Thursday August 20th (I think)
I heard Anjelica, the cleaning lady, come in the gate and go upstairs this afternoon. I looked out to say hello and was startled to see a green parrot sitting on the railing by the first stair. I thought it was a wild parrot and immediately took it’s picture. Then Anjelica came down the stairs and the parrot jumped on her hand. Hiss name is Pedro according to Anjelica. Off she rode on her little scooter and Pedro sitting on the handlebar. Later, I saw Anjelica across town and Pedro’s feathers were a little ruffled from the speed but, he was holding on tight.

August 21st, Thursday.
Pelicans. Los pelicanos. Amazing. I think there are two kinds. One kind is big with those well-known beaks that carry stuff inside, but there seems to be another kind. They are smaller, more streamlined but, oh, can they ever dive! They rise up slightly, turn down sharply and torpedo into the water, usually straight as a plumb-line. At the last instant the wings slide up and, seemingly, into the body so all that’s left is an arrow—by the time they hit the water “arrow” is a better word than “torpedo”. These fellows are sleeker than real pelicans—type one above--and, by comparison, they seem like my grandchildren doing flailing cannon balls in the water. There’s also a bird the goes underwater until you think he must have tripped into China. The first time I saw one of them today was coming out, not going in. “What the…?” He suddenly just appeared, his bill and long neck somewhat snake-like. The water is so delightfully warm that there was no chill going through me, but I sensed that mild sense of danger of not being sure, especially when above me were these prehistoric black birds that I keep forgetting the name of.


Our friend, Marie, wasn’t dangerous and, in fact, the barber spoke excellent English and she gave me a fine haircut. Actually, Marie had said the barber spoke English as we discussed the dangerous, female trip the night before, but that piece came at one of those typical moments when I think I am being a delightful male host and picking up well less than half the information that is going on around me. Marie’s husband, Cornelius, remains calm during Mitzi and my hair-cuts, or our sauntering at least a mile down the aisle of market day, and through the endless shops with Mitzi and Marie trying to find just the right thing for each one of our family at home. Did I see a slight smile on Cor’s face when Mitzi finally made a purchase?
Cornelius is a very fine artist. As I watched him through these three hours of this ladies’ venture, I got to thinking that, far from watching and waiting for Mitzi and Marie to get done or, at least, get hungry, he was painting everything as we went along. His canvas was varied in size and shape and soon I thought I could see the colors he was applying by the expression in his eyes. I learned something from Cor, and I doubt that in the future such ventures are anticipated with as much temerity as this one was—remember, the night before. I’m not an artist and can’t paint the event as Cor does, but maybe I can write about it as we wander along. As Mitzi said, I was taking pictures, but with these new, digital cameras (and Mitzi got us a prize from e-bay!) I feel like I am cheating. Like the “old man and the sea” with a ray-gun--the poor marlin! Or like deer when they are chased into an early morning firing squad. Anyway, I learned something about lengthy shopping and will never be bored again. That’s important, I think, now that I’m almost seventy. Shopping boredom means still another day home at la computadora while Mitzi is out having fun, and I don’t want that. Cor is seventy-seven, and has learned much how septuagenarians cope.
I spent time with another septuagenarian this morning, although this man is only seventy two. He has a steel rod through his back, one down through his left thigh and still another down his other leg, has two replaced knees, lives in constant pain, and says he wakes up with happiness nearly every day. What a talk we had and it was me that was close to tears when he and his lovely wife and Mitzi and I prayed together before we left. My seventieth birthday is a week from today and I think, right here at the last hour, God is temporarily weaning me from children and grandchildren and giving me a deeper peek at seventy-year-old wisdom and courage.

What is romantic love? Now that children are back in school and vacationing Mexicans back in Guadalajara and other places distant from this vacation resort, we have the ocean and beach to ourselves with the pelicans and their friends and fisherman and occasional young people in love who hold and delight in each other even in the sea. Truth is Mitzi and I walk into the water holding hands, but usually the normal, young pattern changes. We stand there watching the birds (me) and deciding we want to fish with nets (Mitzi), but then the romantic spell is broken when Mitzi says, “Let’s sneak up on the pelicans.” There were five of them, and we soon are sneaking up when Mitzi touches my shoulder and says, “Stay down, Stephen. There’s too much of you showing. Do like this.” Only her face and curly new haircut are above the water. I stoop down and follow her toward the pelicans. Two things happen at once so I never will be sure that we couldn’t have snuck up on the pelicans. First, the pelicans (type one) flew away in their lumbering way but (second) at the same time Mitzi screeched, bitten (or whatever they do) by a jellyfish. We’re home now and, oh, how much we look forward to margaritas tonight!