Started another project...
involving cement, bricks and cold chisels and sledge hammers. Idiot tools is how my father described equipment like shovels, picks and any other 'grunt' tool.
Am going to re-route a water line. But, before any re-routing can be contemplated the water pipe must be exposed so one can get at it. As I have mentioned Mexicans build with bricks and cement. Everything is embedded in these materials, electrical, gas and water. Any alteration must first be accompanied by beating and smashing and cursing the concrete to uncover the goody.
Wood is not used in any quanity here. This project would be duck soup if we were in the U.S.. What wood they use here is of poor quality, warped and crooked. The only decent wood is used in kitchen cabinets and interior doors, and even that is not what one expect north of the border.
To sum up: Who thinks up home improvemnt plans? Them that don't do the work I suspect. Concrets work is best done by uncouth lads and not by elderly gentlemen whose hands are better suited for holding a double old fashioned glass. And, the only good thing about not having wood in the houses is that nobody has to buy fire insurance.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
If there are no dogs in heaven, then I want to go where they went. - Will Rodgers
MEXICO (as I see it):
Mexicans appear to enter business arrangements, often long range, expensive propositions, with little or no research. Even if it is all but a guaranteed failure they will cheerfully wade in.
There must be millions lost every year through failed business adventures. If these losses are subtracted from the GNP it surely means that Mexico has been in the red during its whole existence.
THE SERIAL Her Viking:
We left off here:
While she waited for his arrival, and her coffee, the widow began painting her nails which, after much attention, were finally taking shape.
When, at last, her Viking appeared in the distance, she could tell there was something strange in his manner. He was wandering from side to side as he plodded through the sand. He was having trouble keeping the inner tube over his shoulder. Her Viking also was carrying a small, nylon travel bag. It was the first time the widow had seen it.
Once in front of the widow's house he let the tube and travel bag drop to the sand. The Widow Mora watched intently as he took from the elastic waist band of his swimming trunks a pint bottle of tequila or, perhaps, she guessed, it may have been vodka or gin since it was colorless. Whatever it was there was less than half of it remaining; this much she could see when he put the bottle to his lips, threw back his head and took a long drink from it. The liquid bounced vigorously in the bottle as it gurgled down his throat. Her Viking arched his back and staggered a couple of steps backward as he drained the contents of the bottle. That done, he spiked the empty bottle, with great force, directly at his feet as if to put an exclamation point on its passing.
What followed stunned the widow so as to increase her respiration and send her mind into a whirl. Her Viking turned toward her house, raised his eyes and looked directly into the lens of her binoculars. He raised his arm, showing the back of his hand, and saluted the Widow Mora in the typical Latin fashion; then, with
the grace of a polished actor, he swept into a low, theatrical bow. The widow's arms lost all strength and fell to her sides almost dropping the field glasses. She reeled backwards, away from the window.
"Good Lord! He was looking right at me!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "How could he have known I was here? Can he see me? Has he been watching me all along? No! Impossible! He seldom even glanced up here. He couldn't have seen me." The Widow Mora stopped talking to herself and fell silent.
But, these mad visions persisted, turning her face red. She was ashamed, believing she had been uncovered. The widow clasp her hand over her mouth when her erratic reasoning suggested that the stranger might somehow have known of her fantasies these past few weeks.
'My God, no!' she thought, 'It can't be. Calm yourself you fool.' For a time her mind continued racing out of control with horrible imaginings. Slowly her pulse rate subsided and she was able to collect herself.
After the widow sorted out what was possible, and what was not, she sneaked back to the bedroom window. It seemed to her that an appreciable length of time had passed while she was wrestling herself back to reality but, actually, only a minute or two had gone by.
Her Viking was still on the beach making ready to enter the water. Still a bit shaken, the widow timidly raised the binoculars to her eyes. She watched as he unzipped the travel bag and peered into it. The first item he took out was a long sleeved blue shirt and he promptly put it on over his T-shirt. The Widow Mora decided it was to protect his skin from the sun. The next thing out of the bag could not be explained so readily; it was a pair of heavy denim trousers of the type known, collectively, as Levis. Again, without hesitating, her Viking stepped into them and pulled them up over his kahki trunks.
'This,' the widow thought, 'is foolish.' Didn't he realize how heavy those trousers would become after being soaked in water? If he were to be separated from his inner tube how, she wondered, could he stay afloat with so much added weight.
He continued adding surprises to this morning's venture. Her Viking was now fondling a small, leather pouch gathered at its top by a long draw string. Then, he took something else from the zippered bag. It wasn't possible for the widow to tell what it was because it was wrapped in cellophane and taped. He put this object into the small leather bag, tying it closed with the draw
string and having enough of the string left to loop it over his head allowing the pouch to hang around his neck.
There had been too much confusion already for the Widow Mora and now, with the pouch and all, she was mentally exhausted. Her mind ceased to wonder 'why' and she tried to content herself with the simple role of spectator.
