Bits and Pieces

October 2002

Let me tell you about my life on an island. The last three days have been noteworthy for the highest tides I ever remember. The streets on both sides of the house are under several inches of water morning and evening. The sea water creeps all the way up to the bottom back step and floods parts of the yard.

Today, in addition to the usual morning flooding, we have had a heavy rain storm. Alex called me a few minutes ago to say that the water in the garage is up to my hubcaps. Under the house, the pallets that form the dogs’ beds are floating.

10:40, Alex called again to mention that, before the tide began going out, the water on Marine Parade had reached the level of the seawall. On Alex’s side of the garage, it was up to within a half-inch of the doors of my Dodge, parked in front of his Trooper. That side of the garage is a couple of inches lower than my side of the garage.

I just looked out and find that the streets suddenly are dry. And the rain has stopped.

 

Next week, Jimmy Murphy will go to the States for medical attention following a recent heart attack. Regardless, he insisted on playing Duplicate Bridge last night. The only difference was that he let someone pick him up to go to the Fort George, and the Turnell’s chauffeured me. I have known Yvonne and Victor Turnell for years through business; in recent years, we have become friends at Duplicate.

Jimmy seemed pretty much normal. He said that he was able to concentrate better than he had at an afternoon bridge game the day before. Yvonne Turnell now is in charge of Duplicate. She cut down on the number of hands played so we would finish fairly early.

Even so, by the end of the evening, Jimmy obviously was tired. I had dreaded having to stay late while Yvonne and Ian McIntosh tallied all the little individual sheets for each hand to calculate scores. It is a complicated business. Bless Victor, he insisted of driving both Jimmy and me home as soon as play ended so that we did not have to hang around. The Turnells are exceptionally thoughtful friends.

December 2002

We had our Duplicate Bridge Club Christmas party Thursday night. We all contributed bocas, wine, and a present. The room the Fort George gave us had a large Christmas tree, beautifully decorated, to help set the scene. More that the regular number of people came, as is usual for our annual party. It was a delightful evening.

On the other hand, it was almost midnight before Jimmy brought me home. For some reason I could not get to sleep—overtired or overwired. Friday was an exceptionally long day.

January 2003

María and Alex’s birthday gift was an excursion to the Belize Zoo with lunch afterwards at Cheers. Today the weather is gorgeous, cold and windy but bright and sunny. Thanks to the weather, more of the animals were out prowling than usual. The black jaguar was sitting on the edge of her pool, accepting the admiration of her gallery. Alex got some beautiful pictures. Later we saw her again, strolling alongside the wire of her enclosure. She is a magnificent beast. We did not see the male jaguar. When we ran into Sharon (Zoo Director) on our way out, she told us the black jaguar loves attention and poses by the hour; the male loves to perch in a tree. It did not occur to any of us to look upwards in search of him.

We were walking out the front door as Sharon strolled up with a small hawk perched on her gloved hand. We all were startled to see each other. She was delighted to hear that the visit was in honor of my birthday. She thought it highly appropriate. She was furious that we had not called to say we were coming so that she could have laid on something special and given us a guided tour. She has urged me to do that other times, but I hate to impose on her. Sharon protested that it would be a pleasure, rather than an imposition, and insisted on pledges in blood.

We proceeded to Cheers. They have doubled their seating space with a second open-air section beyond the original one. María was so entranced by the large display of plants lining the dividing low partition that she hardly could eat. I knew we would never get her out of there without a plant in hand.

The daughter of Cheers’ owner is the plant guru. María went wild over some orchids she doesn’t have. A man walked off with the one she was eyeing, but she decided she didn’t need it anyway when she heard it cost $60. She had difficulty deciding between two orchid plants, but finally chose a charming imported one with long stalks covered with tiny variegated blooms. I surprised her by buying the other one for her, a local feathery white one and less expensive.

 

A few minutes ago a beautiful floral arrangement arrived from Jill and Mick Bell. Jill never forgets my birthday.

This has been a lovely birthday. Now I can concentrate on getting ready for my trip to visit Carli and Tom.

July 2003

The week started out nicely with another traffic ticket. This one was for driving an unlicensed vehicle. I was blissfully unaware that my license expired in June. I have warned Alex that he must be far more protective of his rapidly aging mother.

Fortunately, the policeman who stopped me was a perfect dear. Obviously he came from a fine Belizean family of the old school, because his manners would have pleased my grandmother. I was horrified at my error, apologized profusely, and thanked him for notifying me of my lapse. He was equally apologetic as he explained that he had to issue a ticket. I replied that I expected him to. I had broken the law. We had a fine little conversation as the ticket was written, and I drove off to relicense my car before another officer caught me.

