ONE RAINY DAY

Five and one half Circles

The warm rain is falling straight down, un-slanted by the gentle storm front.

The lone man is standing on the sun deck of the Club Mesa del Mar.  He has his Minolta gear unlimbered, ready to photograph the tropical sunset but the light still isn’t right.

So, he waits under the overhang of the tile roof watching the movement of the surf below.  The day is practically over and the light rain merely pushes the beach crowd in-doors a little early.  The stragglers are gathered up efficiently and all packed out of sight.

With no potential customers, the small army of vendors trudges off, their unsold wares becoming portable shelter from the raindrops peppering the sand around their feet.  As the scene below him empties the would-be photographer becomes aware of smaller movements in his viewfinder.  A group of native surfers stands waist deep in the second trough, jostling as the current repeatedly reverses direction.  Pre-saturated, they are oblivious to the rain; - except that as the slack water between waves is polished by the fading light, an even pattern of drilled holes appears only to be instantly erased. -  (Empty holes made in the water by drops of water.)  What is left of the sunlight plates their ,wet, backs with gold.  For the few seconds between sets, each man is surrounded by concentric circles, as when a hand full of pebbles is tossed into a quiet pool. 

A separate set of circles takes his attention from the surfers.  A blackened piece of driftwood is bobbing in the center, right on target each time it re-surfaces. 

Lifting his eyes to check the empty sky, he sees the brown pelicans wind surfing just above the curling water, their right wings purposefully marking the shiny surface.

Directly below him and above the high tide line, a tired row of Palapas had made circles of shade for the tourists.  Now with the sun spent, they are protecting small empty circles of dry sand as the soft rain darkens the beach.  The rain-wet sand meets the highest fingers of the tide.  The curtain of rain marches on across the beach, the surf and Banderas Bay.

The man stands so long that the camera strap marks his hand and the translucent sun is almost below the horizon.  Turning away he notices a small movement of shadow under one of the Palapas.  A small Mexicana sits back on her heels in the dry circle.  A pair of low-heeled plastic slippers wait at the edge of her invisible room.

Her black hair hangs to her small waist and sways as she bends forward working with something on the sand.  Is she playing cards as she waits in this tiny private shelter?  Now the sand is turning gray and he can hardly see. 

Knowing that it would invade her privacy, he digs out a compact binocular.  He feels self conscious and a little unfair as his focus falls on the Palapa.  Optically he stands six times closer and watches.  – She is one of the vendors.  The only one left behind-.

Her features are indistinct and he sees her as delicate and beautiful, with a pert nose that he will not recognize again.  She is re-packing her tiny, hand carved animals.  They are on their feet in a semi-circle before her.  Their legs sticking into the sand.  She counts each one as she touches it with an outstretched finger.  “Dos, tress, quatro ---   ---.”  One by one wrapping each in its own piece of newsprint.  All being safely stowed away in a plastic shopping bag.

Finished she sits back and carefully brushes the sand where her treasures had been.  She twists toward him and childlike with her brown right hand scoops up the dry sand into a small pile.  Thoughtfully she smoothes over the little hill.  With silent applause, she claps her sandy palms, brushes them together and immediately is on her feet.  “The rain is over and I am late again.”  Slipping into her stretched out slippers she picks up the plastic bag.  Again she turns to check that nothing is abandoned.  Quickly she is gone.  She strides away northward along the beach on the wet packed sand.

He is still watching, as her shadowed footprints are re-filled with new sand.  The slow drops are now far apart.

The wrought iron gate to the beach is locked now that it is dark.  The empty place where she had been and her smooth little pile of sand will be undisturbed till tomorrow.  The lights in the Dining Room are on for the second seating.  He turns to face voices behind him.  His friends are asking,  “Did you get your picture?”

-nw-

A FOUR DOG NIGHT

SHE WILL NEVER SLEEP ALONE

By Newcomb Weisenberger

Dwelling #5 was closest to the big barn on the southwest corner of the ranch.  The pleasant, dark haired, woman was moving in because of a divorce.  Ann brought potted plants, special rocks and things for a flower garden.  This was to a place that had never seen a garden.  She didn’t keep a horse but four dogs came with her.

