When a sophisticated man of the world retires from an active career of service to non-profit cultural, educational and medical institutions at the venerable law firm of Palmer and Dodge, LLP in Boston, where does he end up? Our dear friend Donald Winter has chosen to put down roots and flourish in the exciting international town of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.
 

Tucked into a wrinkle of the Central Sierra Mountains in the semiarid state of Guanajuato two generous springs nurture an old colonial town where time is measured by centuries. This is the historic town of San Miguel de Allende.

The original Spanish settlement in this area was founded along the Laja River by Friar Juan de San Miguel in 1542. Friar Bernardo Cossin was designated to head the new Franciscan settlement there and he diligently struggled over the years to convert the indigenous people to Christianity.  But these fiercely independent nomadic people, known collectively as the Chichimecas, attacked and burnt down the settlement in 1551 forcing the Franciscans to relocate to a higher more easily defensible location. Friar Cossin found a spot nearby with two plentiful fresh water springs where he settled. He named this place San Miguel el Grande.

During the Viceregal period San Miguel el Grande profited from being on the route from the surrounding gold and silver mining towns of Zacatecas, San Luis Potosí and Guanajuato to the capital, Mexico City. Also vast land tracts were granted to the Spanish for the development of cattle ranches. These income sources afforded the development of a prosperous town where wealthy families built impressive homes, churches and government buildings that form the lasting cultural heritage of the present day San Miguel de Allende. 

Ignacio de Allende was a native son of San Miguel el Grande He was from a wealthy and prominent family of that town. As a young man he joined the Dragoons of the Queen of Spain as a Lieutenant.   In 1804 Allende’s company was mobilized to Mexico City and Veracruz to fend off an anticipated attack on Mexico by the English.
 
During this campaign Allende had a change of heart and came to support a fledgling movement to gain independence from Spain. In 1808 he returned to San Miguel el Grande and attended secret meetings composed of a small core of intellectuals devoted to the independence movement.
 
In 1810 issues came to a crisis and Allende and Father Miguel Hidalgo with a small band of followers began the war of independence from Spain in the small town of Dolores and then marched on to seize San Miguel el Grande. Allende became the first general of the insurgency but was apprehended and executed in 1811 by the Spanish. He is beloved by all Mexicans as one of the founding fathers of modern Mexico and San Miguel el Grande was renamed in his honor to be known as San Miguel de Allende in 1824.

Statue of Ignacio de Allende inset into the corner of his family home in San Miguel de Allende decorated to commemorate his birthday on January 21, 1769. This picture was taken on January 21, 2010. 2010 was the 200^th anniversary of the beginning of the war of independence and the 100th anniversary of the Mexican revolution.

In January of 2010 my husband Leo and I paid a visit to Don Donaldo Winter at his charming “Casa Corazon de Leon.” There we enjoyed his abundant hospitality flowing freely like the refreshing waters of the local springs, “Batan” and “Izcuinapan.” These springs are located in the El Chorro neighborhood where the Franciscan Friars first settled San Miguel el Grande.

The smiling lion guarding Don Donaldo’s front door gives subtle reference to Richard di Frummolo, Donald’s beloved partner, “Richard the Lion Hearted” as Donald remembers him. Richard is now an angel looking down on the Don and his guests with mischievous glee. And like that monarch of fabled times Donald’s Richard was a conqueror too, but not by means of war, rather by an infectious ebullient charm and unending creative energy.

“Richard was the love of my life for 25 years. Every year, here in Mexico, for the Day of the Dead I erect an altar and his spirit returns to be at home with me. Every evening I light a lamp and ring a bell next to his picture in the study.”

“At the tail end of our second cruise around the world in 2001 we disembarked in Venice and spent six weeks in Italy, mostly in Tuscany, where we fell in love with Italy all over again, and we looked for a place to buy. But it was very difficult for Non-EU citizens to get financing etc. So I suggested we look at Mexico as being closer to our U.S. families and a place with a similar Mediterranean feel.”

“We started coming to San Miguel de Allende in 2003, started looking for a house to buy in 2004, bought in 2005, renovated in 2006 and moved in 2007.  During construction in 2006 we came down four times to work with our Mexican architect, Alan Wilkerson. On those trips we bought furniture and art in San Miguel de Allende. Richard and I, but mostly Richard, had been accumulating stuff for our dream house for years and we compiled furnishings from our several residences in Vermont, Provincetown and New York City to complete the new home.”

Although Richard never got to see the new house completed, he is present in the constant flow of water from the various fountains that speak of the formless presence of a generous spirit.
 

“I love the sound of water falling in fountains. I picked out the one in the front court yard of the house by asking the architect to copy the fountain in the courtyard in the public library here.”

 “I am also fond of my water-wall which gives sound and dancing light patterns at night. The wall is inset with a relief sculpture of the Virgin who is the appropriate source of the water. Below her, a small gold fish basin catches the dripping water where we planted papyrus.  I asked the landscape architect to put this feature on the back wall of the lower garden, under the pergola.”

 “I also wanted a free-standing fountain on the lower level of the back garden.”

 “The building architect wanted a fountain on the terrace outside the guest rooms.”

"The landscape architect wanted to join the two and that’s how I came up with the idea of a cascade down the middle of the steps between the fountains.”

This is a view of the arched colonnade framing a corner of the front court yard.

“I like planning changes in the gardens, buying plants and making sure that my gardener, Oscar, keeps things healthy. I am rather spoiled now, and don’t do the weeding and planting like I did in Provincetown. First, because Oscar is so good at it and, secondly because with several courtyards and gardens it is collectively a bigger task than I could handle alone.  Mostly I just like to look at it and share the gardens with my friends.”

A view of the entrance colonnade from the front court yard looking towards the house.

The house cat who came with the house when we bought it came back after the renovations, took a look around and decided that, yes, the new surroundings met with her rigorous standards of good taste and requirements of spacious protected gardens and she resettled in for the duration as the resident and reigning feline.
  

My husband Leo reads a fascinating book on Mexican crafts, one of many piled up on the living room coffee table. Behind him is the sturdy dining table and comfortable chairs and behind that is the kitchen. To the left is an antique double door which leads out to the front court yard beneath the colonnade as seen in the above pictures. This magnificent room is made particularly impressive by the barrel vaulted ceiling punctuated by the oval bull’s eye window. The floor is paved with large quarried stones of irregular shapes and finished by broad marks from the mason’s chisel.

 This is another view of the living room that runs the length of the middle section of Donald’s home. Leo is still captivated by his book.

“I like to run my hand along the rough surfaces of carved stone columns and feel the texture of the stone contrasting with the smooth bronze of the Jorge Marin statue in my living room.”
 

Looking across the dining room table flanked by comfortably leather covered arm chairs we can see into the cozy study. The trio of paintings here is a good illustration of how Donald’s art collection animates the subdued color scheme and handsome architectural components of the interior design of his home. The two friends depicted on the right seem to me to be particularly alive with the jangle of energy derived from the combination of strong coffee and a good gossip. The paintings are by Jim Giampaoli.  

Looking into the study rich textiles used for the pillows and seating upholstery add a luxurious note to the room and the kilim rug echoes all the colors which are brought together by the subtle color wash of the walls. The zany painting by Keith Keller depicting café society in San Miguel gives an irreverent tone speaking of the meld of Mexican and Gringo characters one might find in the local late night cantinas.
 

Donald’s kitchen is nothing short of a miracle of functional design where several cooks can be happily at work at their own station and never get in each other’s way. Like the rest of the house the low key and serene interior architecture is warm and inviting. Note the traditional "boveda" vaulted ceiling covered in hand-made off-white tiles that make rhythmic patterns dancing across the concave space. Outside the glass doors we can glimpse the fountain inspired by the one in the local library. This gives the soothing trickle of falling water to further calm the atmosphere.

La Senora, Donald’s beloved housekeeper, Josefina, is here in the process of making waffles; a house specialty smothered in wild local honey and sliced fragrant strawberries that make the dish irresistible.

Don Donaldo’s dignity is enormously enhanced by his not standing on ceremony and pitching in the effort to produce a scrumptious breakfast in his comfortable bath robe. We were all very much “at home.” Leo is in the background getting ready to rustle up some grub of his own concoction.

Here Leo is diligently at work on his famous Chilaquiles, a tortilla, cheese, and salsa concoction that is a traditional Mexican breakfast favorite. Josefina admires her first waffles. From this viewpoint we are looking out at the dining room table and the fireplace of the living room beyond.

Every where one looks at Casa Corazon de Leon one comes across art, either paintings, sculpture, handicrafts or antiques of all sorts. This sun-moon sculpture by the internationally renonwn Mexico City artist Pedro Friederberg and is a favorite of mine. The many hand gestures remind me of those multi-limbed deities of Hindu religious art and I find the opposing direction of the feet an amusing suggestion of contrasting wills. This little honey sits on a side table at the head of a stone staircase leading down to the guest suites and the sunken garden at the rear of the property. 
 

And this is the comfy sitting area at the bottom the aforementioned stairs. This room is on the level of the guest suites and gives guests staying at the house their own place to read and relax.

Looking at the same “library” space from the stairs we see a vista out the window to a garden of pure fantasy which has gotta be the true delight of the home.

In Mexican homes, restaurants, inns and hotels song birds are kept in well crafted cages often woven of bamboo in fanciful shapes and many different sizes. These charming family members brighten the house with their chatter and melodies.

 Here at Casa Corazon, Don Donaldo has taken this tradition to new heights. The “garden” beyond the glass doors is actually an aviary where a collection of small colorful birds flit about in their two storied spacious home with a completely convincing trompe l’oeil vista of a formal garden painted on the walls.

The bird paradise with luncheon spread for the flock on the café table.

And here is a wee cheeper pecking away at sunflower seeds with dishes of fruit and vegetables on the table to provide variety for these epicurean enthusiasts.

A delicate red-orange darling perched on the handle of the garden door inspects the day’s offerings.

One of the guest rooms featuring twin beds with antique doors reused as head boards. The patchwork quilts from Guatemala are actually much more brilliant in color than my camera could capture.
 

A quiet seating area beneath an arcade veiled by royal palm fronds. This place of repose is located right outside the guest room pictured above.
 

From the protected terrace outside the guest suites this fountain continues the theme of abundant water. It is the basin that is connected by a water chase to another fountain below in the sunken garden.

A pleasant view of San Miguel de Allende and the dome of Las Monjas framed by banana and palm fronds with the Guanajuato mountains in the background.

“I enjoy listening to the sound of church bells day and night and the lilting music of bands playing in the Parque Juarez or Mariachis in the town square and drum and bugle practice that drift up the hill. These sounds and music serenade my guests and me as we are enjoying a cocktail and watching the lovely sunsets from my terrace above the sunken garden.”

This is another view over the water wall forming the back barrier of the “sunken garden." The church in this view is San Antonio.

“As I walk about San Miguel de Allende, I am delighted by the smell of freshly baked pastries from the many bakeries in town and equally enticed by the spicy, cilantro-sharpened, garlic-infused smells from a score of Mexican restaurants promising the satisfaction of avocados and salsa.”
 

A cozy corner of the outdoor terrace where art and artifacts keep pleasant company awaiting visitors from far and wide.
 

Another corner of the outdoor terrace with a meditative portrait of La Senora de Oaxaca being protected by a collection of bronze busts by Rupert Getzen.

A close up of the above grouping
 

Spurred on by my effusive bubbling praises, Don Donaldo expresses his soaring spirit with a gesture of joyous grace and delightful silliness. Such is the freedom of a wise man at home in foreign climes.
 

 

photo by Joel Benjamin

Here we are, the two happy husbands Leo and Iory!  We are about to celebrate our 35^th anniversary on Valentine's Day February 14, 2012, Ooo-la-la! 35 years of cohabiting and comingling in our jolly fashion and 5 years married this coming April 10! I can hardly believe that all those years have trundled on by bringing us to the verge of venerable chum status. But yes, time has progressed and over the years  we have decided to be very old fashioned and stick together through thick and thin, pledging our troth. Actually with a husband like Leo this has not been the least bit difficult, the little darling is a near saint or at least that's how I see him.

We were especially honored by Joel Benjamin who took the above nifty photo. Joel was commissioned by Spirit Magazine for the January/February issue for an article entitled, “Soul Meets Soul” written by John O’Connell celebrating long term relationships and Valentine’s Day. There are six couples included in the article and Joel has done a superb job bringing out all our shining lights and smiling faces. Thank you, Mr. Joel!

Friends have been asking us what we are going to do to celebrate the momentous occasion and I can see in their eyes they are sorta surprised to hear that we will be at the helm of Casa Romero greeting and tending to our loyal clientele at the restaurant. This may sound like work and although, yes we do take our responsibilities as hosts with professional concern, it is actually a great night to be with a whole bunch of other couples who are kicking up their heels and clinking their glasses toasting  joy, affection and true love.

Yesterday we meandered over to our Victory Garden in the Fenway where little Snow Bell blossoms rang out sweet ding-a–lings saying, “hello again darling Grandpas.” Of course our hearts melted as we gazed at our first flowers of the year, harbingers of a new year full of life and love and gentle nurturing.

Phoenix and Flame

We were talking of phoenix and flame, that day, looking at the crest of a wave.

Haiku for Lourdán, San Francisco, 1973

 

 

Winter
“Quest Eternal” bronze sculpture by Donald DeLue, Prudential Center, Boston

 

Summer
From winter to summer the seasons pass bringing the hope of life renewed.

 

Today I am back in my protected eerie perched safely inside the top floor reading room of the Boston Athenaeum after a break of seven months.  Outside the tall arched window beside my writing table, a thick canopy of oak leaves obscures the moldering graves of the Granary Burial Ground five stories below. Down there, between tipsy gravestones drunk with the weight of time, luminaries of the past are daily resurrected in the imaginations of a constant parade of tourists.  Up here in the civil silence of serious writers I am struggling through a birth canal stiff with neglect - trying to find my voice. 

 I felt like I had been fragmented by the particle accelerator of fate when last December our general manager of ten years at Casa Romero gave two months notice and promptly departed for Mexico leaving Leo and I to tend to the fort at the beginning of March. Since then I have been trying desperately to pull all the component parts of myself and Casa Romero back together into a functioning whole, a formidable task that has left me panting.

Today I have given myself permission to lubricate my struggles with a wee bit of diversity and return to a writing schedule of two days a week (hopefully) with the intention of sustaining my concentration for my business responsibilities at Casa Romero and my writing career over the long haul. In this age of boastful “multi-tasking” I hasten to say I do not presume to that state of competence. In fact it takes all of my slim talents to tick off the items of my “to do” list one step at a time. And here I am taking that step, leap of faith, and foolish plunge.

 

Several friends have mentioned that their emails addressed to me were bounced back and phone calls to my home “land line” met with that ominous message “number not in service.” Below is my current contact information and by all means, including smoke signals if necessary, please reach out. As you can see from the above illustration I will undoubtedly need a helping hand and possibly a pair of wings.

Iory Allison

          Work: 617-536-4341

          Email: ioryallison@gmail.com   

          Web: www.ioryallison.com

          Blog: www.ioryallisonblog.com

I am working at Casa Romero Monday through Friday evenings 5:00 – 10:00 PM hosting at the door. So if you would like to stop by for a drink or dinner I am usually able to schmooze at the beginning or end of the evening or at least get you a great table and say hi.  