 

I was driving about four miles per hour down Queen Street on my way home. A Spanish man on a bicycle ahead of me was wobbling all over the street. I pulled over to the left as far as I could on the narrow street to ease past him. Just as I pulled even with him, the man turned his head, saw me, appeared startled, and fell over on his bike. I did not hit him, and he did not hit me. The falling bike, however, hit a passing woman who took temporary umbrage before stalking off.

I stopped instantly, pulled into the Angelus Press loading space, got out of the car, and went over to the bicyclist who was sprawled on the pavement with his bicycle on top of him. He complained that his leg was hurt. A policeman appeared by magic and questioned the man in Spanish. We pulled the bike off the rider and settled him back on his feet.

I told the policeman that the bicyclist was riding erratically, and that I had startled, but not hit him. The bicyclist, meanwhile, had told the officer in Spanish that I hit his back wheel and repeated that his leg was hurt. There was no sign of damage to either my car or the wheel, but the policeman obviously chose to believe him rather than me.

The officer fatuously explained to me that bicycles have as much right as cars on the street. I agreed, but asked if riders did not have a responsibility to stay on their own side of the street and proceed in a straight line. The policeman agreed that I was right, but added that since I was the one in a car, the fault was mine.

The policeman asked the rider if he wanted to prefer charges. The reply, to my great relief, was “No.” The policeman then told me I must take the man to the hospital and wait until a doctor examined him to see if, at that time, he decided to bring charges against me.

I agreed without hesitation. The policeman and rider loaded the bicycle into the trunk of my car where it protruded by the diameter of a wheel. I helped the bicyclist into the front seat, thanked the policeman, and drove off.

We were hardly past the police station when my injured passenger said that he did not want to go to the hospital, but wanted $50. I was furious at being blackmailed because I had suspected from the beginning that the fall might have been deliberate. I was equally relieved, however, at not facing the rest of the day in the molasses-slow hospital emergency room. It was almost lunchtime, and I had bridge scheduled for the afternoon.

I drove home to get the money. On the way I happened to glance over at my passenger. To my horror I saw that he had unzipped and partially pulled down his pants to show me where his leg was hurt. I saw nothing but white thigh before frantically averting my eyes. He was a quiet man and the action, though unwelcome, was innocent.

I left the man in the car while I went in to explain the situation and borrow $50 from Alex to save myself a trip upstairs. Alex said I should take the man to the hospital, but to me, it was worth the money to get rid of him.

I went back to the car and paid the man off. We retrieved his bicycle, and he pedaled off happily.

That afternoon I told the story to Ann Crump and Jimmy Murphy when we were driving to bridge. Jimmy agreed with Alex and said that, if it had been he, he would have sat at the emergency room for a week before paying his alleged victim a cent.

Ann said she had a similar experience at the intersection of Freetown and St. Thomas Streets. A Spanish man on a bicycle sped out of St. Thomas. Ann pulled as far over a she could, trying to avoid him, but his handlebar hit her car and made a dent. Ann’s fallen bicyclist yelled, screamed, and threw his arms around in proper Spanish hysteria. To shut him up, Ann gave him $50, which was the only bill she had in her wallet. He apparently decided it was a good deal.

I accused Ann of setting the scale for deliberate bike accidents.

 

You know that, for years, I have talked of Ian McIntosh, the delightful Jamaican who moved back to Belize with his Belizean wife a couple of decades ago. He took me in hand and forced me to sharpen up my bridge.

Ian is home recuperating after bypass surgery in the States. He can’t drive yet, so we are taking bridge games to him. Much to his dismay, we limit the length of time we let him play. I’m one of the most vocal at giving Ian orders. I was amused last Wednesday when Charlie Hyde told me that, on their drive out to Ian’s, Jimmy had informed him, “Kate is in charge!”

Our regular Wednesday bridge, the fun-plus-learning session, is this afternoon. I probably will let us play for a total of 2-1/2 hours today. We have increased time steadily since the first one-hour-only game during Ian’s recuperation. I learned from a mutual friend, whose husband had bypass surgery, that I must stop Ian in the middle of our games to make him have something nutritious to drink (despite his protestations).

Ian obviously is healing well and is gaining strength. We all have been scared out of our wits about Ian for a long time and are relieved to know that he’s had the necessary surgery and to see how well he is recovering.