CONTINUED...
Am going to re-route a water line. But, before any re-routing can be contemplated the water pipe must be exposed so one can get at it. As I have mentioned Mexicans build with bricks and cement. Everything is embedded in these materials, electrical, gas and water. Any alteration must first be accompanied by beating and smashing and cursing the concrete to uncover the goody.
Wood is not used in any quanity here. This project would be duck soup if we were in the U.S.. What wood they use here is of poor quality, warped and crooked. The only decent wood is used in kitchen cabinets and interior doors, and even that is not what one expect north of the border.
To sum up: Who thinks up home improvemnt plans? Them that don't do the work I suspect. Concrets work is best done by uncouth lads and not by elderly gentlemen whose hands are better suited for holding a double old fashioned glass. And, the only good thing about not having wood in the houses is that nobody has to buy fire insurance.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
If there are no dogs in heaven, then I want to go where they went. - Will Rodgers
MEXICO (as I see it):
Mexicans appear to enter business arrangements, often long range, expensive propositions, with little or no research. Even if it is all but a guaranteed failure they will cheerfully wade in.
There must be millions lost every year through failed business adventures. If these losses are subtracted from the GNP it surely means that Mexico has been in the red during its whole existence.
THE SERIAL Her Viking:
We left off here:
While she waited for his arrival, and her coffee, the widow began painting her nails which, after much attention, were finally taking shape.
When, at last, her Viking appeared in the distance, she could tell there was something strange in his manner. He was wandering from side to side as he plodded through the sand. He was having trouble keeping the inner tube over his shoulder. Her Viking also was carrying a small, nylon travel bag. It was the first time the widow had seen it.
Once in front of the widow's house he let the tube and travel bag drop to the sand. The Widow Mora watched intently as he took from the elastic waist band of his swimming trunks a pint bottle of tequila or, perhaps, she guessed, it may have been vodka or gin since it was colorless. Whatever it was there was less than half of it remaining; this much she could see when he put the bottle to his lips, threw back his head and took a long drink from it. The liquid bounced vigorously in the bottle as it gurgled down his throat. Her Viking arched his back and staggered a couple of steps backward as he drained the contents of the bottle. That done, he spiked the empty bottle, with great force, directly at his feet as if to put an exclamation point on its passing.
What followed stunned the widow so as to increase her respiration and send her mind into a whirl. Her Viking turned toward her house, raised his eyes and looked directly into the lens of her binoculars. He raised his arm, showing the back of his hand, and saluted the Widow Mora in the typical Latin fashion; then, with
the grace of a polished actor, he swept into a low, theatrical bow. The widow's arms lost all strength and fell to her sides almost dropping the field glasses. She reeled backwards, away from the window.
"Good Lord! He was looking right at me!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "How could he have known I was here? Can he see me? Has he been watching me all along? No! Impossible! He seldom even glanced up here. He couldn't have seen me." The Widow Mora stopped talking to herself and fell silent.
But, these mad visions persisted, turning her face red. She was ashamed, believing she had been uncovered. The widow clasp her hand over her mouth when her erratic reasoning suggested that the stranger might somehow have known of her fantasies these past few weeks.
'My God, no!' she thought, 'It can't be. Calm yourself you fool.' For a time her mind continued racing out of control with horrible imaginings. Slowly her pulse rate subsided and she was able to collect herself.
After the widow sorted out what was possible, and what was not, she sneaked back to the bedroom window. It seemed to her that an appreciable length of time had passed while she was wrestling herself back to reality but, actually, only a minute or two had gone by.
Her Viking was still on the beach making ready to enter the water. Still a bit shaken, the widow timidly raised the binoculars to her eyes. She watched as he unzipped the travel bag and peered into it. The first item he took out was a long sleeved blue shirt and he promptly put it on over his T-shirt. The Widow Mora decided it was to protect his skin from the sun. The next thing out of the bag could not be explained so readily; it was a pair of heavy denim trousers of the type known, collectively, as Levis. Again, without hesitating, her Viking stepped into them and pulled them up over his kahki trunks.
'This,' the widow thought, 'is foolish.' Didn't he realize how heavy those trousers would become after being soaked in water? If he were to be separated from his inner tube how, she wondered, could he stay afloat with so much added weight.
He continued adding surprises to this morning's venture. Her Viking was now fondling a small, leather pouch gathered at its top by a long draw string. Then, he took something else from the zippered bag. It wasn't possible for the widow to tell what it was because it was wrapped in cellophane and taped. He put this object into the small leather bag, tying it closed with the draw
string and having enough of the string left to loop it over his head allowing the pouch to hang around his neck.
There had been too much confusion already for the Widow Mora and now, with the pouch and all, she was mentally exhausted. Her mind ceased to wonder 'why' and she tried to content herself with the simple role of spectator.
CONTINUED...
posted by bbuckman | 4:14 PM
1 Comments:
This is getting scary.
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