Please click here to see a two and a half minute slide show of my jaunts to the North Shore of Massaachusetts, Gloucester, Crane's Beach, Agassiz Rock and Halibut Point

There is There is a terrific show of Chinese art and architecture at PEM, The Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts. The full name of the exhibition is, The Emperor’s Private Paradise, Treasures from the Forbidden City. The exhibition studies the Qianlong Emperor’s (1736 – 1769) retirement garden intended to be a peaceful retreat from 60 years of his active reign. The show will be there until January 9, 2011 and it is well worth a visit, I have already been twice and I intend to go back again to study and enjoy the collections on loan from the Palace Museum, Beijing, China.

If you don’t know, PEM is one of the great museums of New England. It was founded in 1799 as the East India Marine Society by a group of Salem based captains. It is the oldest continuously operating museum in the United States. Its collections include American decorative art, Asian export art, Japanese art , Korean art ,Chinese art , Native American art ,Oceanic art, African art, Indian contemporary art, and that’s only the beginning!

In 2003 the Museum opened a new wing designed by Moshe Safdie which references the maritime heritage of Salem in the atrium’s soaring glass ceiling shaped like clipper ship sails swollen by trade winds. The supporting brick walls, banded with brownstone, reference the federalist architecture of the merchant captains mansions’ standing proudly around the common a few blocks away. Incorporated in the Safdie wing is Ying Yu Tang, an 18th-century Chinese merchant’s house transported from China. The whole ensemble is stunning inside and out, comfortably accommodating periodic theme festivals attended by festive crowds or equally inviting on a calm afternoon when only a few visitors are present.

The Qianlong Emperor designed and built his garden complex consisting of 4 courtyards and twenty-seven pavilions on a two acre site in the northeastern quarter of the Forbidden City. It is now referred to as the Qianlong Garden. The project took five years to complete (1771-1776) and incorporates a wealth of architectural elaborations densely wrapped around a staggering variety of garden features forming an ideal paradise for the emperor’s intended retirement.

To the western eye the term “garden” may be a bit perplexing for this jam packed environment because the actual plantings are seemingly secondary to the rockeries, and architectural structures that surround and dominate the composition. But there is a reverence in the Qianlong Garden for the natural world that references the viewpoint of the traditional scholar poet of past centuries who eschewed power politics of the warring states and retreated to the more eternal realms of mountain wilderness to contemplate ultimate reality present in nature. It is this region of monumental and indeed magical mountain landscapes that is painstakingly recreated with collections and constructions of “awkward” stones that evoke the vast mountain wilderness of the Chinese sub-continent.

In ancient China a mirror was intended for introspection rather than reflection and likewise the intention of the individual in his encounter with the immense power of “Cold Mountain” was to be absorbed in the veiled space of mist where eternal mountains appeared and retreated from sight, ever changing, always present.

Thirty spokes converge on a hub
but it’s the emptiness
that makes a wheel work
pots are fashioned from clay
but it’s the hollow
that makes a pot work
windows and doors are carved for a house
but it’s the spaces
that make a house work
existence makes something useful
but nonexistence makes it work
Daode jing, verse 11 (tr. Bill Porter)

The Qianlong Emperor’s scholarly proclivities blended a through study of classical Chinese literature based in Taoism, Confucianism and esoteric Tibetan Buddhism with European artistic constructs of perspective and volume as well as a flirtation with European technology exhibited in clocks and automatons. This mélange created an international sophistication that is evident throughout the Qianlong Garden.

The thoughtful installation of the exhibit is dispersed in spacious galleries where the walls are painted with silhouettes of the pavilions comprising the Qianlong garden complex. These shadow buildings with their distinctive up curved tiled roof tops are decorated by lines of protective gargoyle-like animals that ride the roof ridges adding whimsy to the architecture.

An aspect of the exhibit that subliminally enhances the atmosphere of the galleries is a faint and drifting recording of different bird songs broadcast in the background of the galleries transporting the visitor inside the Qianlong Garden,. This delightfully subtle enhancement brings a smile to your face if you are sharp enough to notice.

The background colors of the galleries start with imperial golden yellow introducing the Qianlong Emperor, then blending into light blue/green that gives way to rooms painted a bricky red/orange, evolving into other spaces painted a soothing shade of apple green. Throughout the exhibit some of the walls are decorated with reproductions block printed wall papers used inside the actual pavilions of the garden.

Incorporated into the galleries’ interior walls are intricately carved wooden wall screens and window panels selected from a few of the pavilions of the Qianlong Garden. Some of these are decorated with cloisonné plaques depicting auspicious symbols or lacquer pictures depicting wizened sages. There is a section of wall lattice that is inset with glazed porcelain plaques adorned with flowers and good luck symbols set in decorative boarders. The visitor passes through a few of these elaborate door ways of precious tropical hardwoods allowing one to study the details closely. There is one especially charming portal that represents a lotus blossom framing a meditation area used by the Qianlong Emperor. The lotus blossom is a Buddhist symbol indicating the potential of the individual to attain perfection as does the pure white blossom sprouting from a plant rooted underwater in the mud. There are also alcoves with trompe l’oeil illusions of fantasy rooms and gardens enticingly beyond reach in a nether world of perpetual blossoming springtime.

All these structures and transitions are further enhanced by silk screened panels evoking the complex mullion patterns of windows and wall panels that are so integral a part of classical Chinese architecture. Photo panels of actual garden views are arranged behind these “windows and doors” as if one were actually inside a garden building looking out to one of the intended “surprise” vistas.

The intention of this complex installation is to evoke the imperial magnificence of the Qianlong Garden with its wealth of superb architecture set in a labyrinth of garden courtyards in a way that a modern visitor can comprehend and study the garden in comfort and ease. The exhibit design completely succeeds in this intention and goes even further with special areas that add depth to the experience. One corner is given over to a comfortable seating area provided with interesting books including the superb catalogue of the show as well as other titles pertaining to Chinese garden culture, history and art.

My favorite adjunct display is the calligraphy demonstration. You sit on a sturdy porcelain garden stool at a bench that is inset with two large computer screens for a lesson in Chinese brush painting using an actual composition of the Qianlong Emperor. The visitor activates the lesson by touching the screen and selecting a character group. With a bamboo and hair brush, you follow, step by step, the direction of the strokes involved in creating the characters. The brush’s stroke “inks” in the outline of the character and before long you have written a phrase of the composition.

Calligraphy and brush painting are ultimate essences of learned refinement in Chinese culture. The grace and skill of the individual to master the power of the brush is of paramount importance. The master becomes the medium and his hand and his heart are the brush and ink, reflecting the nature of the universe - allowing him to be absorbed into the harmony of oneness.

To be enabled to glimpse the potential of creating a beautiful work of calligraphic art is an opportunity that allows us to enter into the highest aspiration of the Chinese culture and the most essential aspect of the Qianlong Emperor. To me this little aside exhibit is worth the price of admission and although I see it as profound, there is nothing ponderous about it; rather it is a fun puzzle that everyone can enjoy. The calligraphy screens are simply one of the ingenious tools of the exhibit that illuminates the rich material presented.

There are 90 items listed in the catalogue on loan from the Palace Museum in Beijing displayed in the exhibit. These collections are enhanced by art works drawn from the Peabody’s collections and other museums. They range from a small exquisitely carved jade brush pot to immense architectural elements from the palace such as room divider screen that raps around one of the Emperor’s thrones displaying precious objets d’art on a myriad of shelves forming an elaborate display case. The range of materials incorporates rare woods, lacquer, porcelain, embroidered silk, cloisonné enameled plaques, carved marble garden furniture, wooden furniture, gilded bronze sculpture and large calligraphic scrolls of paper as well as huge wall panels of trompe l’oiel paintings on paper.

Of all the treasures in the Emperor’s private paradise one that I particularly enjoyed is a wall panel from the Juanqinzhai pavilion (Studio of Exhaustion from Diligent Service). This 38 X 25 inch panel is composed of sandalwood, jade, lapis lazuli, malachite, zitan wood, kingfisher feathers and glass. It depicts an ancient plum tree in full bloom with birds and butterflies flitting about the black lacquered sky. Inscriptions incised in gold into the deep blue Lapis lazuli “rocks” at the base of the gnarled tree tell how the thousand year-old plum tree located in Yunnan Province still blooms each spring. The ideal represented here is, “The individual keeps on blooming even in old age.”

The most dramatic aspects of this work of art are the rich contrasts of texture, color and luminosity that emanate from the precious materials used. After that, I am attracted to the twisted and convoluted form of the ancient plum tree. Time and the rigorous elements of changing seasons have twisted the path the tree must follow telling the story of its personal history. By yielding to these unavoidable forces with perseverance and purity of purpose the plum tree has survived to be a testament and guide towards the true essence of beauty. In my walks in nature I see this story told again and again etched in the rocks of mountains where trees and bushes cling with tenacity to the rough currents of life.

One of the major components of the whole exhibit is the recently restored wall mural from the garden pavilion, Yucuixuan, (trans.) Bower of Purest Jade. This Mural depicts a domestic scene of a court lady surrounded by children with a couple of attendants in an intimate chamber. The mural utilizes European constructs of perspective and volume by use of shading. At the same time the mural incorporates 17 paintings in traditional Chinese styles and techniques and, of course, the lady, her court attendants and the 10 children are all Chinese in appearance and costume.

Within the galleries where this large (aprox.) 10 X 12 foot mural is exhibited there is a small “theatre” with comfortable seating where a fascinating and informative video is shown about the complex restoration of this work painted on paper some 230 years ago. The restoration of the Qianlong Garden was begun in 2001 after exhaustive preparatory planning and is expected to last about 15 years. The project is headed by the Palace Museum, Beijing, conservation team joined by a group of master craftsman culled from all over China and China’s State Administration of Cultural Heritage. These agencies are collaborating with the World Monuments Fund joined by international conservation institutions and experts, many of whom are from the United States.

In this way the international quality of the Qianlong Garden which was always present, is being perpetuated and the preservation of cultural heritage around the world is further advanced by the shared efforts of a team scholars, scientists and craftsmen devoted to the nurturing of artistic excellence. This is a profoundly important enterprise in our present world state of conflict, war and discord when the creative urge of all people is at jeopardy from over-aggressive competition, distrust and greed.

Whether or not we of the West or East, living in the twenty-first century, see the Qianlong Emperor as entirely just and enlightened in his long prosperous reign, the historic evidence is at hand in places such as the Qianlong Garden that tell us that he had the ambition to rule with high ideals. The traditional Chinese values of family, education and refinement of the individual to perpetuate harmony in society are goals we may all benefit from. The generosity of the Palace Museum and the people of China to share this view of paradise with us is a delight and a joy and I heartily thank them and the Peabody Essex Museum for inviting us to be their guest.

My husband Leo and I went charging off to Dixville Notch in northern New Hampshire to stay at the venerable Balsams Resort Hotel for several days. As soon as we left Boston, tooteling along I-93, we were amazed by the pageant of glory radiating from the trees lining the interstate highway. Fortunately the weather was glorious and the sunshine smiled on us all the way along our two-day trek. The direct ride to the Balsams is a good six -hour drive, so we like to break it up.

We stopped halfway up in the White Mountains at Woodward’s Resort, a pleasant roadside motel near the “Flume.” The Flume is one of our favorite nature spots where waterfalls spill down steep rock gorges in a spectacular forest. Woodward’s was reasonably priced, comfortable and actually boasted an indoor pool with relaxing Jacuzzi, out door tennis courts and a full dining room, serving good food. In the grounds of the resort there is a delightful duck pond shaded by towering pine trees. On the bank of the pond, near a rustic gazebo a beautiful hydrangea tree was still in bloom with clouds of cream colored blossoms all tinged by pink blush.

Leo and I are easily diverted while driving in New England. We lived in Vermont for ten years creating and running our inn and restaurant, The White House. We are familiar with northern New England and have many favorite places that tug at our memories begging to be revisited. One of these places is Guildhall, Vermont, which is a small town conveniently nestled across the Connecticut River from Northumberland, New Hampshire off Route 3. We bopped over for a look see.


This is a view of the public library and Masonic Temple at Guildhall, Vermont, way up in the Northeast Kingdom. We made a detour to revisit this remote village remembering coming across the place of Brigadoon-like magic many years ago when we lived in Kents’ Corner and loved to go “back roading” and explore the countryside.

This time we were delighted to see that the building had been beautifully restored to its historic intention with a Vermont slate roof, gilded cupola and a sparkling new paint job.

The library and Masonic Hall was built in 1901 by Everett Chamberlin Benton a native of Guildhall and designed by Gay and Proctor of Boston. It is a Neo-Georgian style building with a handsome clock mounted in its cupola. A semicircular Ionic portico with bronze cresting along the roof edge marks the entrance. The entry way has a fanlight above the door which is flanked by Corinthian pilasters. There are several grand stained glass windows upstairs in the Masonic Hall and also in the library on the ground floor.

Unfortunately the building was closed when we visited, but I peeked in the windows and the interior of the library appears to be preserved in its original state and was as neat as a pin. The shelves were full of books with videos and computer stations alongside a cozy looking fireplace. This place is my idea of heaven, a comfortable library in the country. I would love to see the interior of the Masonic Hall upstairs.


The Guildhall United Church (1844) and Essex County Court House (1851) flank another side of the town common contrasting crisply against the vibrant blue sky. After a brief morning visit we recrossed the Connecticut River back to New Hampshire and continued our jaunt towards the Balsams.


This is a view of the Presidential Range of the White Mountains in New Hampshire from Mount Prospect. Leo spotted a stone tower rising from the foliage atop a mountain while we were driving along route 3 in Lancaster. He knows my great love for stone towers and pointed it out. Just around the bend we were surprised and gratified to discover the entrance to the John W. Weeks National Park and Observatory Tower. We entered a field-stone gate and followed the single lane paved road, climbing Mount Prospect to the summit.


John Wingate Weeks was a native of Lancaster and became a leading conservationist, U.S. Congressman, U.S. Senator, and Secretary of War under Presidents Harding and Coolidge. Mr. Weeks built his stone tower and lodge in 1911. The view from the top of the tower enjoys a 360-degree panorama of mountain splendor that includes the Presidential Range of the White Mountains, the Green Mountains of Vermont, the Kilkenny Range, the Percy Peaks and the upper Connecticut River Valley.


Weeks is best known for his efforts in establishing the eastern national forest system. In the early 1900s all the forest lands in the eastern half of the United States were privately owned, and many were in poor condition. There were no national forests in the east, and the government was not empowered to purchase private lands. Congress finally passed the Appalachian-White Mountains Forest Reservation Bill in 1911, largely due to the efforts of Representative Weeks. The "Weeks Law" authorized the federal government to purchase lands to be "permanently reserved, held and administered as national forest lands, for the protection, development and use of their natural resources."


In Colebrook, New Hampshire, you hang a right off of Route 3 onto Route 26 following the Mohawk River as it meanders towards Dixville. Around one more twist in the road, where the mountains begin to crowd around, you come across Lake Gloriette where The Balsams Hotel is nestled at the base of precipitous cliffs that form Abeniki Mountain. The original summer inn opened in 1866 as a 25-room establishment called, The Dix House honoring the town’s American Revolutionary hero, Colonel Timothy Dix. The second owner (1895) was Henry S. Hale, a wealthy Philadelphian. It was Hale who renamed the hotel, The Balsams.


Hale built this impressive addition to his hotel in 1911. At that time it was the first steel framed, concrete building in New Hampshire. The intention of this innovative mode of construction was to prevent fire which was a serious concern in an era of wooden construction. The addition increased the overall size of his hotel to its current 400 rooms. This is one of the “tower” components that crown the new wing officially named, The Hampshire House. In the background the cliffs of Abeniki Mountain rise above the hotel.