August 2003

No Duplicate last night. Yvonne Turnell could get only five players. Several regulars were on holiday, and others had prior commitments.

The Turnells have become close friends through bridge. They already have a nice home in Lulling, Louisiana, outside New Orleans, and talked about moving for good after they sell their business in Belize. I have been dreading the day.

Today when I called Yvonne, she said that Victor has announced that he never wants to leave Belize. They probably will continue their present schedule of regular trips for a few weeks to Lulling. I was greatly relieved.

One of the produce shippers with whom Turnells do business regularly gives Yvonne leftover fruit and vegetables. She supplies Jimmy with a box of papaya almost weekly. Today she said she was sending me some avocado. Next week I will get breadfruit.

The funny one was the time the shipper gave her what she described as 100 pounds of peppers. My mind went to green peppers so I said I would take a couple off her hands. Yvonne frantically explained that they were habaneros, and that she had no idea what to do with all of them. I took enough for Betty to make a nice batch of her hot sauce.

My favorite of Yvonne’s offerings was the spaghetti squash. At one time, she kept me supplied the entire season. Yvonne told me today that the farmer who grew them went out of business, but that someone intends to plant them for next season. Fingers crossed.

 

I have begun going to the Tuesday morning communion service at St. John’s Cathedral. It is a pleasant service, with a congregation that is primarily old crones like me. When I attended in the past, there was no singing. Now we are faced with half-a-dozen hymns no one seems ever to have heard of, judging by the quality of the wobbly warbling. On the post-Communion hymn Tuesday morning every voice quavered out except that of the woman minister who bravely finished the first verse before giving up.

After the service, I told Father Neal that we most certainly were not “making a joyous noise unto the Lord.” I suggested cutting out the hymns in view of the fact that most of us did not know the hymns, could not read music, and could not sing.

Father Neal explained that he was hoping to encourage happy music during the services. I made the injudicious comment that, as a committed Episcopalian, I thought the music of the Anglican Communion was pretty sorry, though there were some lovely old hymns that everyone enjoyed. He agreed. He also indicated surreptitiously that it was his assistant who selected the hymns for the services.

The woman minister (whose name I didn’t catch) stopped me before I left and said that she asked the congregation for suggestions for hymns and would love to have me offer some ideas. It ended up with my bringing home a hymnal. I shall go through it, pick out singable favorites, and type up a list for her to choose from.

How do I get myself into these situations when all I intend to do is sit quietly in my pew and make up for all the times I did not go to church?

September 2003

This year is the half-century anniversary of the Fort George Hotel. A charming young woman named Lucy Williams is preparing a brochure in celebration. She called me several weeks ago, asking for information about our staying there in the early days. At her request, I met her this morning for a delightful hour of sharing memories about the Fort George.

She showed me the fine selection of photographs she and associates were able to dig out from the government archives in Belmopan. Most of them are from postcards issued by Angelus Press. She has them all in her computer, which made viewing easy.

Lucy promised to let me see whatever she writes from our discussion so I can make any necessary corrections. I found a couple of errors in what she had written from our telephone conversation. She is easy to work with and probably will do a nice job on the brochure.

October 2003

In October, Carli and Tom met me in Sarasota to help me go through things I had in storage for years. To our uncomprehending dismay, all the things I had been paying rent and insurance on since the beginning of time had been stolen. It was a crushing discovery both emotionally and financially.

November 2003

For the first time in (literally) decades I am having a turkey. Alex does not like turkey, primarily because it does not disappear from the menu for weeks after its initial appearance. Also, he is not much on holidays. When we first came to Belize, no one but the handful of Americans here celebrated Thanksgiving. Through the years, as airline connections and TV brought Belizeans closer to the U.S., more and more people here adopted the holiday. It is not a public holiday still, of course, but there is quite a lot of celebrating after work.

To my amusement, I found that Thanksgiving means a lot more to María than it does to Alex. She always has asked me to have roast chicken for our midday meal. This year, I thought she deserved a proper Thanksgiving, even if it is a rather hasty one because of her office schedule. I went into action early this morning to do the dressing and get my modest turkey ready for the oven. It went in at 9:30.

This will save my roasting a turkey for myself on Boxing Day. For many years, María has fixed our Christmas dinner. She always serves ham in deference to Alex. I want my turkey to snack on through the holiday and for the leftovers I try to disguise so Alex won’t recognize them. Having had a turkey so recently, I will not feel the need to fix my lonely one later.

