my companion on this expat journey, and called in three experts. The first diagnosis: fungus. The second expert was unsure and called in a third. What a relief to learn that it was the common scales insect which had been transmitted by the infected ivy on the walls. I was happy to learn of the location of a supplier of non-toxic, organic pesticides. Our garden must be welcoming to bees, birds, butterflies and ladybugs. No poisons in MY garden! The sequoia is looking happier, waving its new green tips in the breeze.

    In the opposite corner of our garden from the sequoia is an enormous avocado tree, grown from a pit planted by my youngest son decades ago.

We just had it trimmed to make its fruit more accessible. From the trimmed branches alone we harvested one hundred beautiful avocados. It began bearing fruit some years ago as a result of an experiment. I’d always heard avocado trees need another one nearby. When it was flowering, my son and I brought some flowers from a neighbor’s tree. We rubbed the neighbor’s flowers against our tree’s blooms, as if they were kissing. The following year…viola!…avocados, big ones. Was it our experiment or a friendly bee? I should Google the information before I take the credit, but then I might spoil a good story.

    Come to think of it, my sequoia and several more of my garden inhabitants possess good stories. I can envision a small book, “Stories from My Garden”.

I'm going to step up on my soapbox today. I'd like to start a campaign (though a bit late now) against PINK, PLASTIC toys - well other colors, too. Everywhere one looks in toy departments you see PLASTIC. Don't people realize that it all ends up in the garbage sooner or later? Probably sooner. Without realizing it, I've been buying almost all gifts containing little or no plastic. I went to a Christmas bazaar yesterday with dozens of stands offering alternative gifts made from noble materials, cloth, wood and paper (hopefully recycled). I bought locally-made lavender sachets and natural hand and body creams. Offerings included potted herbs, natural soaps, all cotton baby clothes and homemade jams. I'm not the crafty type, eager to make my own gifts, but I do give Christmas cookies, homemade jams and occasionally a potted plant, offspring of one of my garden inhabitants.

    Next week I'll have the three grand-girls over to help me decorate our Christmas tree. If I have the energy (reminder: it's almost summer in Chile and the days are HOT, not conducive to baking), we'll make cookies, too. Though they have their own tree at home, they love unwrapping the tissue paper from my collection of ornaments, many once belonging to their great grandparents. (Yes, I enjoy it, too - discovering the tiny glass bell that was a childhood favorite.)

Why is it we feel special on our birthdays? I woke up early yesterday and immediately thought: Hey! Today is my birthday! Birthday greetings throughout the day added to that special feeling. I started off the morning with my beloved writing group. Hubby, whom I'll call Mr. S, asked if the group would celebrate my day. No, I said, I don't publicize my birthday and the group has never celebrated birthdays. Hmmm. Maybe we should....

    A friend from the writing group and I made plans to visit a plant nursery a ways out of town that carries native plants. I printed out a Google map and directions, which had us driving around in circles through an industrial area behind dozens of roaring trucks, and asking directions in a gas station, from a man at a bus stop, from a hard-hatted worker, before we found the place. Coming home was a nightmare of intersecting intersections, underpasses and overpasses at peak commuter hour. Mr. S. was in a tizzy when I arrived home because I'd missed several long distance birthday phone calls. Dinner at our favorite restaurant with son, daughter-in-law and grand girls was the perfect finale of my day.

    This morning at the verdulería, where I'd walked to buy parsley and cilantro, I overheard the vegetable lady and a client dressed in a maid's uniform discussing the likely winner in the upcoming run-off presidential election. Those two outspoken women let fly their dislike and distrust of a candidate's communist connections and proposed program. This surprised me. I would have expected them to support the candidate who claims to speak for the working class. Not being able to vote this time (as explained in previous blogs), I'm going to assume an observer's stance.

Speedy Gonzalez, our tortoise, sneaked into the house and visited me as I was writing on the computer. He also peed on the rug. Fortunately, his pee and excrement have no odor. I scolded him gently as I marched him back outside.

Going to the mall is very low on my list of preferred activities. But the month of December requires one or two mall visits. I went today with hopes of finding gifts for some of the nieces and nephews. Our 12-year-old god daughter revealed she'd like us to get her a bikini, also indicating at which store we were to buy it. Bikini bought, I headed to the toy department and checked off several more names on my list. Almost skipping in contentment, I left the store with two large bags of gift-wrapped presents.

    I headed down the escalator to the bottom parking level, thankfully painted purple as a memory aide. Hard as it may be to believe, the malls here CHARGE for parking. I stood before the machine, inserted my ticket and the price popped up in a window. One thousand two hundred and fifty pesos or about three dollars. I scrounged in my wallet, pulling out the thousand peso bill, but found I only had small 10 peso coins that the machine wouldn't accept. Turning to the man behind me, I asked if he could change my small coins for a larger 100 peso coin. He stepped up and inserted the necessary money and refused to take my handful of coins in exchange. I thanked him profusely, while wondering if it was my grey hair again that gave me "preferential" treatment. My contentment was complete when I arrived home without encountering any traffic jams. 

    Small wonders on an ordinary day.

