Grandpa Squared

Waltercita is a machine!

I'm referring of course to my gorgeous hen. Eight more chicks born last weekend.

Unfortunately two of them have since died, still leaving six healthy grandchildren scampering through my garden.

Why did two chicks perish? The neighbour's rooster attacked and killed one of the cuties.

And the other? [gulp] I have been told that I am responsible.

You see, the poor thing was struggling to get out of its egg. I thought I would do the honorable thing and help it along.

Error.

Lesson learned. Mess with Mother Nature at your own peril.

Waltercita - Not looking too thrilled with me after I offered one of her kids a helping hand.                                                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nicaraguan Quicksand

"I'm looking for a piggy bank."

"A what?" retorted the Nicaraguan market vendor.

"A piggy bank." I didn't think the literal translation ("Banco de Cerdo") would serve me well, but I gave it a shot.

 "Listen," I continued, "I'm looking for a plastic or porcelain container that kids use to save coins. It is often in the form of a pig."

"Why?" he replied.

"I want one for my desk. I find coins on the street and I want to put them in a piggy bank."

"No," he countered, "Why is it in the shape of a pig?"

Geez, good question. I made a mental note to look into it when I got back to my computer.

"I have no idea why it is in the shape of a pig. If you don't have any, can you point me in the right direction?"

The gruff, unshaven man, with a super-long-stringy moustache and piercing deep brown beady eyes gave me a puzzled look and pointed haphazardly to his right.

Ugggghhh. "What I mean is . . . can you tell me exactly where I might find a piggy bank? Can you be more explicit?"

"Well you said 'point'," he shot back defiantly.

"I know, I know, but it a manner of speech."

I was in Spanish quicksand and sinking fast. It is a place I have come to know very well. Call it my home away from home.

His puzzled expression had no signs of abating.

"Never mind. Next time I'll come with a picture. Gracias." (to be continued)

Macho, Macho Man

His name is Manuel and he is my handyman.

When I need something fixed up, something painted, something repaired, something unplugged, or something rewired, Manuel is my man.

He's a tough, working-class, beer-swillin', lady-lovin' macho Nicaraguan guy.

AND, he is the absolute last person on earth that I would expect to see . . .  at a Friday evening POETRY reading here in Masaya.

But, amazingly that is where I saw him, and that is where he was.

I sauntered up for a closer look to confirm that the person I spotted was the person I thought it might be.

He notices me. "BOXER!" (I say "Walter", he hears "Boxer", so depressing, but I'll save that for another blog.)

"What are you doing here, Manuel, is there an open bar? Is Toña* sponsoring? Ladies' night?"

"No" came the upbeat reply.

"I came to a reading last Friday. And it was beautiful."

"Oh," suddenly feeling incredibly narrow-minded for the "open bar" joke.

Nicaragua continues to surprise me. There is a genuine fondness for the arts here unlike I've seen elsewhere. Amongst all.


My beloved handyman probably eats quiche, too.


 *Toña is the name of a national beer.

Time Wasters

One encounters timewasters running a non-profit.

And then one encounters real time wasters running a non-profit.

And then one encounters Twitter.

Experts told us that BECA should be taking full advantage of social networking. "It's how the new generation of non-profits network."

Well, I drank the koolaid.

And after a six month Twitter trial all I can tell you is that it tastes like crap.

I can't for the life of me figure out any utility here. At least not for a start-up non-profit like us.

RIP Twitter. I'm going to really enjoy removing that blue bird from our website.