December 2003

Our Christmas was traditional—Christmas Eve drink in my house, presents in the morning, and Christmas dinner downstairs with María’s baked ham. All very relaxed and delightful.

The only activity I have planned for this four-day holiday is Debbie’s surprise party for her father and our long-time, dear friend, Tom Tattersfield, on at 1:00 pm Sunday. Tom will be 90. All three of us are invited. Debbie said she is keeping it very small, just close friends.

 

While I don’t think presents are in order for Tom today, I went through all my photo albums looking for family pictures. I found only four of Lia. I took them to Jeremy Spooner. He cropped, brightened faded old prints, and enlarged them so that I have four equal-size photos of my dear friend. The only way I could think of to mount them was on one of those plastic-covered black pages intended for 3-ring binders. The pictures are fuzzy, of course, but I think Tom will be pleased.

 

Let me tell you about Tom Tattersfield’s birthday party. The big surprise for him was the arrival of his older daughter, Sissy. She flew over from Guatemala that morning and went back the next day.

Debbie had told me it would be just a small group of close friends. By the time we arrived, her guest list had grown to about thirty.

The catered luncheon included turkey, roast stuffed pork, saffron rice, mashed potatoes, steamed mixed vegetables, and three desserts: a towering mocha cake that Tom cut himself under Debbie’s guidance, pumpkin pies, and tiny mince pies.

Tom has problems, but his mind is bright. We had a sprightly conversation before the party broke up around 4:30 pm.

It was a thoroughly delightful afternoon. Tom, in his retiring Guardsman’s way, was pleased with the attention. It was a happy group, most of them old friends of different generations.

January 2004

The reason you have not heard from me in days is that my email connection died Friday. I was utterly perplexed. It had worked normally a short time before. I kept getting “no dial tone” messages. I checked every connection repeatedly for thirty or forty minutes before giving up. I thought that the line connecting the modem to the surge suppresser might be bad. I have had trouble with that connection in the past.

It was late Saturday, when I tried to call Jill Bell to thank her for the gorgeous birthday flower arrangement she had sent, that I found my telephone was dead. Why checking the phone didn’t occur to me earlier, I have no idea. Signs of age. Next time…

This morning the telephone crew arrived, so I am back in the world of instant communications.

 

I had a lovely birthday. Alex and María took me out for lunch to a new place at Mile Fourteen on the Western highway. The name is Gran’s Farm. It covers many acres, much planted with fruit trees and ornamentals, more left in its natural state with wide, surfaced nature trails through the bush. A raised swimming pool had attracted several children. The main area was on a raised deck with an open buffet and separate open bar on one side and picnic tables with benches under canvas shade on the outer rim.

The couple who have developed it are a local dentist and a young woman María met years ago when she worked for a nursery / landscaper. Mrs. Usher now has her own nursery on part of the farm. She walked with us as we followed the boardwalk down to Hector Creek, a short walk through the bush. Trees were alive with orchids. I was amazed at how minute the plants are when they first attach themselves to a tree.

María and Alex each had escabeche. I had delicious barbecue. It is a delightful place.

February 2004

We just have had a delightful visit from my nephew Scott Bryan. He has spent a week with about sixteen friends from Columbus, Georgia, scuba diving at Turneffe. Scott called me on Thursday afternoon to ask if it would be convenient for him to come by Saturday morning. Of course, I was surprised and delighted. He said he had a little free time. I did not have sense to ask who was with him, how many, and if he could stay for lunch. In the absence of information, Alex said the easiest thing would be to take him out for lunch if he could stay.

Yesterday (Friday) I went into a panic of housekeeping, of course. I knew that it wouldn’t register on a man, but it mattered to me.

Scott arrived at 9:30 this morning, a bit earlier than he had expected. María and Alex just had dashed off on a quick run to Ro‑Mac’s for their weekly shopping. That gave Scott and me a pleasant time to catch up.

Alex and María returned fairly soon. We all had a delightful visit on the veranda. I did not comment, but even I thought it was too warm until a slight breeze picked up.

Scott had to meet his group back at the marina of the Princess Hotel (formerly Ramada) by 1:00 pm. Alex suggested we go to the Calypso, the informal restaurant by the marina. We had a very nice, leisurely lunch. Midway through it, Scott’s trip companions arrived. They had gone up the road intending to do the inner-tube drift through the river. The van had a flat time. By the time it was fixed, it was too late for their excursion. Two of the women told us they should have stayed with Scott and visited his aunt.