All I could do was laugh this afternoon when my husband asked me how my morning went.

    I´d gone downtown again to the office of the Electoral Services. This time the office was open and -wow!- no line. I explained to a pleasant, mustachioed gentleman my predicament - that my ID number had been eliminated from their voter list and I'd been unable to vote. I reassured him several times that I'd voted in all previous elections. He was puzzled and went up several flights of stairs to consult with someone else. He returned smiling, and I thought: problem solved. But no. He directed me to the office of Foreign Affairs several blocks away to obtain a certificado.

    At Foreign Affairs I was sent to the third floor and told to ask for a "preferential" number for those over sixty. My grey hair does have its benefits. The line from the third floor office snaked down the stairwell to the second floor. I breezed into the office to encounter a mass of people of every hue of skin color, all immigrants, some sitting, some standing in lines. My number was 114. The number up on the screen was 34. I stood there wondering which line to join, when I realized I didn't possess the patience to wait until number 114 came up.     

    Back downstairs at the information desk, I was directed to the fifth floor. Only two people in front of me. I explained about the paper I needed and the reason. A plump, young girl searched on Internet and found that the PDI, the Policía de Investigaciones, had emitted a form stating that I'd left the country for over a year and, my status as permanent resident was expired. She explained that I must get the elusive certificado from the office of the PDI and bring it to her along with a letter from me requesting to correct my current status. She wrote down the address of the PDI four blocks further downtown.

    I trudged the city blocks, thinking: Downtown is a different Chile. Teeming sidewalks; vendors selling medals of the Virgin Mary, sunglasses, lottery tickets; newspaper kiosks; shops displaying children's clothes next to cocktail dresses. In that unfamiliar neighborhood, I felt like a tourist noticing the architecture of old buildings. At last, I reached the address given me for the PDI. Outside it's closed doors was a sign indicating they moved yesterday to a street totally unknown to me. The good news was that there was an empty taxi in front of me. Yes, he knew the new location.  Twenty minutes later, he delivered me to the PDI office. Inside a massive room sat hundreds more immigrants. My preferential number was called immediately.

    Again I explained my dilemma to a young woman who seemed quite confused by my story. She checked on her computer, where she verified that, indeed, I had never left Chile for more than a year. I showed her my passport and my Chilean ID. She thought the confusion might have stemmed from the fact that my U.S. passport only lists one last name, whereas, my Chilean documents display two last names, my maiden name and my mother's, as is the custom here. Human error somewhere along the line in the entangled web of the "system".

    I still won't be able to vote in the presidential run-offs next week. But my bigger worry is: what's to prevent this from happening again?

I’ve been thinking more about the concepts of change and traditions in my city life and the importance of preserving and encouraging the humane and the personal. We don’t see the bread man anymore, but a few blocks away our hole-in-the-wall verdulería survives, attracting neighbors with fresh fruits and vegetables from the Mercado Central. Next door is a small dry cleaners, a beauty shop and, on the corner, the handy almacén where everything from dairy products to detergents can be found on its cramped shelves.

    When a large company presented a plan to construct a mall in the neighborhood, just two blocks from our street, I joined the neighborhood association’s campaign to put a stop to the mall. We knew it would change the character of our residential enclave, already surrounded by a concrete forest of towering apartment buildings. It would also put an end to the small shops. Our door-to-door, grass roots campaign prevailed over big money. In this fast-growing metropolis, dotted with construction cranes in every direction, those of us in older, established areas continue to raise our voices as to the importance of maintaining a sense of neighborhood.

The broom vendor just walked down our street, with a heavy clutch of handmade brooms and feather dusters flung over his shoulder.  He calls out in a low gravelly voice: escooobas, plumeeeeeros. Street vendors are a disappearing lot. Occasionally, I still hear the whistle of the knife sharpener. I once stopped him with the idea of sharpening all the carving knives and scissors in the house. He wanted a fortune! When he heard my accent, he must have thought, Ah-ha, here’s a wealthy foreigner. It’s been years since I've seen the bread man on his tricycle or the milkman with his cart. I wonder if families have stopped buying fresh milk every morning.

    Two days ago was Thanksgiving. Not a holiday here and it means nothing to my Chilean family. Maybe it’s my fault for not having installed a family tradition early on, but it’s difficult when it’s a work and a school day, and summer is almost upon us. No yellow and orange fall leaves, no roaring fireplaces, no nippy air.  I invited my son who lives here for lunch, but he was having a busy week at work. I sent both boys email greetings. The one in New York responded. Years ago, a group of American families would get together for a picnic on the following weekend. But, as our families grew, it became difficult to accommodate everyone. Thanksgiving is mainly just a nostalgic memory for me now.

    Traditions are important, the mortar that holds a culture together and makes it unique. But I’ve made my life in another land and must know when to let go. I can’t revive my family Thanksgivings of the past. All those who sat around our table when I was young are gone. The memories remain but they will not continue on with my sons. I accept that fact.

    Everything in life is always evolving, changing. That’s the nature of it. That’s why I try to pay attention – to the passing broom man, the intense purple of the blooms on our jacaranda tree, the voluminous billowing clouds over the cordillera, the expression on the face of the young bride whose wedding we attended today. And  each day I give thanks for it all.