Since 1960 Dixville Notch, with a population of roughly 26 people, has been the first town in the nation to report the results of its Presidential election balloting. In order to maintain this honorary status, every single registered voter in Dixville Notch must turn out and vote. Just before midnight the day before the election, these voters come to The Balsams and take a headcount to ensure everyone is present. When the polls officially open at the stroke of midnight, each voter heads to a booth in the Ballot Room and casts his or her vote. The entire process takes about a minute. In the far left of the picture you can see an example of one of the voting booths draped with Old Glory.


Captain Doudera was a fashionable sportsman with a passion for hunting, fishing and he was also an avid polo player. During his management, the Balsams was in its “hay-day.” There are many nostalgic photos and news articles about the Hotel and Captain Doudera hanging in all the long hallways of the hotel making the place a museum of Balsams Hotel history. This painting of 1932 is by Scott Carbee.


Here is an iconic pose of the 1930’s depicting Captain Doudera with one of the Great Danes that he bred. This photograph is part of the collection that hangs in the seemingly endless hallways of the Balsams adding immensely to the atmosphere of the gracious old hotel.


As soon as I arrived at the Balsams I was itching to strike out on my own and explore some the trails that access the 8,000 acres of nature conservancy land belonging to and surrounding the resort. On our first morning we were fortunate enough to have a superb clear and crisp autumn day. I bundled up in a sweater and my woolen jacket from Patzcuaro, Mexico, and set off to visit the compelling Abeniki Mountain towering behind the hotel.


There is a reservoir above the Balsams and feeding down from that placid lake is an old iron conduit pipe half buried in the forest floor with trees tumbling over it and crowding around the incongruous rusting iron. The pipe follows along a broad trail that climbs the mountain and at one place a pin hole leak had sprung spraying a fine mist, creating a mystic rainbow that drenched all before it in a grip of ice glaze.


My walks in nature consist of strolling slowly for about ten minutes and then sitting down for a spell to examine the minutia of the scene or contemplate a view across the landscape. Whereas I do enjoy the tops of mountains, I am after all a double Aries (the goat who loves to look down from a safe distance at the comedy of life) I am not compelled to get to the top of the mountain or even to reach any goal or destination. Once I am in the quiet forest I am already where I want to be.


And here is Lake Abeniki with the mountain wind blowing across its rippling surface staining the water a royal blue as if shivering with anticipation of the winter freeze so soon to lock it in deep ice.


In the carpet of emerald green moss a foot print of the bed rock pokes through. The woods of the Dixville Notch area have an abundance of thick, luxuriant moss beds covering everything with soft green.


A brave pair of Indian Paintbrush blossoms remind me of the glow of summer with their cheery orange faces framed by neck ruffles of grass tufts.


Another view of Abeniki Lake shows a gentle shallow cove where the balsam pines frame a gateway into the near distance.


I was at first startled to come across this moose skull half buried in the loamy tangle of a fallen silver birch tree. I made a brush of balsam branches and dusted it off and posed the bleached bones on the stump of the tree that had probably felled the animal. I have no idea why my wonderings led me to this obscure place off the path in the deep forest.


This is the green roadway that forms the cross country ski trail that I followed up Abeniki Mountain; here the altitude allows a view of the surrounding mountains. At this height most of the foliage had already been swept away by northern winds leaving the closely entwined bare branches a deep mauvy gray where clouds momentarily cast purple shadows as they dash across the sky.


Here we are at the top of Abeniki Mountain. Straight on is the famous Dixville Notch cutting a passage through Gloriette Mountain (2,780 feet.) Beyond the notch you can see the “Purple Mountain’s Majesty” fading as distance thins the color. Lake Gloriette created by Henry S. Hale, the expansive second owner of the Balsams, fills in the high pasture naturally formed at the base of the notch and the grand resort can be glimpsed thorough the balsam tree tops that lend their name to the Hotel.


After my long hike I am greeted by warm sun streaming in our delightful bedroom in the Hampshire House wing of the hotel, and I think I’ll take a snooze before dinner. The wall paper in this room would have put a smile on my mother’s face – she loved cabbage rose chintz prints. The crown molding picks up one of the lavender hues of the roses and the furniture is painted a shade of pale apple green. On the headboards are carved medallions with the distinctive Balsams logo depicting three stylized pine trees in a deco styling.


The dining rooms at the Balsams are grand affairs stretching off in several directions supported by graceful columns crowned by gilded Corinthian capitals. The beamed ceilings are lit by chandeliers reminiscent of Venetian glass flower work. In the evenings Greg Goodwin entertains the guests with an easy flow of beautiful tunes on his grand piano. The competent staff cheerfully take orders and promptly deliver delicious five course dinners.


The elegant tables are set with sparkling silver engraved with Balsams initials and the china proudly features the distinctive three Balsams tree logo all set off by crisp damask table cloths woven with a design of maple leaves. The men are asked to wear jackets in the hotel and dining room after 6: PM adding dignity to the proceedings.


The grand staircase lands you just outside the dining room. To the right is an inviting fireplace flanked by comfortable seating arrangements and an antique clock ticking away in the corner.


One corner of the spacious living rooms beyond the stair hall boasts this towering Chinese what-not shelf. In the corner is an antique square piano and old oil lamp. These furnishings have been in the hotel since the 1800’s.


Trust me to show you this detail. This is the domed cover to a desk incorporated in the Chinese behemoth I just showed you. The lid rolls back revealing a neat little writing desk fitted out with lots of cubby holes for letters and papers. In Chinese iconography the turtle symbolizes longevity and this baby has been hanging out at the Balsams for the better part of century so I guess the turtles are a good thing.


This is one end of the “Sun Room” which is outfitted with comfortable wicker furniture and tastefully colored prints of birds and foliage. This room has been created by enclosing a length of veranda that wraps around the old hotel. In the morning coffee, tea, juice and muffins are generously arranged on a side board at one end of the Sun Room for early risers. The room faces a putting green with a dozen holes ever reminding us that the Balsams is a sporting resort.


This is a view of the lawns outside the Sun Room. Note the pretty gazebo in the middle distance. It has a lantern finial that is lit at night and we strolled over there, admiring the night sky and the twinkling stars after our dinner in the formal dining room.


When I mention golf and the Balsams did I say they have two courses? This is the 18 hole golf course designed in 1912 by Donald Ross, “the father of American golf course architecture.”


Now, I know nothing about golf and I have always been rather suspect of the whole affair… but I can tell you, after seeing this spread I am ready to become a Republican and traipse off across the green if only they’ll let me into the joint. If this does happen I will insist on wearing bloused knickerbockers and fancy wing-tipped two-tone shoes. Upon deeper reflection, I will probably not join the GOP even if they allow me to zip around the course in one of those nifty golf carts. I will just order a Knob Creek Manhattan straight up and gaze at this slice of heaven from the safety of the terrace.


Here is an old post card view of the Club House. The broad terrace encircling it, commands a 360-degree view encompassing New Hampshire, Vermont and distant La Belle Province, Quebec. The whole building is constructed with river stone. Inside, old wood paneling and a towering river stone fireplace keep the bar area cozy and redolent with the pleasant scent of burning wood. There is a sunny dining room looking out onto the course where lunch is offered until mid-afternoon.


This peaceful pond is situated along the private road that meanders through the extensive Balsams property connecting the Hotel with the main 18-hole golf course.


The second day of our visit I went to Huntington Cascade. Dixville Notch forms a divide, water draining from the east of the area flows into Clear Stream and then to the Androscoquin River on its way to the Atlantic Ocean. Water from the west side of the notch flows into the Mohawk and then Connecticut Rivers on its way to Long Island Sound.

A steep and mysterious path climbs beside Cascade Brook that has, over the eons, cut a deep fissure into of the bed rock so that the constant rush of white water is far below, tumbling over boulders of fantastic shape. From precipitous heights, over grown with thick emerald-green moss and graceful fern fronds, one can glimpse water falling into crystalline pools. Everywhere in the deep forest twisted and towering balsams grab the rocks with knotted roots allowing the trees to lean out over the cascade cliffs and spread green skirts of pine bows dripping with mist from the falling water.

The tree roots follows the broken shapes in the rock as does the abundant water loudly splashing down the mountain - or is it the rocks that follow the determined force of water and the muscle of the tree roots?

Thick green blankets of moss strive to soften the sharp rock outcroppings. Time is told by moldering loam piling in a crevasse of stone. There a tiny balsam sprout takes hold, confident of eventually reaching into the enveloping canopy that holds twilight at mid day.

A quartz boulder, jewel of the mountain, half hidden by brown curling leaves - leftover by the Goddess building the dome of heaven. The white stone struggles to the surface. Hearing the chatter of hikers on the path, the crystal yearns to know the way human feet will travel. I stop to pick up a fragment of the stone. In my hand I gaze at the ancient gem, enchanted by time beyond age and I long to know the way the stone has come.


Listening to the geese fly high above the forest, I look beyond the tees and see cloud wisps caught in convoluted branches that gather mist that falls with a surprising thump on my forehead and I awake from my musings with a smile.


The ferocious roar of waterfalls have been drained of their bravado by mountains reaching into the sky. Here the spring has a gentle voice whispering seductive enticements, and I wander off the path to find the source.


At the summit of Mount Gloriette the far distance comes sweeping towards me making my eyes water in the chilly wind and the amazement of it all.


The Balsams intrudes its formidable presence into the surrounding forest. From Table Rock I spy a peregrine falcon gliding on the brisk winds of autumn traveling south. This feathered hunter travels light, needing no roof for shelter. She has visited for thousands of years, knowing the way without maps. Her high pitched scream warns the hiker to take heed and mind the way home or risk being absorbed in limitless space.


Sunset gilds Sanguinary Mountain reflecting in Lake Gloriette. Night envelops the forest. The vast mountain ranges of Northern New Hampshire are dwarfed by the infinite heavens sparkling with millions of stars.

 

 

A watercolor rendering of the projected interior of the concert hall was displayed in the window of the Rockport Music Society’s office next door to the theater.

 

 

Have you been to a classical or jazz concert or Met Opera simulcast at the new Shalin Liu Performance Center in Rockport, Massachusetts? A short time ago it was the long time dream resonating in the hearts of the extended “family” of the Rockport Music Society   The Society had the intelligence and good taste to employ the Architectural firm of  Deborah Epstein and Alan Joslin to design their new concert hall. Epstein and Joslin is the firm that also designed the incomparable Seiji Ozawa Hall at Tanglewood. The efforts of Rockport Music over the decades in providing top quality chamber music to the community at large inspired Ms. Shalin Liu, a Taiwanese-born philanthropist living in Boston with interests in educational, humanitarian and cultural causes, to generously support the project. The hall is, therefore, named after her.   

 

The theater seats 330 people and its most spectacular feature is an enormous glass window that forms the back wall of the stage. This portal looks out onto the picturesque coast line of Rockport with views out to the Atlantic Ocean. The interior space has a kind of Noah’s Ark feeling creating sanctuary and buoyancy, floating beyond the distractions of everyday concerns. When the music begins one half expects to be launched out to a mythic sea where journeys of the spirit are powered by harmonious trade winds of beautiful music.    

 

The Architects in concert with the acoustician R. Lawrence Kirkegaard Lawrence Kirkegaard have created an intimate warm space that has a mellow clean sound as if you are sitting inside a well crafted cello. The use of Douglas fir and American walnut around the hall, combined with the textured stone covering the lower walls creates a natural esthetic that speaks of the surrounding woods and stony shores of Cape Ann. As dusk dims the brightness of day, tall screens of woven wood are drawn across the glass wall behind the musicians. This emphasizes the intimate proportions of the hall, drawing the audience into close proximity with the performers. In the lofty spaces above the auditorium wooden beams and steel rods support the wooden ceiling creating  an uplifting draw that allows the music to soar and the imagination to fly.

The timber frame of the hall was pre -milled from Douglas fir and hoisted into place by an enormous crane. I was fortunate enough to be passing by on my bicycle at the end of October, 2009 and came to a screeching halt to witness the spectacle.

 

 

 

The honey colored  wood contrasting against the polished blue sky is joined by the use of  mortise and tenons and held in place with stout pegs in traditional building techniques of old New England.

 

 

 

The seeming simplicity of the framing belies the complexity of the over all structure.  

 

 

 

The Victorian mansard styling of the façade references the original Haskins building on the site .  The colors inside and out also have a Victorian palette. The architectural details are of fine quality, using slate for the roof with copper flashing and drain spouts. Wrought iron fencing decorates the crown of the roof completing the thoughtful historicity of the music hall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The balcony follows suit and uses the same woven wood motif as the stage screens. Architect, Deborah Epstein, describes this detail as an “architectural seascape” with light coming through the weave creating scalloping shapes as you see on the surface of water.  

  

 

 

Here the Douglas fir stage screens are beginning to be drawn across the glass “sail” behind the piano as “shadows of the evening steal across the sky.”

 

 

 

 

My husband Leo and I have a tradition of attending the June Rockport Chamber Music Festival. This year we were lucky enough to get tickets to the premier season at the Shalin Liu Performance Center. We heard a spirited concert preformed by the Boston Trio playing piano trios of Mozart, Ives and Mendelssohn. We were thrilled by the spectacular new concert hall and even more by the accomplished trio of lovely  women who played with great emotional panache.    

 

 

 

 

From the water side of the Rockport Music concert hall the building stands proud, harmonizing well with the surrounding village.

 

 

 

 

At entr’acte I skipped across the street to snap this picture of the warm glow emanating from the pristine building as the sunset staining the horizon faded, allowing diamond stars to vibrate with the music of the spheres celebrating the fine achievement of Rockport Music

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Sunday September 12, 2010 at 4:00 pm The Gorgeous Glamourites and I preformed a dramatic reading of the first two chapters of my new novel, The Mermaid and the Sailor. Mermaid is the third and concluding book of the Glamour Galore Trilogy and you can read all about it on my new website 

 

An invited audience of over fifty friends gathered at Casa Romero Restaurant  for the launch party and imbibed Merrita cocktails and wolfed down delicious Mexican Antojitos. After the reading I sold and signed copies of the book which can now be purchased at all major on line book sellers, accessed by the order page on my website

 

You can also pick up a copy of Mermaid at Calamus Books   92-B South St. Boston, near South Station. I will be reading from Mermaid and the Sailor at Calamus on October 22, 2010 at 7:00 pm

 

Our reading got off to a roaring start with a grand fanfare created by Maestro Emeritus Ricardo Giglio running up and down the keyboard with scintillating technique reminiscent of his finest hours at Fenway Park where for eight years he amused the fans.

 

I naturally took the part of narrator employing a schmaltzy style of declamation that would have put a blush on any proper Bostonian but because my story is set in Ptown where every thing goes, I went over the top. You can verify the validity of this statement by checking out the video clip. 

 

The Gorgeous Glamourites had puzzled over and studied my script throughout the summer until they all had perfected the last nuance of characterization required for the full realization of the complex cast and I gotta hand it to them, this bunch really put on a show!

 

   

              Photo curtesy of Clint Hamblin                     From let to Right the culprits are

Maestro Emeritus Ricardo Giglio, Musical Accompaniment

Cameron Lash reading, Rosalind Worthely — high society beauty, Al’s wife, investment angel for Glamour Galore Productions, mother of Janey and Georgie

Kilian Melloy reading, Val, Lilly’s “daughter” — Yellow Ducky pedi-cab operator, dancer in Glamour Galore Productions, Gyles lover

 

Craig Houk reading, Sergeant Stanisloff — officer of Provincetown’s Police Force, a Ptown native who thinks he has seen everything until Lilly is thrown in the clink.