It was delightful having Scott here. He looks very well and seems very happy. We all enjoyed his visit.

September 2004

Missy, our dear Alpha Dog, has taken on new responsibilities with age.

I recently have started making myself a pot of tea and saving it in the refrigerator for an afternoon iced tea. For the first time, Missy was in the house when I put the kettle on. I went back to the bedroom to finish whatever I was doing that morning. Suddenly, I heard Missy give her special woofing bark that signals me she needs attention. I went out to the kitchen and found Missy sitting in front of the stove looking up at the whistling kettle that I had not heard.

 

I have wonderful news. You may remember my telling you about my friend Marj Gerstle. She is the woman who had a heart attack on the Caribbean Prince years ago. We were agents for the cruise line at the time. I visited Marj at least twice daily while she was in the hospital here. We became good friends. We met again serendipitously in Japan when her ship happened to dock in Kobe while I was in Tokyo.

She was booked on a cruise to Belize last spring, but had a serious fall. During treatment, doctors discovered advanced lung cancer. They gave her six months. I have been writing Marj two or three times a week ever since, sometimes a letter, sometimes one of those funny things I get on email.

Yesterday I received a letter saying that she and her niece are booked on a Norwegian Line cruise due in Belize on October 12. I am ecstatic at the chance to see Marj again.

Marj refused treatment and is spending her time eating what she wants and taking cruises here and there. She worked for many years as art / handcraft activities director on various major cruise lines. I think this is her third or fourth cruise since receiving her death sentence. She is as gallant as anyone I have known.

Marj obviously booked this cruise specifically because it is coming to Belize. I haven’t had time to work out details, but hope to spend her entire in-port time with her.

 

I just have returned from my Tuesday church service. The head of the Anglican schools asked for help with the four-day literacy program planned for the end of October. Unfortunately, one of our church regulars, a young woman who is involved with the cathedral, zeroed in on me, saying she hoped I would help by reading to children or speaking to one or more groups.

I would love to read to children, but for as long as I can remember, reading aloud instantly inflicts me with endless yawns. I can’t control it. However, I think I would be comfortable talking to young people about the value and joys of reading.

October 2004

This week has been built around the visit of my old friend Marj and her niece Tina on the Norwegian Sea.

I called José (who bought Marine & Services) to verify the ship’s arrival and get an idea of when the non-tour passengers would come ashore. He is agent for Norwegian Line. To my horror, the ship arrives very early. I have to be at the Tourist Village wharf around 7:30 to meet Marj. I was thinking in terms of Ten or Eleven.

I pulled myself out of a busy dream early Wednesday morning. I was at the wharf a bit before 7:45. Marj and Tina walked smilingly down the pier from a large launch at about 8:00.

To my amazement, Marj looked almost exactly as she did last time I saw her in Kobe, Japan. Erect, good color, same size. She walks a little more slowly, but don’t we all at this age. One never would suspect that she is dying of lung cancer. She told me that two doctors gave her until this past August. Now she has a new oncologist who told her to ask him how much longer she had in another year, and he might be able to tell her. Whether or not he is right, it eased her stress enormously.

We came back to the house to regroup. I wanted to find out what Marj could or would like to do for the day. To my delight, they both jumped at the suggestion of visiting the Old Belize Museum.

I wish I could have snapped a picture of Marj’s face as she walked into the rain forest. It was awash in wonder. Hundreds of butterflies fluttered through the jungle. I had not realized that the walk through the exhibit actually is a tunnel of netting so that the butterflies pass over one’s head. It was unnerving until I noticed the black net overhead.

Both Marj and Tina were as impressed with the museum as I had hoped. A pleasant young woman named Michele was a wonderful guide, informal, relaying information conversationally, not in a rote performance. She was careful about standing on Marj’s left side, near her best ear, so she could hear everything. The entire experience was a delight to all three of us.

We returned to the house. My standard guided tour of the city was cut short because we ran out of time. They both decided to try orange squash; I had my usual iced coffee. We adjourned to the veranda.

I was dismayed at the speed and noisiness of the traffic. My veranda is virtually useless now that my delightful home directly on the sea has been transformed into one on a busy highway. I have learned to live with the view that has changed from a low seawall at the edge of the street, with the sea beyond it seeming to start just at the edge of the veranda. Now it is a vista of pavement with a higher wall and the sea more of a distant view than an immediate neighbor. I regret the days when the sand lighters sailed past our house, seeming almost close enough to touch. It probably won’t take too long for me to tune out traffic noise and forget how pleasant things were with the sea as our front yard and only quiet cars creeping past.