As I sat at the computer yesterday, a "Hi" popped up in my chat box. My son in New York. It was a simple conversation with no earthshaking news, but, yet such a comfort to feel him close. Forty years ago in Chile we didn't even own a telephone for me to chat with my parents. There was a waiting list of several years to be able to purchase a telephone line. In our attic I have boxes full of the weekly letters my parents and I wrote over the years on crinkly, thin air mail paper. They were invaluable when I was working on my memoir (as yet to see the light of day).

Last night the news showed Pope Francis kissing an Italian man suffering from a deforming genetic skin disease called neurofibromatosis. Later a reporter interviewed the man. I thought how courageous to show himself to the world. He told how the Pope's blessing and embrace had changed him. Today, as I walked in a crowded entrance to the metro station, a man with the same condition passed me, though less severe. I felt immediate compassion for him and wondered if he had seen the interview with the afflicted Italian. Would people now look at him in a new light without turning away?

Yesterday started off well enough. I filled out all the forms, sat for my photo (first one with grey locks), proved I still have adequate reflexes and eyesight and, within an hour, my driver's license was renewed for another six years. I was impressed by the smooth workings of our municipal offices. If only, there was a way to weed out drivers who think red signal lights aren't meant for them.

    Checking my watch, I decided there was still time to go downtown to the electoral services office. I called first to check what papers to take and which metro station was closest. When I located the address, I felt a warning stab in my guts. No one around what should have been a busy office. Then I saw it. A large piece of brown paper posted on the front of the building painted with the words: SERVEL EN PARO. On strike. I couldn't believe it. When I rang a doorbell inside the gated entrance, a guard informed me the strike was declared at 10 a.m. that morning. I don't know when I've felt such fury and frustration. I yanked a pen out of my purse and wrote on their sign (in Spanish): "Why didn't you inform the public? What a wasted trip." I steamed and grumbled all the way home, while composing a letter to the newspaper in my head. (I've built up a sizable archive of unsent drafts over the years.) At home, I called SERVEL  and asked why, when I called in the morning, they didn't inform me. The operator answered, "We didn't know about the strike then." I sat at my computer and pounded out my complaint, sending a copy to the newspaper and to my congressman.

    I probably would have done better chaining myself to SERVEL'S iron-wrought gate. My letter was not published in today's paper. I'm less upset now because I realize it's futile to direct anger at the "system". It's an impersonal entity. Today's paper said the strike in all public offices will last "indefinitely". I may not be able to vote in the run-offs. I've always considered it a privilege that I'm allowed to vote here without being a citizen.

Received another magazine rejection for a piece I'd submitted. It's a good piece in my opinion. I'll look for another loving home for it. We writers hear constantly: BE PREPARED FOR REJECTIONS. Fine, I'm prepared, but an acceptance is such a great motivator, and I'm in need of one soon. What would I do without the wonderful women in my writing group who encourage and support?

Tomorrow I have two rather unpleasant chores to do: renew my driver's license and go downtown to the government electoral service office. I was unable to vote in last Sunday's presidential elections here as my name and ID number were on no list. It felt like I didn't exist! A mystery, as I've always voted. I want to be able to vote on December 15th in the run-off election between the two women candidates. I'm hoping for a woman president in the U.S. next term.

The first cherries are out! I bought a plastic container of them from a man at the stoplight. Such a treat after months of bananas, apples, pears and more bananas, apples and pears.

The typical Saturday chores filled my morning: water the potted plants, make a trip to the recycling center and stop by the "Tostadería Talca", crowded with people buying grains, seeds and dried fruits. It was a good feeling to stock up on wheat germ, almonds, peeled sunflower seeds, chia seeds, grated coconut and honey, mostly ingredients for our homemade granola.

The sky has been overcast all day with a gauzy layer of clouds, just a thin sun filtering through. A flat day. I feel flat, at loose ends. Sort of how I think Speedy Gonzalez, our pet tortoise, is feeling. He's been sitting in the same spot all day, not foraging for leafy tidbits or attempting to sneak  into the house as he does when the red line on the thermometer climbs. Maybe I'll go tempt him with a cherry. His favorite are the apricots off our ancient tree, but they need a few more weeks.

My first post! I'm afraid nothing profound. I took the metro today to find a place that would change the screen on my new IPhone that cracked mysteriously. It's Friday and the metro was crowded and hot. At my stop, those waiting to get in lunged forward, squeezing and pushing. I finally yelled: "Dejen salir primero! Let us out first!" It's those incidents that make me feel like a country mouse trapped in the city. Throngs of people filled the sidewalks, more, I swear, than in downtown Manhattan, where we were two weeks ago to watch our son run the marathon. You'd think I'd be used to city living after 40+ years. It's the rush and frenzy of the pre-Christmas, end-of-the-school-year, vacation planning season and the sight of aisles of plastic Christmas paraphernalia at the supermarket that plunge me into a Scrooge-like mood.

But just look at the purple explosion of jacaranda trees on our street, blanketing the ground with velvetypetals. We should all give each other a jacaranda tree for Christmas.