 

Fred Atherton reading, Butch — Monique’s muscle man boyfriend and chauffeur, Betty the Bounder’s A A sponsor, always appears in one uniform or another

 

Iory Allison, Narrator — the author himself

 

Linda Markarian reading, Betty the Bounder — Lilly’s dresser and side kick, senior citizen of drag and hopeless slosh head.

 

Daniel Kimmel reading, Lilly Linda Le Strange — Diva Extraordinaire, producer, director and star of Glamour Galore Productions. AKA Albert Mellenoffsky, Al — Rosalind’s adoring husband, Marine combat nurse in Viet Nam, son of a pig farmer from Bumble Bee Arkansas.

 

 

If anyone who was in attendance took any photos or videos, please rush them as attachments to my email iory@rcn.com  for immediate publication on this blog. Please include your first and last names and all pertinent personal links, blog address, web site, twitter, face book, etc.

Flower Bouquet

 

Quickly, oh so quickly the spring flowers burst into blossom. Brisk winds buffet flower laden crabapple branches sending dancing petals on a mad caper around the garden. Invisible currents weave intoxicating lilac perfume, pulling my attention away from the weeds. I am compelled to breathe in deeply the fleeting moment of flower scents that were refined from a winter of dreams formed deep within the earth.

 

At home, the flowers chatter loudly giving voice to the carefully choreographed patterns set in brass and carpet. Together for a moment, the morning sun winks at the purple tulip.  

For a stroll along the Emerald Necklace green space and surrounding neighborhoods, click here
  
running time 2 &1/2 minutes

Magnolia Liliiflora

 

Springtime in Boston 

 

In the Back Bay gardens along Commonwealth Avenue, especially on the sunny or river side of the Avenue, voluptuous Magnolia Liliiflora trees burst into blossom every April. Although these exotic beauties are native to southern China they were first brought to Boston from Japan by sailing ships across the Pacific Ocean and around the tip of South America. This year the profusion of spicy scented flowers blossomed a good ten days early, around the fourth, making the Easter holiday especially festive and glorious.

 

The elusive tangy perfume trailing from the sparkling pink Magnolia petals takes me back a half a century to Mead Memorial Park in New Canaan, Connecticut, where my childhood friends Antoinette and Elise and I enjoyed timeless afternoons. In that idyllic landscaped park the extravagant Magnolia trees were clothed for the moment in billowing clouds of seductive flowers, dancing gracefully with the brisk winds of springtime. These flirting coquettes cavorted along the green lawns circling the duck pond where mallards dipped yellow bills into weedy shallows and damsel flies buzzed transparent wings refracting light with a snap of iridescent sparkle. 

 

As I idle along Commonwealth Avenue reveling in the smiling promise of spring a vague trail of pink perfume lures me, and I am compelled to follow this lead gazing up into the flowery world of Magnolia blossoms. There I spy three chubby putti emerging from brownstone masonry playing amongst rinceau garlands where exuberant birds chirp, claiming their space in time and celebrating the pretty joy of returning life.
   

 

My Friend, Mother Anne, related in her Easter sermon at Trinity Church that, “Easter is not the return of what was lost; it is the discovery of those things that Death cannot touch." This idea speaks to me of the continuum of abundance, waves of circling time filling up with life.
   

The walls of the grand old mansion are made from skilfully finished blocks of stone subtly textured with “mason’s marks,” the nameless signature engraved by rhythmic labour of hammer and chisel. These carefully chosen mauve coloured stones, formed beyond the time of growing things, are a pleasant shade harmonizing with the blush of the Magnolia blossoms; in the balance of time and space age complements the beauty of youth. Morning sun bathes the opening buds, awakening them to their brief but glorious moment, casting elongated shadows on the textured stone. Being very still, I can almost see the flowers opening and their shadows move - revealing the eternal progress of our planet orbiting around its exploding star.
 

This environment of cultivated rarity reminds me of elegant Chinese calligraphy having only hints of meaning seen in the periphery of my understanding, encouraging me to read my own story in the trails left behind as I go forward.

 

For a stroll In the Fenway and Backbay neighborhoods click here 

Running time 3 &1/2 Minutes  

 

Star Magnolia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now back in Boston I stopped on one of the bridges over the Muddy River in the Fenway to say hi to my friends the ducks. I could hardly believe my eyes when two boyfriend ducks posed so beautifully, swimming in liquid color reflecting on the ringed surface of the water. 

Double rainbow Prospect Hill, Brownington Village, the North-East Kingdom, Vermont

 

As you may know my husband, Leo and I are Vermonters at heart. We renovated a historic property at Kents’ Corner, Calais Vermont, creating a fine dining restaurant and Inn called, The White House where we lived and worked from 1980 until 1990. Much of my heart and soul lingers up there in the mountains where the haunting cry of the loon claims the mountain lake as wild space.

 One of the great miracles of Vermont and New England in general is, of course, the autumn season when all the latent colors of the rainbow pour down upon the landscape drenching the mountains with infinite color. In the Northeast Kingdom there is urgency in the short growing season which comes to a climax in that brief moment of enchantment we know as autumn. This glorious pageant ends all too quickly with the days of dancing leaves. Then, the clear air is filled with colored scraps of summer’s waning moments, torn by chilly winds from high tree branches.

 

 

The dirt roads of hard packed clay rise and fall over the landscape following the ambitions of men. Even as we pass by, bright colored leaves cover our tracks, jealously guarding the secrets of the mountain. Now that I am here, what need have I for roads? Where would they take me? I have woken up and already arrived at the journey’s end.

 

 

The turkeys have returned. I see them all over the country and they seem to be thriving. One day I came across a fearless flock in my own Fenway neighborhood. Yes, half a dozen gobblers were progressing at a leisurely and dignified pace over by the Rose Garden between Fenway Park and the Museum of Fine Arts. They were softly mumbling in a high pitched patois and I wondered if they, like everyone else in the Fenway, were mulling over the Red sox game.

 These two country cousins were foraging at the edge of a field in Danville. The flock numbered about two dozen. Unlike their city brethren they were modestly cautious, quickly ducking into the forest at the edge of the field when they sensed my unwarranted attentions.

 

 

We stayed at Injun Joe’s Court on Joe’s Pond in West Danville. The pond used to be called 'Sozap Nebees' - Sozap means Joseph, Nebees means pond or stream - in the language of the Abnaki, a branch of the Algonquin Indians who lived in the local area. Joe's Pond, and neighboring Molly's Pond, were officially named after members of the Micmac Indian tribe, Joe and his wife, Molly, by the Vermont state legislature on June 11, 1785 in recognition of their service in teaching necessary survival skills to the area's early settlers.

 

 

The ever charming Mr. Leo on the front porch of number five, Injun Joe’s Court

 

The interior of our cabin featured a lot of knotty pine paneling with two diminutive bedrooms each with comfortable double beds, separated by an equally diminutive bathroom.

 The tree in the left of the photo was ladened with heavy clusters of red-orange berries that had attracted an abundance of robins who were chowing down from dawn to dusk. Unlike the dilatory Robins of urban ease these guys have to move on before the snow flies so they have a healthy appetite. In the depth of winter in the North-East Kingdom cold snaps drop the temperature to 20° to 30° below zero.

(added Oct. 20, 09) My friend Dale Linder emails me to say that the tree in question is a Mountain Ash or Rowan tree, thanks Dale  

 

The View of Joe’s Pond from the front porch of cabin number

 

 

The central bandstand on the Danville green is surrounded with simple benches constructed with sturdy planks supported by upturned maple sugar buckets. In the center of the photo big sister is introducing a snuggly puppy with a wee tike.

 

“Autumn on the Green” is the aptly named fall foliage festival in Danville. This harvest celebration is a perennial delight, filling the spacious town green with a jumble of tented booths offering a great variety of merchandise. Arriving at 9:AM, our first concern was to find the  donuts and coffee booth where  we were easily seduced by raspberry scones and warm slices of  pumpkin bread as well as a half dozen fresh donuts all wash down with piping hot coffee from Green Mountain Roasters.

Next we perused several booths offering farm made jams and jellies along with heaps of pies and cakes, muffins and scones and, of course, Vermont maple syrup. We stocked up on Carol’s Blueberry and Strawberry-rhubarb jams from this year’s garden harvest. Then we strolled the aisles, inspecting booths filled with fancy woven baskets, hand throne ceramic pots, country antiques, soft knitted hats, gloves and scarves as well as handsome pine and oak furniture and cabinets. We marveled at colorful blown glassware and an abundance of other art works ranging from original paintings and photography to jewelry.

Above the hub-bub of the crowd we heard the lilting music of a country fiddle band coming from the central band stand so we saunter over to have a look. Four squares of dancers were performing traditional country dances with stately dignity as their dance master called the steps with a rhythmic patter.

 
Photo credit, www.tirnadesigns.com http: href?>

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One half of a great couple, Tom Beattie posing in his shop, Diamond Hill

 

A visit to Danville would not be complete without a visit to our friends, Tom Beattie and John Dauteuil at their spectacular emporium of delight, Diamond Hill Store. If you want true sophistication in a delightful country setting  stop by Tommy and John’s either in person or on line. They will be glad to make up gift baskets of Vermont artisan cheeses and other local products and ship them out to you or your friends for a great holiday gift or stocking your own larder.

Tom hails from the prominent Beattie clan who have been a fixture of Danville for generations. He and his eleven siblings permeate the town from Mom’s dairy farm to the Creamery Restaurant and Diamond Hill Shop. The Beattie’s are the real and yet rare thing, an American generational family who stick together while giving each other enough space to flourish in the wide open country of the Northeast Kingdom.

 

 

 The simple and handsome windows in United Methodist Church on Danville Green are bordered by scarlet maple leaves, a perpetual autumn celebration speaking of the presence of the divine in nature.

 

 

The town of Peacham is a favorite place for us so we dashed off from Joe’s Pond to the foliage festival at Peacham which is the next town over from Danville. Upon our arrival we were greeted by this dapper gentleman who was acting as a one man welcoming committee for the festival. His name is James Engel and he told me that that his handsome costume was made for him on the occasion of his graduation from Oxford University in 1950. He was married soon thereafter wearing in the same outfit so it had happy associations for him. Mr. Engel’s topper is of fine beaver and his vest of pail yellow suede is sewn with mother of pearl buttons. Note his immaculately polished boots.

 

 

Here is a neat row of handsome homes lining the main street of Peacham. I especially like the red brick house, front and center, which is located across the street from where Mr. Engel was greeting the leaf peepers, as tourists are affectionately termed.  Behind these houses the land falls off allowing spacious views of the surrounding countryside and distant mountains.

 

 

Fall crocuses are always a surprise and these little darlings are a bright smile in an otherwise fading garden of one of Peacham’s well tended homes.

 

 

Down the street from the pretty lavender crocuses stands this temple of domestic bliss with its impressive Ionic columns. The beautifully proportioned simplicity of the architecture of this home makes it a distinguished example of the Greek revival style. The early ideals of our Republic were then expressed with sophisticated confidence even in this remote village of the North-Eastern Kingdom

 

 

The traditional wooden barns of Vermont are fast fading from the landscape as their maintenance is considerable and costly. The need for large cow barns with vast hay lofts is waning with the demise of dairy farming in the state. This midsized barn is nestled in a thicket behind the Civil war monument at the crest of cemetery hill, high atop Peacham Village.

 

 

The Fall Foliage Festival of the Northeast Kingdom ran from September 27 until October 3 this year. On the 2^nd we went to Barnet, a short hop skip and a jump from Peacham and Danville, for the Pancake breakfast in the vestry at Barnet center. Above is the small meeting house church next door to the vestry. Both of these severely simple buildings are perched atop a steep hill overlooking the golden hills shimmering with autumn glory.

Leo and I are great fans of the church breakfasts of Vermont. We became addicted to these hearty feasts in the 80’s when we lived in Calais where our Inn, The White house, was located. In Calais the volunteer fireman host a red flannel hash breakfast that we remember with wistful delight.

 

 

The Pancake breakfast at Barnet Center lived up to, if not surpassed, the rigorous standards of past memories. Generous servings of fluffy and steaming pancakes were heaped on our plates along with farm made sausage patties. Small pitchers of warm local maple syrup were at the communal tables. We lost no opportunity to douse our pile with plenty of Vermont Gold, that sweet distilled essence which rises in awakening trees, announcing the hope of another summer in the sun.

The “vestry” is the building on the left it is also known as “Green Mountain Retreat” because it hosts a kid’s summer camp. The dining room is at the back of the building and because of the steep topography the room seems to float in space providing a view of the surrounding hills pulsating with rich colors beneath a dappled sky.

 

The rolling hills surrounding the burial ground of the United Presbyterian Church in Barnet Center are in contrast to the white marble standing stones marking the graves of sturdy farmers. These ancestors speak to us of their time and the rigors of country life.

 

 

The graceful sweep of the road leads us north to Brownington in search of the Old Stone house museum, a place we remember from years ago and could hardly believe as real because it seemed so remote and pristine.        

The Old Stone House was built in 1836 as a dormitory for the Orleans County Grammar School by Alexander Lucius Twilight (1795-1857) Headmaster of the school. The Brownington Historic District now comprises only nine buildings of what was once a thriving community in the early nineteenth century. In The Stone house there are historic displays called the town rooms because they were created by local historical societies with artifacts from Orleans County towns. These rooms are drenched in the atmosphere of bygone eras so that you feel almost an intruder in a place of precious memory.

 

 

Looking out from the Old Stone House the light peeking through moody clouds changes every minute, highlighting various aspects of the landscape and animating the distant mountains so they appear to dance with a legato rhythm of timeless tectonic majesty.

 

 

Along the back roads we come across someone’s pretty little swimming pond decorating the high fields surrounded by rolling mountains.

 

 

This is the beautiful Lake Willoughby. We are looking at Mount Hor on the western shore of the lake. Its shear granite cliffs were carved 12,000 years ago by glacial scouring. The depth of the lake is 300 feet making Willoughby the deepest lake entirely within the state borders. On the opposite shore rises Mount Pisgah and between these two precipitous cliff faces soar Peregrine falcons.

 

 

Here is Mount Pisgah with a few lake cottages at the base. The afternoon shadow of Mount Hor, across the lake, seems to follow the shape of the shear cliff. While I was watching the sun sliced through sullen clouds animating the rock face so that it appears to me as a giant duck or wild goose dipping its bill into the lake water.

 

 

The southern trail up Mount Pisgah passes by a beaver pond bridged by wooden walkways and then cuts through the deep forest with many sections formed by primitive stone steps.

 

 

A fellow pilgrim along the path, Mr. Toad’s textured coat blended into the surrounding rocks and leaves so well that I was startled when he hopped out of my way.

 

 

I can’t resist showing you what to me is the most beautiful step in one of the flights of rustic stairs that aid the hiker on this picturesque trail.

 

 

Along the way spectacular vistas open up through the veil of forest revealing the wealth of autumn gold cloaking Mount Hor on the opposite shore.

 

 

The first real open vista along the trail is Pulpit Rock. From that precipitous outcropping of rock we are looking down on the sandy beach at the southern shore of Lake Willoughby with a sudden outburst of sunlight igniting the foliage to its highest intensity of color

 

 

As the sun sets the last rays of light are torn asunder by dragon clouds reclaiming the wild spaces of the lake for the spirits of the night.

 

 

And so with the beginning is the end. The golden treasure of rainbow is the smile of the goddess. She holds us to her bosom and sings a lullaby of pure contentment. Be still and you will hear her singing the music of the spheres.

Boston Gay Pride 2,009

 

 

Pride Queen, Gay Pride Boston, 2,009

 

I went to the Gay Pride March last Saturday here in Boston and found the pot of gold at the beginning of the rainbow, and here she is.