After days of agonizing over what to serve my guests for lunch, I came to the logical realization that they needed something light because the ship served dinner at night. I decided against a one of the fancy desserts I considered, because 1) most older people don’t really want dessert, and 2) the ship probably offered them wide varieties of gorgeous goodies several times a day.

Apparently I guessed right. They were delighted with my chicken salad. I must say it was a good one, including avocado and toasted almonds and a special dressing.

Tina wanted to stop at the National Handcraft Center on the other side of the park on their way back to the ship. They both enjoyed browsing, but had bought the things they wanted at the museum gift shop that morning.

We said our goodbyes, and about three o’clock Marj and Tina boarded the large launch for the trip back to the ship.

I returned home to collapse.

 

I may have told you that I was coerced into agreeing to give a couple of talks to schoolchildren about the joys of reading during Anglican Literacy Week. Yesterday was the dreaded day.

I found my way to Queen’s Square School in one of the worst areas of the city. The only danger I faced was the possibility of being splashed by one of the delightful little boys happily running through mud puddles in the courtyard.

I was handed from one teacher to another, then finally ushered into a room full of children I think must have been eleven or twelve. They stood and recited a formal welcome, but actually smiled as if they meant it. I stood in front of a sea of bright-eyed little faces and half-talked, half-read my prepared speech. The children were quiet and attentive. At the end, a couple of them even had good questions for me. I thanked them for listening, and they thanked me for coming.

I was shown to the classroom next door. Same greeting. Same polite audience. Same talk. Same exit lines.

I sighed with relief at having lived through my moment on stage, but the teacher awaiting me said, “You’re not through,” and led me to another classroom. The children in this one probably were thirteen and fourteen. Certainly they were at the early teen age when they didn’t want to be told anything by anyone. Surface politesse. Closed faces. I hit the high spots and cut my talk short, fearing that I might have a revolution if I ran the full ten minutes. No one had questions when I finished, but I suspected that every one of them was waiting for me to leave.

At the end of each talk I said something along the lines of hoping that, whether or not the children remembered what I said about reading and literacy, they would not forget my enthusiasm. If even one child in each classroom turns into a dedicated reader, I will have succeeded in my mission.

January 2005

My life is relatively routine these days. I spent most of January in Palo Alto with Carli and Tom. Allegedly it was a medical visit, but I spun it out for pleasure. The doctors at Stanford confirmed my own diagnosis of a badly deteriorated back and hip. Nothing to be done “at this time.” Both the neurosurgeon and the orthopedic surgeon prescribed heavy doses of aspirin. This controls my pain and seems to have cleared up the inflammation. I still can take my dogs out on their daily walks with no trouble.

May 2005

The Duplicate Bridge group is continuing under new management. The Turnells are in the process of selling Belize holdings and moving to Louisiana. They will be back periodically. I refused to take over responsibility.

My error was offering to collect the $7 fee from players for our first tournament to help Georgia, who was busy setting up tables. Georgia, who took over from the Turnells, handed me a grubby zipper bag and said, “You can handle the money. You live next door to the Fort George to pay bills.” And that’s how I became treasurer. I don’t really mind.

 

My sister Mary and her grandson Chris arrive mid-afternoon on May 25th. I have roughed out a schedule of activities and meals for their eight-day stay. The new roll-away bed Alex gave me for Christmas was set up in the library yesterday. I will let it air out for a couple of days before making it up for Chris. I was a little surprised to find it a full twin size bed, not the narrower cot-size I expected. No matter. There is enough room for it, and it will be that much more comfortable for guests.

 

Mary and Chris seemed to enjoy their visit as much as we enjoyed having them.

Mary looked well. She has lost a lot of weight since her Durango days. This was her first time away from Ellis since his Alzheimer’s was diagnosed. She needed the break. We spent a lot of time by ourselves enjoying the wind and view on the veranda. She talked at some length about his condition, about their life back in Toledo, and about herself. I know it did her good.

As for Chris, he is a delightful, mature 15-year old—attractive, thoughtful, poised, pleased with everything we did. Our sightseeing included the Zoo, Old Belize Museum, the Baboon Sanctuary, Xunantunich, and gift shopping. I think Chris preferred the last. He is an avid shopper, but selected his gifts carefully.