I moved a small storage shed to her place because there was no garage.  Ann noticed that I had used one of her rocks to help level the shed.  I offered to give it back to her.  She said, leave it there but I will want it back.

The previous tenant had done a number of things that roughed up this house.  Most unusual, he had screwed the front door shut!  I had a reversible, power screwdriver.  With it I removed a dozen, four inch, drywall screws from the top and side edges of the door.

He made changes in the house wiring that left problems in several rooms.  He had bored through the roof overhang in several places too.  This was for security lights.

I mentioned these things, because they caused this new tenant to call me often.  There was trouble between the wall switch and the overhead fan.  Various circuit breakers were causing trouble too. The bathroom fixture had been replaced, by a larger one.  It didn’t work either. 

This call was to fix the Propane wall heater.  When I removed the metal shroud, Ann and I both saw where drug-taking stuff had been parked inside.  I had to be flat on the floor to access the gas burner.  The four dogs that loudly tried to keep me out of the house, now wanted to play and to lick my face!

Ann wanted the nice old Franklin stove removed and its smoke stack taken down.  (This had been a valued item.  There always was free wood to burn and the Franklin was very efficient.)  Ann was more interested in the evaporative cooler being fixed, than making room for a stove in the summertime.

The former tenant had snipped the wires and taken the circulating pump from the cooler.  There was so much else wrong that I installed a new unit.  Ann was so pleased that she surprised me with a hug!

I struggled with the gas range in her kitchen too.  I could make it work if she would shut off the oven in a certain way.  But she often would lose the pilot light and couldn’t relight it.  I bought a new Propane range that garnered a second, and last, hug!  I took the old stove apart and reduced it to a box no larger than its oven.  This was to accommodate the dumpster.  The driver refused the load because I left several flat metal sheets on top.

The seasons changed and Ann called me again.  (The nights were cooler now.  I expected that the wall furnace needed to be lighted.)  Ann’s complaint was something else.

Sloping away from the house was an acre or so of open space.  I mowed the wild grass several times a year.  The area didn’t ‘belong’ to any one dwelling.

I knew that the tenant in #2 was spreading horse manure there, one wheelbarrow load at a time.  (Ranchers can do this legally at a rate of one horse to 2 ½ acres.)

He had recently been given a miniature horse and was just now facing the reality of being a horse owner!

Ann was asking that I speak to him about the dumping.  It wasn’t that she minded but *her dogs were rolling in it and bringing the bad smell right into her house.  “They sleep on my bed at night and it is awful!”  I questioned her about that and she said,” Oh, I have a canvas bed spread.  They sleep on top of that.”

It was then that I understood why Ann didn’t need the Franklin stove!  Or, her divorced husband either!

(Ann moved away after we sold the ranch.  Her pet rock still holds up one corner of the shed.)

*  This is common dog behavior, they seem to become intoxicated by the strong odor and purposely ‘paint’ their coats with unmentionable filth.

Note: To those without pets:  Most, mammals maintain a body temperature that feels comfortably, warm to us.

Even today, one may find rural areas in Europe and Spain, where farm animals are quartered on the ground floor. Like we might find a garage.   The people live upstairs, warmed by the animals below.  If cleaned every day or so, the odors will be mostly of hay.  Cows don’t have halitosis.

One might find the farmer and his wife sitting on these outdoor steps, resting at close of day.  That is,” when the cows come home.”

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(We were traveling to Spain’s Santa Ana Del Mar): I watched a man who was walking home, down the center of this empty street, a scythe over his shoulder, I asked, (in Spanish)” Of what service is this?”  (He was wearing a cow’s horn strapped to his lower back.

 The point facing down and out as if he were wearing a dog’s short tail.  The sharpening stone had been wedged into the horn with cut grass. He said, “piedra”. (Stone)

Of course! He had been cutting hay with a metal, edge kept sharp with his stone tool!   He even made the sweeping, motion of how it was used. (Every other stroke to the opposite side of the curved, blade of the scythe.)  (I had watched my father do the same thing.)

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It only took a moment ‘till he was on his way.

A hundred hooves clicked on the cobbles.

Near us, underground, lay the storied, Caverna de Alta Mira.

nw