 

I arrived at Tremont Street where the parade was forming and boom, I was immediately drawn into the festivities by the above celebrant’s shimmering auras and I started snapping pictures. I was so excited I forgot to ask her/his name, drag or otherwise, so if anyone can solve the mystery please contact me via ‘comments’ on this blog.

 

When I came-out in San Francisco in 1969 just a month after Stonewall, my ambition was to grow my hair long, smoke dope and kiss boys. I hadn’t a political bone in my body and even if I had, there was no organized Gay movement that I was aware of and certainly no parade. Pride was the bravado cry of a few outraged drag queens and nothing more. 

 

 

 

Our Lady of Perpetual Giggles, Gay Pride, San Francisco, 2,000

 

Over the years I have marched in or screamed on the side lines of many Gay Pride parades in; San Francisco, New York, Boston and Montpelier Vermont.   The passing of the millennium found me back in S F where in the spirit of a never to be repeated holiday I donned a nifty wedding dress and a feathered fan. 

 

In the seventies we used to reefer to drag or the mask as “gender bending” and we had a dishy disregard for sexual role playing. We were advocates of pansexual freedom, feeling that each individual had the sexual, emotional and spiritual potential to be male, female and all the rainbow hues in-between. It was this intoxicating ambiguity that sent us singing and dancing into the streets.

 

I think of Gay Pride as our birthday party. We have been given the gift of true love by our fairy Godmothers’ who are having such a great time they absolutely refused to stay at home and cry.    

 

In The Province Lands

The near border of far away

 

 

1

On the near border of far away, down secret paths through leafy woods leading to hidden water lily ponds, I sit on the bank eavesdropping on the conversation of the leaves as the wind makes the trees dance.

 

 

 

2

In the boggy shallows of the pond shore wild azalea bushes grow with zigzagy arms and cascades of shiny green leaves. Sticky white azalea blossoms pour waves of sweet scent onto the hot wind blowing in from the desert dry dunes surrounding the woods.

 

 

 

3

A path screened by thickets of blueberry bushes twists through the cattail marsh, penetrating an invisible barrier into an unknown place.

 

 

 

4

 All is silence and watchfulness in the woods surrounding the lily pond. I have entered the other side of reflection, a lost distance, passing through my phantom face floating on the surface of the water. I feel the eyes of shy creatures peering from behind veils of greenery.

 

 

 

5

For a little while a capricious sea mist blurs the sun bringing cooler wind from the ocean, gently ruffling the leaves of the maple and oak trees. A soft whispering hiss of voices passes along the treetops and then the wind spills on to the pond, ruffling a soggy carpet of  water lily pads.

 

 

 

6

 Slender reeds provide a perch for dragonflies, fluttering transparent wings of blue green iridescence.

 

 

 

7

The silence is broken by a rhythmic twittering, chick-a-dee-a-dee-a-dee volleying back and forth. The tiny birds send out a scout and this curious fellow follows along beside me. I am happy for his company and I whistle a reply. Coming closer we inspect each other and I, tasting tangy blueberries wonder what my companion is thinking.

 

 

 

8

A brood of young black ducks dip and dive into blue-purple shadows, water reflecting black blades of green grass. They feed on weed roots while softly mumbling to each other the satisfied pleasantries of their day. At a slight distance the mother duck, poised and alert, keeps a watchful eye. She guards with pride and vigilance while her brood huddles in a knot feasting. Finding my attentions too presumptuous she leads a waddling march onto the bank and away, seeking the seclusion of their own company

 

 

9

On the bank above the pond, a grove of pitch pines reach for the sun providing a canopy of cool shadows, a place where emptiness has presence. There I am slowly absorbed into the stillness.

 

 

 

 

Robert and Elise in front of the scarlet bougainvillea bush in their garden

The hoe is a reference to “American Gothic” but they were giggling too much to make that work

 

At the end of April I went to Encinitas California, just north of San Diego, to visit with my friends Elise and Robert Misiorowski. They live in a rambling beach house nestled in the most enchanted tropical garden that you can imagine. The neighborhood was once avocado, orange and lemon groves. In their walled-in pool garden, behind the house, giant tree ferns and royal palm trees rustle in the briny air from the near-by Pacific. There the  scent of orange blossoms mixes with rose perfume as pink petals from an ebullient mallow bush drift down and float on the clear waters of the softly gurgling pool.  

 

Inside the cool shaded spaces of their book lined and art filled home, a collection of antique clocks that Elise and Robert have inherited from their respective families make the space alive with musical chimes that gently mark the hours of our rich days together. 

 

Elise is a very special childhood friend. We grew up together in New Canaan, Connecticut and our families were intertwined in many ways. We have been best friends for fifty-two years. She is a jewelry historian, gemologist and museum curator. Her current project is conceiving, assembling and creating a big gem and jewelry show at the Natural History Museum of San Diego in Balboa Park  . The show is due to open the beginning of May, 2010.  

 

 
Elise nick named Lelly, about 12years old

Don Roberto is a Film professor, director and producer .   He is a generous mentor, enabling me to collaborate with him on a project to write a screen play based on my second novel, Naughty Astronautess.

                                                 

                                                  Don Roberto in front of  the famous bougainvillea

 Our project has been rekindled after a worrisome year when Bob was battling some very serious health issues. We are now greatly relieved by his progress and recovery allowing us to light a fire under the Naughty Astronautess’ ass and blast her off the planet.

 

 The world at large may be in for a surprise when they see Lilly Linda Le Strange rocketing over Hollywood. Varla Jean Merman and Brendan Fraser have engaged in an all out war over the part of the air born Lilly and Yma Sumac has come back from the dead all in a lather lusting after the part of Urna Flamanté.  Don Roberto is cool about all the hub bub but I am absolutely thrilled! 

 

Killer Flood Becomes Golden Opportunity

 

As some of you already know my husband, Leo Romero's restaurant, Casa Romero, suffered severe water damage over the holidays and we were forced to completely rebuild the whole place. Below is a brief illustrated story of how that all happened.

On Christmas day Leo and I were returning from Trinity Church, Copley Square at 12:30 pm and decided to stop by the Casa Romero to pick up some things. When we entered the restaurant there was a flood of hundreds of gallons of water pouring from all over the ceiling of the entry way and front dining room. The floor was covered with two inches of water and the sub basement was 8 inches deep in water with more water pouring down, then the ceiling fell!

 

The floors above the Casa Romero had been the location of the French restaurant, L'Espalier. They had moved out of that location at the beginning of September to their new place at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. During the cold weather before Christmas the water pipes broke in the old L'Espalier kitchen on the second floor above us.  We were closed on Christmas Eve. So some time between mid day on the 24 and mid day on the 25th the pipes burst and had been flooding the building for hours.

 

The entire entry way, front dinning room, bath rooms and bar, were destroyed. The first step to recover was demolition of the ceiling and affected wet areas and drying out of the whole place. We then hired Coelho Contractors to rebuild our beloved restaurant and they worked tirelessly for 8, none-stop, weeks creating a brand new space that is better than ever. coelhocontracting@comcast.net

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Anita Klaussen

 

Here I am at the new entrance to the Casa Romero with my photo that Leo calls “The Best of Mexico.” These colorful musicians and dancers perform a traditional folk dance called, “The Dance of the Old Men.” I was lucky enough to catch the men and boys of the troop in a moment of relaxation after their performance at Plaza Vasco de Quiroga in Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, 2007

 

 

 

Carlos and Hernan shake up a batch of “Perfect Margaritas” to celebrate the opening of Antojitos Tequila Bar at Casa Romero

 

 

 

Here is how the front dining room of Casa Romero was for 37 years before the flood washed us down the drain.

 

 

 

 

Here is the Casa Romero front dining room after the clean-up and dehumidifier company had done initial removal of the ceiling and a weeks worth of drying out. The old floor boards had swollen and warped raising each board about 3 to 6 inches on the seam.

 

 

 

 

 

The crew of Coelho Contraction Inc. begins to tear up the floor. The gray dots looking like water drops on my camera lens are in fact the dust particles in the air, hence the open back door for necessary ventilation even though you can see the January snow in the alley beyond.

 

 

6

 

 

 

After the first day the floor and old interior walls were removed and a pile of refuse is piled by the back door awaiting transportation to the dump. Uggh, what a mess!

 

 

 

 

After the old floor joists were removed, the space beneath the floor, only about a 3 foot crawl space with an earthen floor, was back filled with a concrete slab. The periphery of the space had new 12 inch, steel reinforced, concrete footing constructed. Into this new footing the new floor joists were embedded.

 

 

 

 

New floor joists (L V Ls, laminated veneer lumber)  were installed every 12 inches, a little bit of over kill to make the restaurant solid as a rock.

 

 

 

 

So much was happening at once in order to make our deadline of February 14^th reopening. Here you can see the man with the shovel is working on the cement slab while the other men are installing the many floor joists.

 

 

 

 

Next the sub floor was reinstalled. The crew worked long hours from 7 or 8 in the morning until 7 or 8 in the evening 6 to 7 days a week, racing to finish before St. Valentines day. For the whole last two weeks of the project two crews worked far into the night. We finished the project in 7 weeks with details taking two more weeks after we opened.  

 

 

 

 

Constructing the new bar, entry hall, dishwashing / bussing station for bar glasses, and the new banquettes in the Antojitos Lounge, etc. was an act of sheer will. We had very little in the way of architectural construction drawings. What we did have were design plans and a series of three-dimensional views drawn by Hernan Marrero who is our head bar tender at night and a talented architectural designer at Dewberry, Boston in the day.  

 

 

 

 

This is the front dining room looking at the Tequila Bar wearing a new coat of sheet rock. It actually began to look like a real restaurant at this point. During all this time of construction I was wrestling with the insurance company and I must say, after my little Bull Dog badgering (is that a mixed metaphor or what?) they did come through with the dough. Our real savior was our Insurance Agent, Beth Berardi at Ivy West Insurance Agency  beth@bethberardi.com  If you need  insurance, do your self a favor and email her.

 

 

 

 

We were able to save many hundreds of the original Talavera tiles that covered the walls of the old entryway. Out loyal staff came into work during the construction and patiently scrapped the back of these hand made tiles so we were able to reuse them as wainscoting as you see here. Leo had installed these same tiles 37 years ago when he first created Casa Romero.

 

 

 

 

 

Everybody was keep busy as bees. You can see the corner of the bar already covered with new tile from Mexico. The tiles were flown to us by a company in Texas, just in the nick of time.

 

 

 

 

 

“Ay caramba!” the bar is tiled. Carla Coelho stands at the corner of the bar coordinating the complex paints shades used in the Faux Finish paint treatments. coelhocontracting@comcast.net  , thank you Carla!

 

 

 

 

Here is one of the wide boards of heart pine milled in New Hampshire being put in place. Although I have not shown you, the entire floor systems of all three dining rooms at Casa Romero were replaced including the sub floors, joists, etc. just like the front room. The joint was totally torn up! Uggh and a half, but now it all looks world class.

 

17

 

The General Manager of Casa Romero, Rogerio Padillia and Senor José Leopoldo Romero Jr. The Chief Proprietor of Casa Romero. A K A  Rogerio and Leo, the heroes of our little world.

 

 

 

 

 

You can see the new golden faux finish paint treatment in the bar area that Carla and her talented crew accomplished. There are four different color areas incorporated in the new entry, Antojitos Tequila Bar and lounge. Each color area, including the ceilings, has three colors overlaid. The vibrancy of these colors in combination with the Mexican tiles and Leo’s Mexican folk art collection is unique and lovely.

 

 

 

This is a view of the entry way using the “Peace Dove” tiles and a new tile picture that Rogerio found and incorporated in the design. One of the little doves is up-side-down. This is our “Pajaro Borracho” or drunken bird. If you find the tiny tibbler Leo or I will buy you a drink. “Yes, madam, that was, one drink.” No sir, I did not mean a pitcher of Margaritas.”

 

 

 

This mysterious picture shows one of the corners of the Antojitos Lounge banquette being built. I have included it because it shows the color of that area in all its vibrancy. This is my favorite color area.

 

 

 

 

And here are the boys again, they will shake up the sauce for you including a staggering variety of Mexican delights and if you haven’t tried the Romerita, give it a go. I’ve been known to down a bunch in my time but watch out cuz these little darlings pack a powerful punch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Iory 1949

 

Saturday March 29^th was my 60^th birthday. Now I feel like a cross between Rip Van Winkle and the Ground Hog.  I am of half a mind to scurry back into my burrow and go back to sleep. I mean really, seeing one’s shadow is a big deal!

 

When I shake and shudder friends smugly say;

 

 “Consider the alternative.”

 

 Not exactly the repartee that commands a response.  I am, however, considering the alternatives and I don’t mean the Grim Reaper.

 

First off I dashed back to Dr. Feel-good who gave me my total body transplant to begin with. You will remember the spectacular results from my author’s picture on my book covers. And yes, judging from the numerous slobbering compliments I got from that display of hunkiness, I know we were all happy with the results (most especially myself).

 

 

 

Buuuuut, not being able to leave well enough alone, I went back to the good Doc for a touch up and he gave me a prescription of horse pills.

 

 “Take one at bedtime for the next 10 days and hope you survive the process.”

 

 Well, of course I did not hear his cautionary clause. Gleefully I dashed home and swallowed my first dose. My first mistake was not waiting till bedtime, in fact I crushed the little fucker in my trusty stone pestle, mixed the resulting powder with a slug of Bourbon, and swizzled the sauce right there and then - at 10:AM in the morning. Well, I woke up the next day at about 6M sprawled on the kitchen  floor with the most amazing feeling of youthful frivolity!

 

Needless to say I was thrilled to see the man in the mirror change from that stranger who had been hogging that reflective space for several long years now, transformed into the winsome youth whom all adored. Well maybe not everybody.

 

As the days progressed through the course of the prescription I changed from ballsy baritone to giggly squealing, until even I could see that enough was enough.

 

So now am sitting here with my Knob Creek bottle almost dry and wondering if it’s the booz or these chubby leggies that have me down for the count.

 

 

Iory 2009 

Does anyone have a rattle I can shake or an extra play-pen?

 

 

Two weeks ago before all the above took place, I thought of hiring a sex therapist to console my loss of youth. I got a number off the web for Mr. Wonderful and I gave him a buzz. Well the fucker wanted a thousand bucks!  In a tone of withering scorn, I asked,

 

 “What are you gonna do for a thousand bucks?”

 and he replied,

 

 “Shoot you to the moon.”

So I says,

 

 “Darling if I wanted to go to the moon I would call up the Naughty Astronautess.”

 and hung up.

 

 Now I know what Isadora Duncan and Lillie Langtry suffered after their blush of youth had dashed out the door.

 

Ten years ago when the half century gong sounded - I was looking for the exit doors. You’re supposed to be rich and famous at 50 - so I had to leave town. Mr. Leo, my Sainted husband, took pity on me, whisked me off to London, took me to the Ritz for lunch and even gave me a coffer full of jewels. I said,

 

 “Hotdigity!”

 

This year Mr. Leo gave me  a swell birthday party at Casa Romero, a gorgeous orchid and a nice card depicting a pretty nymph in a Fairy Circle. All strangely appropriate and absolutely charming. But I keep asking myself,

 

“Is charm enough?”

 

Ah well, Mama said there’d be days like this. So if all else fails - get a hair cut and shave off that ridiculous mustache! I sauntered over to the college barber cuz who the hell can afford a “stylist” these days? I told em,

“Luigi gimme a new do,”

He snipped away and created a whole new me.Now everyone I meet says,

 

 “What did you do to yourself? You look great, sorta younger.”

 

 I take their meaning to be,

 

 “Darling whatever you did, it was long overdue - you were looking like the wrath of God.”