We hit the Zoo just as one of the keepers was tending the tapirs. April and a new young male named Ceiba that they hope will mate with her eventually were at the fence. We all were allowed to feed them peanuts. April hates Scotty, the male first obtained as a mate for her. They have had to keep them in separate enclosures. Ceiba came in as a baby and only now has been allowed into April’s pen. She apparently likes him.

Mary and Chris loved a new restaurant on the river at Boom that we lunched at after two of our outings. Belize-R-Us has a pool, and they both had a swim before lunch. It is a lovely place and one we will enjoy in the future.

Mary suffered from the heat, though we had strong winds for most of their visit. Her timing could not have been better. The week before they came, we had the same high temperatures with no wind. It was a killer. They left on Friday the Third. Sunday we had a power failure that lasted from 7:30 am to 5:15 pm. No fans. Mary would have expired. Then Tuesday we got the edge of Hurricane Arlene, to the east of us. We had heavy, gusty rain for eighteen hours. We all were delighted after our long drought, but it would have been inhibiting if it had happened while our guests were here.

I am very glad Mary came and was delighted at the chance to know Chris. All in all, it was a most successful visit.

August 2005

My schedule involves bridge, a charming Tuesday-morning communion service for the Old Crocks, walking my dogs, and correspondence.

Gradually, almost accidentally, I have developed a program of writing regularly to people who, because of age or illness, need the brief pleasure of finding an airmail envelope with pretty stamps among the daily junk mail. Some friends I write a couple of times a week. Writing is no problem for me, as you know. I enjoy it. I have a backlog of files in my computer from which to draw amusing material. This takes up a fair amount of my time.

September 2005

I am sitting at my computer next to the open door to my veranda. It is the 21st of September, Independence Day. School bands and floats are parked along Hutson street, beside my home, and Marine Parade Boulevard, in front of it, positioning themselves for the parade that will form at Memorial Park, a block away. Students and families walk purposefully through the sunlit street toward the park, where the official ceremonies will begin in less than an hour. I hear the quiet commotion and listen to the irregular roll of practicing drums. My sideways view through the glass louvers on my open door and the railing beyond it alerts me to colorful movement. I step out onto the veranda to watch from time to time, hoping for increasing activity as the time approaches.

Attending the ceremony myself is not an option. Sitting—or, worse, standing—in the blazing sun listening to speeches is close to the bottom of my List.

María and I watched the traditional fireworks from my veranda late last night. September in Belize is big on these displays. The first came on “Quince,” September 15th, the eve of Mexico’s Independence Day. They had the usual lovely show, set off from barges in the sea almost in front of our house. Three days later, one of our community leaders set off fireworks near a park on the other side of town. It was visible through my bedroom window and probably would have been even more visible if I had bothered to go out on the veranda. Last night’s display was Government-sponsored with fireworks, contributed by the Republic of China (Taiwan).

Belize’s fireworks are modest, not the horizon-to-horizon multicolored sparkling blanket you are used to in the U.S. Still, the booms are gratifyingly scary to children and dogs. Bombs blast into the sky, flashing trains briefly attaching them to the ground they just left.

Girls of St. Catherine’s Academy, half a block up my side street, just passed, row after row after row of teenagers in crisp white uniforms, each class distinguished by the color of its scarf.

Soon the playing of the national anthem by one of the major bands will signal that ceremonies have started in the park.

October 2005

I am off to Georgia the end of the week to visit friends and family. I fly up on the 8th. I will wait in the airport for Carli and Tom, who will arrive about an hour later. Tom has booked a rental car, so we will drive to our close friends, Fran and Louis Bondurant. Fran asked if she could invite her children to see us when we arrive.

We will spend the night with the Bondurants. On Sunday, we drive in our separate cars to their lovely house on Lake Rabun in the North Georgia mountains. We will spend two days there, joined by Fran and Louis’s son, Louis III.

Then Carli, Tom, and I will visit Bucher’s youngest sister, my adored friend Becky Bryan. She lives in Jefferson, a charming North Georgia mill village established by the Bryan family several generations ago. Carli and Tom leave on the Friday, but I will stay on for a longer visit with Becky.

Some time—not yet established—during the next week Fran and Louis will drive over to Jefferson to pick me up. My original plan was to stay in Georgia only two weeks. Fran begged me to give them another week. I couldn’t see any reason not to do what I wanted to do anyway, so I agreed. I return to Belize on the 29th of October.

May 2006

Yvonne and Vic Turnell are in town for a week. As it happens, Wednesday bridge is at my house. We always have six players, who take turns cutting it. I invited the Turnells to join us so, for once, we will have two full tables. I think everyone will be surprised and delighted to find them here.

 

Our bridge afternoons are as stylized as a ballet: 2:00 pm, arrive; ice water when everyone is settled; bowls of salted nuts; around 3 o’clock, drinks, usually wine; 3:30, put kettle on for tea; 4:00 pm, serve tea and cookies; 5:00, first guest leaves; 5:45, last of the men booted out so I can relax.

Somehow, serving eight people is a lot more complicated than coping with four to six. I think I spent more time running to and fro than I did playing. Fortunately, everyone helped clean up, taking glasses into the kitchen and replacing chairs around dining room table.

 

Our Duplicate Bridge games have fallen apart since Yvonne and Vic left. I couldn’t get enough players together to cover the cost of the hotel fees. Last week, with them back, I was able to get three tables.

Everyone was delighted to have another Duplicate session and to see the Turnells, but I doubt that I can corral enough players next time I try. We ran very late. Two of our players were novices and played very slowly. Everyone was patient. They are delightful people and will be steady players before long. It was almost midnight when I got home, exhausted.

July 2006

Recently I noticed that my slacks were bunching around my ankles. I remembered that some years ago I discovered, to my dismay, that my traditional 5′ 2" height had shrunk to 5′ 1". I asked Alex to measure me. I now stand 5′ 1/4".

Why can’t girth vanish as imperceptibly as height?

September 2006

Independence Day. It is amazing that I am upright this morning.

The government wisely decided to have their major fireworks display at nine o’clock Independence Eve so children could watch without having to be kept up until after midnight, as in past years. People, mostly families with small children, crowded the sidewalks in front of the house and along Marine Parade as far as we could see in either direction. Parked cars lined Hutson Street. The street itself was a river of people.

María joined me on the veranda for the show. Alex was busy and chose not to come up. There were two displays, one from a barge some fifty yards (my estimate) right in front of our house and the other from a second barge to the north, probably off the little park in Kings Park. We could see both. Of course, the major one was directly ahead of us, but we kept our necks under constant quarter-rotation, trying not to miss the fireworks we could see clearly beyond the end of the veranda. It was fun, fascinating, and frustrating. The display this year was by far the most lavish ever.

We appreciated having the fireworks set off from barges. In the years they based them in Memorial Park or on the unfinished boulevard just north of us, wind blew fiery remnants scarily close.

The show was late starting, waiting for the noisy convoy with the visiting president of Panama. Even so, it was ten o’clock before I was back in my bedroom. I knew trying to sleep was a little silly. While some people may have taken their children home after the show, plenty remained. I managed to drift off to sleep off and on until midnight, when speeches wound down at Memorial Park and the final fireworks celebration began. The first sonic boom brought me back to reality with a shock. I lay in bed wondering whether or not to bother looking at the display. Finally I got up and watched for a couple of minutes from the darkness in my bedroom. Then I went back to bed, but hardly to sleep.

Soon after the fireworks stopped, the band from the official ceremonies marched up the boulevard. They stopped in front of my house, then I heard a command of dismissal. Bandsmen with their instruments peeled off, heading up Hutson Street. Quieter it was; quiet it wasn’t—for perhaps another hour, as the crowd took its time about dispersing.

March 2007

The last week or so, I was preoccupied with our long-delayed Duplicate Bridge Club party. For a year or more, we seldom have had enough players for what used to be bi-weekly sessions. When the Turnells were due back for a visit, I decided to round up enough players to warrant a party.

We play at the Fort George. The young woman I deal with there made it very clear that, while we could bring our own wine, we could not bring any food—except for cake. I became the accidental treasurer when Yvonne and Vic Turnell, who used to run things, moved to the States. We had accumulated a fair amount from our regular fees, so I decided to buy everything instead of having people contribute food and wine, as we have for past parties.

I ordered a marble cake with butter-cream frosting from the young woman who made the delicious cake for my 80th birthday. And I commissioned Alex to make one of his marvelous cheese cakes.

I expected to have four full tables, but one couple did not arrive. Still, it was a pleasant evening. To my surprise, very little wine was drunk. I think I was among the heavier tipplers with my two glasses, downed after I could see that refreshments were being well received.

People loved both cakes, but raved over Alex’s contribution. I was able to salvage a tiny sliver to bring home to María, who had complained that she had to help Alex with it, but wouldn’t get to taste any. She told me this noon that she barely had a bite because she felt she should share it with Alex.