 

At least I didn’t charge off to Venice and drool over Tadzio. I do have my dignity and my snuggle bunny hubby who apparently digs me like I am.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Top of the Hub

 

Leo and I went to the Top of the Hub yesterday for lunch and to see what exactly it was the sea gulls saw. Well, lemme tell ya that yes on a clear day you can see over the edge.

 

I guess this is what the captains of industry are grasping at on a regular basis when they zip up to their elite aeries around the world in order to hedge their bets with funds provided by the suckers below, namely the US taxpayers and all the other poor slobs from Reykjavik to Beijing who watched their supposed investments go flying out the window.

 

This idea afloat that the talent pool of finance must receive their unjust rewards, code name "bonuses," in order to entice them to stay on or the business world will implode is shear genius on behalf of the political spin doctors. The only problem is, witch doctors are not supposed to be given credence or credit.

 

World markets have already imploded or to mix more metaphors, the vampires have already sucked us dry. If AIG feels compelled to honor their contractual obligation to the losers on their payroll, fine let the company make a profit and then they will have their thirty pieces of silver to distribute as they see fit.   

 

The "real" world of high finance deals out plastic money like playing cards on the Black Jack table. Sooooo what the hey, gimme a house to fill up too! And yes we all stood in line to get our mortgages pumped up beyond a reasonable doubt, sorta like taking financial steroids. After all Manhattan was originally purchased with a bunch of beads so why not buy a Mac mansion with a hand full of jelly beans?

 

It seems to me that the US of A is the second largest Ponzi schemer after Bernie Medoff. We sold toxic mortgages to eager investors around the globe, how were they to know that equity had been translated into cheap confection?  Bernie was borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, a juggling act that really did take talent but like the Naked Emperor of fable, Bernie had nothing to juggle except his “talent” and neither did the executives at AIG. So Bernie goes to the slammer, but the boy’s from AIG get more blood from the stone, a trick I thought every one could see through, silly me, not unless you have x-ray vision.  

 

 

 

Now is the winter of our discontent

made glorious by the lengthening of days;

patiently coaxing the bold crocus

to smile brightly in their pretty skirts.

 

 

Every spring I feel like I have to give birth to myself and this year is no exception. While fighting to wriggle through the birth canal I fear that I might actually have lost my way and be burrowing into my grave.

 

This year all that drama was held at bay by the reconstruction of our restaurant, Casa Romero, after a flood from a broken pipe in the building above us destroyed the main dining room. Because my attention had been riveted to the project from December 25^th until February 16^th I had hardly even noticed the strangle hold of deep winter. All’s well that ends well, said I, when the last carpenter and painter trundled off down the highway leaving us with a sparkling new Casa.

 

 I hopped blithely back on my horse, raised my lance and charged into action, riding full tilt into the tournament of literary endeavors, in this case the continuation of  The Mermaid and the Sailor, the third volume of  my trilogy, Glamour Galore, which I have been threatening  to unleash on the public low these many moons.  

 

It was then that I noticed I was astride my steed backwards. A condition that rapidly disintegrated into the prenatal struggle as described above which, much to my horror, evolved in a Freudian direction of subterranean discomfort also mentioned above.

 

As any good midwife would advise, I breathed deeply and pushed! Unfortunately my psyche had not evolved to the human level and I was stuck in the dirt of despair wondering which way was out?

 

Have you ever wondered how a tulip bulb knows which way to grow? Presumably if it is the second time around, the sleeping beauty is already pointed in the right direction. But what if you were plopped in the earth last fall by a distracted gardener who pointed you stem down, what then? Deep breathing and pushing may not be quite the solution.

 

But the salvation of mucking about in the compost of my psyche is its intrinsic complexity from which all manner of snippets percolate if left to their own devices.  And so in the darkness of the dawn I heard the distant voice of Anaïs Nin whispering,         

  

 

“The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.”

 

This then is my visceral account of giving birth to myself and because the result of that  leaves one with a bundle of joy who must be nurtured for an inordinate time I have returned to my blog for immediate gratification so that my tiny squeak may someday raise its voice and shout out, ‘Here I am!’ 

 

 

 

 

This last August when the dahlias were growing like Jack's bean stalk, I was writing in our garden in the Fenway, my latest chapter of The Mermaid and the Sailor. I was in the midst of a scene depicting the rehearsal of Lilly Linda Le Strange singing, "Aren't There Any Real Queens in Ptown?" when much to my delight along came two men in uniform-astride mighty steeds. A.D.D. kicked in with a two steep flourish as I hailed the local constabulary and lunged for my camera. 
    "Good morning officers. May I take your picture?" An innocent request and one that they readily agreed to, reining in their mounts and neatly lining up to face the camera. As I clicked away, the horses munched with relish on our pink cosmos that were growing through the fence. I wondered if these massive beasts (the horses,of course) might be a little Gay themselves-I mean who do you know that will chow-down on a whole bunch of pink cosmos and not even burp? The, officers were as straight as an arrow (my Gaydar hardly had to click in on this occasion)  but I tried not to hold that against them as they were cordial and infinitely more stylish than the usual lot slogging by the garden. 
    Anyway I chatted them up tiring to get a good photo and Officer Steve, on the left, gave me a big grin and a rather dashing pose. Officer Tom, on the right, was a little more circumspect and projected an image of official solemnity equal to his rank and lofty position. We chatted about the horse's hair cuts, cropped short at the mane and tail, and although I asked and was duly told, the horses' names went clear out of my head. 
    Now, other than using this opportunity to gather photos to  amuse you  with, I was also tiring to be as friendly and supportive of the cops who "walk the beat." I know these particular Men in Blue had a lot of help pounding the pavement, none-the-less, they are part of our neighborhood  and they are getting to know the folks here.
     It is my idea that our police officers should be walking the beat in all neighborhoods so that  they can get to know and be known by the citizens living there. I think that the police  should get out of their tanks  and mingle with the people on foot, bike or horse.  I believe that an orderly and peaceful neighborhood must be nurtured by the neighbors in concert with the police they know and trust.    

This morning in the garden, the birds sing in the pure bright sun light. No one has told them to be quiet and remember the dead. Their lives go on in a parallel universe  quite unconcerned with me. They bicker and peck at each other, holding  claim to a  space in time where a ripe berry or an insect will feed their hunger for a brief while.  They do not remember the day when a fire-ball of hatred consumed the Twin Towers. They don't speak our language. They don't understand us.

This morning in the garden the gentle warmth of September sun caressed my back as I picked orange and purple dahlias for our home. A chorus of crickets droned incessantly in the long grass beyond the garden fence. Their pulsing song speeds with an urgent tempi. They can feel the shortening hours of daylight and the coming of winter. But the crickets know nothing of the sorrow of mothers and lovers, children and wives who seven years on, search the emptiness of their hearts looking for loved ones. 

This morning in the garden the traffic beyond the fence on Boylston Street whizzes on by. A rude biker on his too powerful chopper  roars through, dominating the moment with threat and menace. The news on the radio  solemnly remembers the outrage of terror as over head a wedge of Canada Geese rise from the tall reeds by the Muddy River, honking commands to order their  flight  pattern.

This morning in the garden the dark purple butterfly bush radiates sweet honey perfume that dances in the warming air attracting two saffron-orange Monarch butterflies. These seemingly delicate travelers of continents have no interest in the elaborate precautions of men searching airport luggage for secret explosives and weapons.

Now in the safety and order of our home I arrange the garden flowers. I am quiet, I am solemn and I remember

Here is a little bit of Boston rearranged and refocused, putting a new prospective on a few old monuments.
 
A boy named Jered, ventured forth from the protected harbor of his remote village in a small sail boat. The wind tumbling down from  the inland mountains, gained in strength as it cleared the forest by the rocky coast. Jered trimmed his sail tight, catching  the power of the  wind as  his boat skimmed fast over the sparkling sun-lite sea.

 Soon Jered had traveled down the coast, well beyond all known landmarks. He sailed into a harbor half-hidden between tall cliffs. He heard a  sweet voice  singing a song without words, reminding him of curling waves and the deep ocean. Jered followed the music towards a place where the surf smashed against the shore.

He spied a naked girl perched on a smooth granite bolder. Her fair skin glistened in the sun and her pert breasts peeked through an unruly tempest of her golden hair. Jered stared at the girl as  she coaxed a mother-of -pearl comb through her long hair all the way to  her waist where he was  shocked to see a blue-green iridescent fish tail clinging to the stone. 

As Jered drifted closer  his sail luffed and snapped around his mast, interrupting the mermaid's song. She turned in fright and seeing the boy,  dove into the white foaming surf. Jered's heart lurched as if caught on a lure and he hauled in his sail chasing the mermaid. 

Beneath the sea Neptune looked up and saw the boy, slick with the sweat of desire, toasted brown against the bright blue sky.  A hero reaching for glory, headless of failure. Neptune flung his jealous trident, a spiraling tempest of wrath and Jered's boat tumbled  in the surf casting him against the rocky shore. 

Jered's body was thrown against the rocks and into the bay where he began to drop slowly into deep green water. From her hiding place bellow, Griselda saw the boy sinking towards her. She swam up to him and seeing how beautiful he was, she kissed him on the lips, blowing  air into his mouth. 

Griselda raised Jered to the surface of the bay but Neptune tore their embrace asunder, casting the boy on the sandy beach and  drawing Griselda down into his own grasp. 

Jered was discovered unconscious by a lonely pilgrim on his way to consult the oracle about lost love. The old man tended to the boy's wounds until he awoke. When Jered  relalized that  Griselda was gone, he wept salty tears as he  sang her song of the deep ocean.  

This is a portrait  of my friend, fellow gardener and  blog tutor, Mr. Mike. I plucked his  photos off the web, scrambled them  around in my computer and voila,  a multi- faceted  prismatic vision.

His witty and literate Blog  reports on Boston and the world at large according the Mennonno-sapien inner dialogue, a dialect of koo koo la roo.  
  
Mike has this deep  ballsy voice to match his hot body and he is liable to launch into steamy recounts of his sexploits which has this senior citizen riveted to the boy's every word.   

He has a tendency to shave or  cut  his hair and beard frequently so that I may be talking with him for a while thinking to my self, "hum, the kid looks sorta different" before I realize, "Oh yeah, it's the hair - beard -etc." His  black curly hair is kinda faboo when he allows it to make an appearance which is not often or prolonged.

His mother ( a very sweet lady)  was here visiting earlier this summer and she was threatening to get Mike contacts so we could all see his dreamy eyes. He gave  her one of those , "Aw come on  Ma," looks. Needless to say he continues to lurk behind studious glasses but I agree with Mom, let's see um bro! 

  

 Yesterday Leo brought home tulips from our garden. Today the flowers are dancing in their vase, remembering the songs of birds and the warmth of the morning sun.
 

The yellow fringe of the witch hazel bush smiles brightly in the chilly afternoon sun of early March.
 

In a crevasse of the rock garden stuffed with last year’s curling oak leaves, blue bells ring announcing the triumph of spring!
 

Mr. Robin, classic harbinger of the coming season beats the rush by never leaving the neighborhood. His yellow beak, like a swelling daffodil bud, will burst into song—claiming the garden as his own.
 

The black twisted branches of a maple tree burst into life with chartreuse blossoms mocking the rows of soldier bricks held in the tight grasp of immutable mortar.
 

What does the maple tree know of Boston restraint? She bursts into bloom but the busy city people rush on by. Tomorrow seed wings will fly from branches high above the street while below car horns blare with impatience at slow-pokes at a traffic light.
 

Mr. Cardinal perches on our garden fence puzzling over the noisy traffic and wondering if humans ever sing.


The forsythia hedge squeezes together tightly, laughing at the tickle.
 

Looming above the blossoming crabapple in our garden, the tower of Babel presumes to insure against misfortune. Soon the spring flower petals will fall, dancing gaily, letting go with joy.


The magnolia wears chilly rain drops on her pink cheeks—jewels of spring turning pink blossoms into green leaves. Can you hear the robin’s song? It is short and oh, so sweet!
 

The red tailed hawk and the pigeon on shelters perch—each looking out for his own interest. Do they know how close they are?
 

Having spent the winter sleeping deeply in the silent earth, the gossiping daffodils are eager to speak.
 

The forsythia bush beneath the mulberry tree cannot speak to the blue sky in July so she must shout loudly when she can. Don’t you find her urgent cry beautiful?
 

The families of Johnny jump-ups are our true friends, always eager to say hello—staying till the end of the party.

“Have you heard? Iory will perform a dramatic reading from his novel
Naughty Astronautess, the second book of his trilogy
 Glamour Galore
 at Calamus Books, 92 – B South Street near South Station,
this Friday, April 25 at 7: PM”

Santa Clara del Cobre is a little under an hour’s drive, 24km, from Pátzcuaro. The pleasant mountain road is well maintained and has sweeping views of the forested countryside. Leo and I took a cab, costing about $20.00 right from the cab stand in front of the Pátzcuaro Library at Plaza Gertudís Bocanegra.
 
The center of Santa Clara has its own pleasant plaza where there are a number of Puesto de Taco stands. Here is an enterprising soul at his “Puesto” set up at one corner of the Plaza with several customers comfortably accommodated on improvised stools under a colorful sun umbrella. Above the clay tiled roofs of the surrounding shops, you can see the forest trees cresting the hills around town. I particularly enjoy the tall pillared “Portales” or covered walk-ways where the merchandise from the shops spills out onto the side walk.
 
Santa Clara is a town famous for its copper production and true to its reputation the shops are jammed with beautiful copper vases, pitchers, plates, candle sticks, etc. The invention of forms with soft patinated finishes carefully applied to the copper is hard to fathom and as you wonder from one showroom gallery to the next. It is a delight to behold.




This is the bell tower of the local church with a cypress companion, each vying for attention and both deserve it! The staining on the antique plastered adobe creates a pleasant contrasting texture highlighting the large bronze bells hanging in the tower.




These neat piles of construction materials were arranged at the base of the bell tower because they are restoring the church. Note the extra long and sturdy wooden beams that are newly milled and hand hewn. Each beam is carved from one tree, felled from the surrounding forest and is about twenty feet long. Note the extra large hexagonal paving tiles of this plaza with small dark stones neatly imbedded between, accentuating the geometric design of the ensemble.




Here is a little green parrot in his blue cage against the pink painted adobe wall. All over Mexico you see pet birds in beautiful cages. This little fella was curious about my camera and like the Tzintzuntzan bull was saying to himself, “Ok Gringo, enough already with photos—how about a slice of orange or a bunch of sunflower seeds, if you don’t mind.”




Leo and I were irresistibly drawn to the workshop of Espiridión Trejo, a mask carver, because of his fantastic creations that were tumbling out of the window and door, lining themselves up neatly on the sidewalk. The ancient adobe building is in a humble state of repair that rather adds to the organic quality of Espiridión’s work.
 



When we arrived on the scene Espiridión was busy at work carving a magical mask of clear avocado wood. His concentration was focused entirely on carving allowing us to browse around his marvelously cluttered space that was full of the manifestations of his fruitful imagination.

After a while he and Leo got to chatting and Espiridión pointed out that he was working on a mask that incorporated four different creatures all merging into one being. When he turned the mask up side down the lizard like creatures at each end merged with two smiling faces sharing a pair of eyes in the center “body” of the carving. There are a great many merging beings, zoomorphic, half man half animal creatures in Mexican folk art. This is generally explained with the idea that the indigenous Mexican artists are expressing the universal nature of all beings. I think it's because they are generally pretty stoned and seeing things as they truly are, which is more or less the same thing as the universal nature idea.

On Espiridión’s work bench you can see three of his creations that we bought. Two “bug people” masks, I think one is a cricket and the other a cicada both with animated human faces magically appearing in the area of their bodies. The third piece we bought was an angel shelf which you can see at the far left of the line up at Espiridión’s knees. The little angel has wings sprouting from his head in the manner of “blessed innocents” or those souls who died before being baptized. These little darlings are flapping about in limbo until the time of reckoning, an event I hope to avoid all together by claiming my Celtic Druidic roots. Nonetheless I do love our “innocent” who balances a handy shelf on his head thereby making himself useful while he awaits the final assessment.




Here we can see a sunny corner of Espiridión’s crowded workshop where the tumbled images seem to be engaged in wordless conversation full of mischievous humor. Espiridión has all the teasing wisdom of Pinocchio’s father, Gepetto. In response to Leo asking for an adjusted price of our three selected items, read this as—haggling, Espiridión replied with self deprecating humor that he must charge the full price because his son who tends shop on occasion is liable to sell a mask or two and pocket the dough, therefore he must maximize his income when he can.




Prominent in the center of Santa Clara del Cobre, is this rather dour bust of Don Vasco de Quiroga. The skills Tata Vasco or Father Vasco, implanted among P'urhépechas of the Pátzcuaro region have been passed down to their descendants, who are today considered among the most skilled craftspersons in Mexico. Tata Vasco trained his pupils in a variety of disciplines. His method of specialization by community continues to this day: Paracho produces guitars, Tzintzuntzán basketry and woven straw goods, Santa Clara copper products and Nurío woven woolens.




Speaking of skills, these two workmen were high on top of a building repairing the wooden structure supporting the tiled roof. They simply disassembled the extra long curved tiles and stacked them to one side. Then they removed rotten beams and spliced in new ones. Then they reroofed the structure simply by laying the curved tiles up and down, fitting into each other and overlapping. There seemed to be quite a lot of restoration work going on in Santa Clara.




Back in Pátzcuaro after our pleasant outing to Santa Clara I was ready to explore the countryside on my own. I asked Don Alfredo at Mesón de San Antonio where I could go for a walk in the open country at the edge of Pátzcuaro. After initial hesitation and some consultation with his daughter, Edaín, they recommended the Estribo Grande. Estribo means stirrup and that is just what the destination on the mountain above town looks like, a step in the steep profile of that peak, where there is a rustic belvedere over-looking the lake. Don Alfredo and Edaín gave me a map and off I went.
 
It turned out that the Estribo has a old road leading to it paved with irregular stones and lined with tall cedar trees that could easily be  50 years old. The road is mostly pedestrian with a few men on burros as it follows the ridge at a fairly steep incline. It is shaded all the way up so it is pleasantly cool, especially with the breezes rising off Lake Patzcuaro.
 
This view begins to open up as I climb the road to the Estribo. Note the ancient stone wall. In my research I came across an early account from the 1500’s, reporting on the ecological and sustaining agronomy practiced by the pre Columbian people of Mexico. One of the reports recorded the use of extensive stone walls to prevent soil erosion, not to corral grazing domesticated cattle as in Europe because they didn’t have that kind of livestock.
 



The road to the Estribo has clear views of Lake Pátzcuaro and environs. This photo taken with my telephoto lens condenses the distances across the lake but it gives a great shot of the village of Huecorio with its pretty church tower and of Janitzio Island crowned by Father Morelos.




I also learned from my reading that the Purépecha people used Maguey cactus as erosion boundaries sometimes in combination with stone walls as in this case. When I came across this handsome example of a living fence bordering the cobblestone paved road climbing towards the Estribo, I saw immediately how effective these barriers could be.




Climbing up the mountain, the road becomes immersed in tall forests and you can peek out between the tree branches at picturesque views of the valley below with placid Lake Pátzcuaro reflecting the peak of Janitzio Island in the smooth water. There are seven or nine islands in the lake depending on who is reporting. I think some of the ambiguity comes from the fact that low marsh lands surround the lake are pierced by meandering channels that form lagoons in some places creating “islands.”




The water step fountain provides architectural formality in the midst of the tangled jungle where immense and ancient trees hold bromeliads and orchids in their lofty branches. Bright yellow butterflies waft about and drink at the fountains edge but they inevitably flit away before I can focus my camera. The water all over the park is pure and fresh, springing from the deep earth at the top of the ravine.




This is the peacock fountain. The stone niche is about 10 feet tall to the top of the arch.




From this view you can see how powerfully the torrent flows over the rocky river. The majority of the park is naturally preserved as it always has been and the system of bridges and paths all have a rustic natural style made from natural indigenous stones and wood blending with nature.




In some places the river comes to a more level stretch and calms its pounding ferocity for a brief while, allowing the call of birds hidden in the orchid draped branches to be heard.


 

But just around the bend from the quiet spot, the land drops precipitously and forms a deep pool graced by a foaming cascade.




At the top of the ravine a large turquoise pool called Rodilla del Diablo or (Devil's Knee) is the source of the Cupatitzio River. This is where a large, lone trout patrols his territory with only a phantom shadow to keep him company.




White bell flowers hang gracefully from the datura plant, contrasting pleasantly against the dark green shades of the jungle underbrush. Leo has a datura plant in our garden at the Fenway and I can report that by the end of summer the little darling grows out of all expected proportion and takes over that whole corner of our space.




St. Francis presides over the flower filled garden of the Hotel Mansión del Cupatitzio that borders the Parque Nacional. From some of the balconied windows of the Hotel you can hear the waterfalls of the Cupatitzio River. The formal dining room has windows looking out onto Rodilla del Diablo, the deep pool that is the source of the river. In the past Leo and I have stayed at this luxurious first class hotel with its delicious swimming pool that is located in the terrace just above and to the left of St. Francis. In the evening when the sun goes down the garden is enveloped in soft shadows, and an enticing scent of night booming jasmine mysteriously drifts on the cooling evening breezes. This year we were only in Uruápan for the day principally for the Parque but we did not want to miss Hotel Mansión del Cupatitzio so we opted for a late lunch on the pretty patio café.




Nestled into a corner of the garden of the Hotel, adjacent to the patio café, is this “Trojes”, a traditional log cabin used by the Purepecha Indians who live in up in the mountain forests. This weathered structure has been reassembled in the garden and used as a handy bar. Note the heavily carved pillars decorated with a diagonal swirling scrolls.




The Hotel Mansión del Cupatitzio has the most incredible flower displays imaginable. Here are a series of arches hung with begonia baskets that threaten to take over the town. While we sat at lunch in the protected regions of the inner patio surrounded by the hotel, a ruby-throated humming bird buzzed in for a sip of nectar from a scarlet hibiscus flower growing by the pool.




No sooner had the humming bird departed than we were joined at lunch by this remarkable fellow who took up a vantage point on the wrought iron railing of the café. His wing span in flight was about eight inches across and his multiple wings made dry paper sounds as he careened about. Once settled down he folded his translucent green wings, like thin slices of jade, beneath his tailored leaf jacket and stared haughtily at us wondering what on earth these humans were eating.




In the middle of the forest seen from an upper balcony of the Hotel I could see the lavender blue blossoms of the beautiful Jacaranda tree that blooms at this time of year.




This pretty yellow darling in her well crafted home sang to us at lunch with a trilling melody embellished by surprising flourishes exciting the other birds, positioned around the patio, to reply with their own musical arias.

Mexico is a country of surpassing beauty and diversity of terrains and populations that combine into a culture of irrepressible creativity. Their long and continuous history is more than four thousand years old and has enormous wealth of experience and knowledge. The world can benefit greatly by listening to the wisdom wrenched from centuries of defeat and glory experienced by the generous and friendly peoples of Mexico.

One of the big attractions of Patzcuaro is Lake Patzcuaro, a large shallow body of fresh water. The Purepecha people, indiginous to the area believe that the lake is the place where the barrier between life and death is the thinnest. The lake is 7,200 feet (2,200 m) above sea level making it Mexico's highest lake. The water is cloudy with silt and surrounded by flat marsh land that suport luxurious growths of reeds and willows. From anywhere on the lake shore one can see distant volcanic mountains slumbering in the distant blue haze. The major attraction on Lake Patzcuaro is the island of Janitzio, a small steep island a short boat ride from the shore near Patzcuraro. Crowning Janitzio is a collosal statue of Generalísimo Don José Maria Morelos y Pavón, Mexico’s reveared Father Morelos who was a martyr in the War of Independence. Morelos’ statue is much like our Statue of Liberty in intent and size. Father Morelos raises his fist in a defiant stance declaring freedom for all the people of Mexico. You can go inside and climb a ramp up to Morelos’ head where you pass outside into the raised arm and climb a tiny spiral staircase to a viewing chamber at the place between his cuff and clenched fist. From there you can see a panoramic view the lake area. The inside of the monument is painted with murals by Ramon Alva de la Canal from 1932 – 35. Canal’s murals are in the 30’s style of Mexican political murals that were official commisions of the government intending to memorialize Morelos and instruct future generations about the hard won War of Independence and the brutal opposition of the Spanish.



 


The trip to Janitzio is aboard one of the many colorful long ferry boats leaving on frequent trips across the lake. On board are mostly Mexican tourists going to pay their respects to Father Morelos. The local Purepecha people who live and work on the island use the ferries as convenient transport back and forth to their island. This being Mexico a five-man band traveled with us and launched into a full repertory of popular and rousing ballads.






The line-up of passengers aboard the ferry is diverse representing the different peoples that compose the Mexican population.






As we approach closer to Janitzio you can begin to see Father Morelos raising his defiant fist, proclaiming freedom for his people.






The views from the top of Morelos’ arm are breathtaking with pleasant villages along the lake shore surrounded by mountains that seem to catch the clouds. At this vantage 7,000 plus feet about sea level I had to walk slowly respecting the effects of altitude.



 
Inside the Morelos statue a walking ramp passes many large murals depicting the life of the hero from birth to his tragic execution. The story is moving and dramatic with many graphic scenes of battles and conflicts that faced the revolutionaries.






There is a pleasant park surrounding the base of the monument at the top of Janitzio Island. The views from this level are good also. Note the fountain at the center of the formal park and two band stands for relief from the intense sun.






This is another view of the inside of the Morelos statue where you can sense the distinctly cubistic or Deco feeling of the design. At the top can be glimpsed the flame from the torch of freedom.






You can get a feel for the size of Lake Patzcuaro from this picture taken at the top of the monument. In the middle distance just past the beige colored fields is a village surrounded by marshy flatlands.






This is a pleasant portrait of our guide, Leticia, who drove us around to a couple of the surrounding towns and archeological sites. We were introduced to Leticia through Michelle Roos at the Eco Hotel,  . Michelle is an engaging member of the hospitable staff of that hotel which enjoys a spectacular location above the lake. The beautiful Eco Hotel forms a complex of traditionally designed adobe buildings that are situated in pleasant gardens. It is also next door to Ignacio Máximo a very talented and licensed massage therapist, phone: (004-434-5328) I had an appointment with Ignacio and enjoyed it so much I took Leo back on another day. I came across Michelle and Ignacio on my walk in the forest, and this is how that came about. I asked Don Alfredo at Meson de San Antonio where I could go for a walk in the open country at the edge of Patzcuaro. After initial hesitation and some consultation with their daughter, Edaín, they recommended the Estribo Grande. Estribo means stirrup and that is just what the destination on the mountain above town looks like, a step in the steep profile of that peak where there is a rustic belvedere over-looking the lake. Don Alfredo and Edain gave me a map and off I went. It turned out that the Estribo has a road leading to it paved with irregular stones and lined with tall cedar trees that could easily been 50 to a 100 years old. The road which is mostly pedestrian with a few men on burrows follows a ridge and is fairly steep but because it is shaded all the way, it is pleasantly cool, especially with the breezes rising off the lake. Almost at the beginning of the trail at the edge of the neighborhood where the town of Pátzcuaro ends is the Eco Hotel. I stopped by to take a look and Michelle, an attractive young woman with the most heavenly green eyes, showed me the beautiful hotel and confirmed that yes, Ignacio was the man to see about a massage. She also runs tours for visitors and she hooked us up with Leticia.






Driving with Leticia we enjoyed a safe comfortable and leisurely ride frequently stopping to view the scenery and for me to take photographs. This is a typical landscape where the rich eluvial soil is carefully tended between ancient stone walls and graceful trees. In the foreground you can see one of the cactus “trees” growing in the hedgerows at the edge of the fields. This specimen was about fifteen feet tall and there are bigger ones too.






It is not every day you come across a tethered bull especially in a sculpture gallery. On both sides of the road going into Tzintzuntzan you pass this seemingly haphazard pile of remarkable sculpture including many mythical beings, fountains, pillars, stone window frames and the like. Amongst the fantastic creatures was this handsome young bull that stood gracefully on the tips of his cloven hooves like a graceful ballet dancer. He had somehow knocked over his feeding trough and was staring at me full of curiosity as if to say, “Now who is this crazy gringo with the camera? Why doesn’t he make himself useful and put my manger upright?” Although I could hear Ferdinand the bull thinking this, I none-the-less gave him a broad breech, not knowing how feisty that critter might be.






Across from Ferdinand the bull was a collection of fantastic beings waiting for somebody to buy them and take them to their home and garden.






While Leo and Leticia and I were examining the roadside sculptures a platoon of kids on their bicycles decorated with colorful balloons whizzed past. They were celebrating the death of Don Vasco de Quiroga (1565) who cared for the welfare of the Purepecha people by introducing them to valuable technologies and industries.






This is the shimmering vista of Lake Pátzcuaro from the archeological site of Tzintzuntzan which was the ancient capital of the Purépecha people.






Here is another one of my questions, what is this tree called? I first saw one of these trees on the road into Pátzcuaro and I was amazed because I thought it was a Poinsettia, when this tree’s blossoms open fully they are a dense cluster of scarlet against the Mexican blue sky and the sight is breathtaking. At the archeological site of Tzintzuntzan I was able to get close and see that this is an entirely different tree. The colors and the shapes of the flower clusters are very beautiful. The tree blooms before it has leaves so you can see the graceful curving shapes of the branches.






Here is another view of the mystery tree. The flowers have a spiky brush formation like elegant tassels decorating the clear sky.






On the right you can see the partially restored temple complex that makes up the archeological site of TzintzuntzanAlthough the stone work looks totally black this is an exaggeration of the camera because the light was so bright. The temples were destroyed by the Spanish and a great deal of the finished stone was taken away to construct the churches and convents on the lower slope of the hill in the modern town of Tzintzuntzan. We toured these churches and the ancient stones can be seen in the masonry there some with glyphs carved into the stones. You can see Lake Patzcuaro in the middle distance of this photo.






This gives you a better idea of the stepped pyramid structures, called yácatas in the Purépecha language, which dominate the archeological site. Some of the platforms are oval or round while some are rectangular or T shaped. When we visited the site we were practically the only people there and I could absorb the quiet and calm of the countryside. The midmorning sun was intense and bright light reflected off the golden grass surrounding the temples.
 





Behind the temple complex facing away from the lake there has not been as much restoration of the yácatas. Broad flat fields divided by stone walls surround the buildings and here and there are a few trees and yucca cactus. There was a peach tree in bloom with delicate pink blossoms contrasting against the polished blue sky.



 


We went down to visit the modern town of Tzintzuntzan and the church complex. The gardens surrounding the church are planted with ancient olive trees, said to be the first olive trees to be planted in the New World. As you can see from this picture of one of these venerable trees, the claim is undoubtedly true. Compare the size of the girl walking on the lower right to the olive tree. The olive orchard is protected by a high wall that encloses a large area and in addition to the olives there are other massive trees making this walled garden an important arboretum and welcomed respite from the bustle of the town.






This is the Franciscan Convent of Santa Ana, a picturesque church surrounded by massive trees and a neat spreading lawn.






The massive wooden gate of the Convent of Santa Ana is supported by a stone and adobe wall and roofed with clay tiles. This side of the church has a pleasant rose garden partially enclosed by ancient buildings of the convent.






This is an isle of the local market. The craft specialties of Tzintzuntzan are woven things of all kinds, made from the reeds and grasses of the region. Each of these booths is draped with long garlands of decorative woven straw. Many have a Christmas theme or colored balls. Note how clean the place is with an immaculate gleaming floor. Mexico in general is well swept and kept remarkably clean. Because a lot of the country is semi-arid and produces a lot of dust there is an imperative for constant maintenance and the most typical sound heard around the entire country is that of a broom sweeping.






The next town around Lake Patzcuaro is Quiroga where we stopped for a pleasant lunch of Carnitas, delicious barbequed pork. In the center of town is a delightful plaza with a very pleasant flower garden. At the center of the plaza, named after Belisario Dominguez, stands a tall column supporting this unusual statue which is a monument to America, symbolizing the struggle of the Quiroga people.



 


This is another view of the Plaza, Belisario Dominguez. In a country rich with beautiful plazas this is one of the most charming. The base of the column miraculously spouts jets of water that splash into a large tiled pool creating the calming sound of falling water. As these arcs of water catch the bright light of the mid-day sun they sparkle, animating the stone fountain. In the foreground is yet another handsome fountain and all the green spaces between the fountains are planted with a variety of colorful blossoming plants. The bandstand in the background has graceful iron pillars and scrolling brackets.
 





A dad suddenly grabs his young daughter and flings her up to his shoulders while both of them laugh with pure delight.





The Parish church of San Diego de Alcalá built in the XVII century near Plaza Belisario Dominguez at the center of Quiroga has been lovingly restored and the entire wooden vaulted ceiling has been recently painted with bright colorful paintings about 6 feet square and there are about fifty paintings so you know the church is large. The choir loft at the end opposite the high altar holds an antique pipe organ and the ceiling there is painted with episodes recounting the miracle of Juan Diego and his vision of the Virgin of Guadalupe. This picture is one of that series of eight wherein the Virgin gives Juan Diego Castilian roses that he eagerly gathers in his poncho.

 

Every day in Patzcuaro, in the early morning, the bread lady sets up shop on this platform formed by the top of the town cistern where water is gathered from a natural spring at that place. The monument shrine behind her marks this spot as important and blesses the abundant waters. It seems to me appropriate that bread and water, two elementary components of human life are coupled together at this spot. The bread lady is tending to business and not thinking of life’s coincidental metaphors. Her location is simply a convenient place for neighborhood commerce, so much so that around mid day when the bread is sold and she goes home, the Paleta man takes over. He sells his delicious Mexican frozen confections on a stick which are flavored with tropical fruits. My favorite is the tamarindo paleta. The building in the background is the former Jesuit College.


 

We were in a fascinating shop where I was buying a diminutive wall shrine made of painted tin that held two skeleton people, called Catrinas, dancing a tango (only in México). Leo pointed out the window at this scene and I snapped a shot.

 

We are looking at the front door of the local high school where an enterprising young man, bending over with a red shirt, is selling paletas and candies from his home made cart that fits to the back of his bicycle. Note how the students, boys and girls are in uniform. Some of the parents are there to meet their children and a couple of the teachers are talking with some of the younger looking boys.

 

One afternoon on our wanderings around town we came across a delightful little B & B called Posada Mandala www.paginasprodigy.com/posadamandala Leo was chatting with the proprietor who is an author from a literary family. He was gracious and chit chatty and while he and Leo were speaking I took a look around at the simple charm of this five room hotel.  Decorating one wall of the small central courtyard was this collection of home made ex-votos which are painted in gratitude for prayers answered, saving the applicant from various tragedies that befall one in this vale of tears.

This is a local paving technique using cattle vertebrae between the flat stones of an entry way. This same technique is employed at the Museum Popular where much attention is paid to this kind of floor.  It struck me as being a bit macabre but nonetheless a thrifty use of readily available materials (again, only in Mexico). 

 

This is another ancient door with a charming woodpecker door knocker. When we were in the waiting room at the bus station in Guadalajara the TV was playing really funny Woody Woodpecker cartoons. I was reading a catalog of the Mexican painter Juan Soriano in which the poet and editor, Octavio G. Barreda, describes Soriano’s distinctive profile and manner as, “skittish in the manner of a strange bird, perhaps, one of Disney’s woodpeckers.” I am beginning to suspect that Mexico has a big love affair with woodpeckers and Woody especially. When we were visiting the ruins of the Purepecha ceremonial site of Tzintzuntzan we heard woodpeckers tapping away at the tall trees that shade the entrance to the site, so I know Woody’s cousins are in evidence there. 

The bell tower of Templo de San Francisco rises above a long row of trees draped with deep violet colored Bougainvillea vines.

On Fridays there is a special market in the Plaza San Francisco that offers both plants and pottery with a sprinkling of other goods. Theses plants are, of course, peppers of several colors and degrees of spiciness. One of the major food stuffs of Mexico for the last several thousand years, peppers are full of vitamins.

 

Every day of the week there is a lot of activity at the central market right off the Plaza Gertrudis Bocanegra, Gertrudis was a local hero and martyr of the independence. Her plaza is also known as Plaza Chica to be distinguished from La Plaza Grande a couple of blocks away. These two open spaces planted with towering old trees and pleasant flower gardens are the two major meeting places and playgrounds for everyone in town. 

 

The Market has any number of areas with like kinds of merchandise neatly arranged in small booths forming a labyrinth of crowded alleyways. Inside the market is another world and all the bustle of life and commerce is active from early morning on into the night. At the booth above floor mats woven from the reeds of Lake Patzcuaro are offered and bags full of dried fish minnows,  called charales, that are highly prized in Patzcuaro. Also on the right is stacked a kind of thin split fire wood that is the resinous heart wood of local trees. These sticks burn hot and fast making perfect kindling or providing a quick fire for fast cooking.

Here is the enormously picturesque Templo del Sagrario begun in the 17^th century and expanded in the 18^th century. The building on the right is the high school I was telling you about and further along is the Templo which used to be known as The Virgin of Health.

This wall is part of the Templo del Sagrario complex and like the rest of those buildings it is constructed of adobe. I like this view because of the rich earthy texture of the natural materials and also because you can see the way the walls and buildings are constructed. First comes the adobe bricks which are muddy clay mixed with straw. When the adobe is exposed like this you can clearly see the golden straw glinting in the bright sun and I was wondering how long ago that grass was green and growing, three or four hundred years ago? The adobe is covered with a plaster mix and then painted. Wooden beams are used for doors and windows and the roof framing which is then covered with unglazed clay tiles. All of Patzcuaro is made in this manner. Sometimes there are stone foundations for the adobe walls and sometimes the adobe is covered and protected with flat stones or glazed tile.

 

This little honey was helping her mother clean the ancient patio at La Casa de los Once Patios which used to be a convent for the nuns serving the Templo del Sagrario pictured above. The Casa de los Once Patios has lost a few of its patios over the centuries but it is still a considerable complex with charming flower filled patios finished with baroque architectural embellishments. It is now an artisan’s collective offering the finest lacquer, weaving, copper and pottery in Patzcuaro. I can’t get over the cute girl and I love her cowgirl boots. 

This is another view of the Casa de los Once Patios and you can see what I mean about the wealth of potted plants. This collection is mostly composed of various kinds of begonias. Here the architecture is quite simple and graceful with roman arches and sturdy small pillars fashioned from the local hard limestone which has an attractive pinkish cast to it.
 

This is one of the indigenous log cabins, called trojes,  used by the Purepecha Indians who live in up in the mountain forests. This one has been placed in a corner garden of the Casa de los Once Patios as a demonstration of local building. Note that even the roof is made of thin split wooden shakes. The old wood takes on rich patinas with lichens contributing to the visual interest.

 

 

A large modernist mural decorates an old stair wall at Casa de los Onze patios. I couldn’t find out the painter or history of the commission except that it is part of the nationally commissioned public art movement that was intended to instill the people with a sense of pride and importance in their shared heritage. On the right is Don Vasco Quiroga again who is holding a spinning wheel as a symbol of his teaching the Indians in the 1530’s more advanced European technologies such as spinning and weaving.

A lady vendor sits surrounded by her product. She is selling woven straw articles from small tables to trunks and baskets. Each item is a masterpiece of quality basketry and they all smell of delicious fresh straw.

Patzcuaro folks have a healthy and sophisticated sense of humor. This is an advertisement on the delivery box attached to a motor scooter for a pizza parlor. Not only is this home-grown custom rig executed with professional graphics but the back ground is the silhouette of the Morelos statue on the Island of Janitzio in Lake Patzcuaro. Isn’t the universal appeal of pizza amazing?

This is a painting of San Pascual the patron saint of kitchens hanging in the front hall of our favorite restaurant in Patzcuaro, Cha Cha Cha. San Pascual is often times depicted floating around his kitchen presumably transported by a particularly potent batch of Mole Poblano or some such concoction. Here Pascual is sedate and benevolent and I love his neat apron.

When last we visited Patzcuaro we met Michael Warshauer a retired baker from the United States who has a delightful and informative blog on Mexican foodof the Patzcuaro region. . Don’t miss his photo blog, recent photos –an extensive essay on the Patzcuaro market. Michael suggested we meet at a Sunday only restaurant at Tzurumútaro, a nearby village and off we went to rendezvous with him and his charming wife Susan. 

When we arrived we immediately recognized Sra. Amparo Cervantes and her daughter, Mireya, from a convention of local Michoacan cooks in Morelia that we attended in November of 2006, called Encuentro de las Cocineras. I had taken photos of many of the cooks at this convention in their booths with the dishes they were preparing and when we returned to Boston I published the best of these portraits on our menu covers at the Casa Romero.

 

We understood that this happy reunion was to be an auspicious occasion as we already knew what a great cook Sra. Cervantes was and also how discerning and perceptive Michael is from reading his bilingually literate and informative Mexican food blog. Our expectations were surpassed with the main treat of that day, traditionally made corundas which Leo proclaimed as “this side of heaven”, the lightest corundas he had ever eaten.

Part of Sra. Cervantes crew of talented cooks, the woman on the left, placing hand made tortillas on her pottery grill was actually making them fly; her touch was so deft and tender. The stone corn masher is absolutely authentic made from an abrasive volcanic stone one can see the same technique being used in the pre-Columbian codices describing cooking. The kitchen here is partially open to the elements and it adjoins a dining pavilion shaded by a ceramic tiled roof protecting the diners from the afternoon sun.

Sra. Amparo Cervantes herself, with one hand she selects a corn leaf wrapped corunda from the steamer and holds the triangular bundle over the plate. With an imperceptible twist of her wrist she unwinds the flavorful corundas releasing a host of fragrant aromas. 

I found this naive mural at the front entrance of the Parque Nacional in Uruapan, a town close by Patzcuaro and I have included it here because it is shows how life imitates art in Mexico, or at least how pervasive is the folk culture.

This is a troop of Purepecha Indians dressed in traditional costume to perform the dance of the little old men. Ironically the dancers are all boys, some of whom look to be about 10, give or take a year. They are all portraying old bent-over men. They place sturdy bamboo matting as a percussive stage on which they perform. The line of “old men” hold to each other’s walking sticks presumably to indicate their frailty and as the music picks up tempi the dancers throw off the weariness of age and perform a kind of frantic tap dancing, slapping thick leather sandals against the wood mats with complex rhythmic syncopation. One thing that strikes me about this dance is how universal tap dancing is in one form or another. Have you seen the Irish River Dancers or the Morris dancers in an English village? I’ll bet they have some form of tap dancing in Tibet. Note the tiny dancer dolls in the foreground that the boys make and sell for pocket money.

I love the bright colors of the boy’s and men’s costumes all embroidered with animals and what I now see are probably letters on the cuffs of their trousers. It looks like they may spell out Michoacan? Does anyone know what the word is?
 

One of the reasons I go to Patzcuaro is to study this enormous wall mural painted by the incomparable master, Juan O’Gorman who was a student of Diego Rivera and also the architect for Diego and Frieda’s famous twin studios in San Angel, Mexico City.
 

O’Gorman was a prolific painter employing the classic fresco technique painting on wet plaster. He manages to include a huge amount of the historic action of the state of Michoacan into his picture and all these details fascinate me. The painting takes up the entire back wall of the local library which is in the Ex-convento de San Augutin begun in 1576. A great number of the Ecclesiastical buildings were secularized during the Juarez Presidency in the mid nineteenth century and reassigned for educational purposes dedicated to the people.

 My photograph of the mural only shows about 3/4s of it, cutting off the bottom because it just wouldn’t fit in my picture frame.  I try to go and enjoy the painting everyday that I am in Patzcuaro and I never tire of examining all the action. It’s like seeing a narrative story unfold. O’Gorman’s visual imagination is prolific and no detail is glossed over. I study the picture with my binoculars and try to follow the mysterious English translation in the guide pamphlet in order to identify the goings on.

 

At the center of this portion of O’Gorman’s mural is a portrait of Don Vasco Quiroga holding a fish net, an innovation that he introduced from Europe that greatly aided the Indian population especially on Lake Patzcuaro where distinctive butterfly nets are still in use today. Don Vasco was a fan of Thomas More’s book, Utopia, and both More and the title Utopia are depicted on either side of the bishop. On the right beyond the broken brick wall are some of the revolutionary heroes including the unfortunate Gertrudis Bocanegra spouting a fountain of blood from her single gunshot wound.

 

 O’gorman’s view of history and especially Mexican history can be rather caustic and frightening. I see an overall balanced portrayal of the swinging polemic that although speaks of man’s psyche without sentimentality. He includes the good with the bad implying the possibility of political evolution and the fulfillment of the human spirit


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Here is Erendira whose name means cheerful. She is an incarnation of Boadicea riding into battle, in this case, against the Spanish. The guide tells us that she was the first indigenous person to understand that horses were separate from their riders so she hopped on and charged into battle in defense of her people. The warrior princess is a strong and enduring reality that travels across time and cultures.

 

In the lower left is a self portrait of O’Gorman and his wife. Juan is holding a manifesto that reads in translation:

 

“Years have passed; the centuries and the natives are not defeated in spite of the conquest putting an end to the best of their population. Exploitation has not knocked them down, nor misery or diseases. They have not died of hunger. They have resisted work in the mines, roads or railways; they have plowed the land with their hands in order to feed us. Their treasures were stolen, they saw their temples fall. They loaded stones on their backs to build churches. But their resistance is a hidden strength that some day, when liberated from the chains of oppression, an art and a culture will continue to exist like a giant volcano erupting.”

 

Greeting all citizens and visitors to Patzcuaro is this handsome bronze statue, larger than life size, memorializing the Purepecha king Tangaxuhan who made a treaty with the conquistador Christobal de Olid, negotiating a peace and converted to Christianity in 1523. Then the brutal thug Nuño de Guzman broke the treaty and viciously tortured and executed Tangaxuhan in 1530. Tangaxuhan is said to have said, “Scatter my ashes across my kingdom so my people will remember who they are.”

 

 

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Our trip to the mountain town of Pátzcuaro in the state of Michoacán was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for this trip. We started our annual tour of Mexico in Guadalajara where the Herradura Tequila Company acted as our gracious hosts for a busy weekend of fiestas and informational symposia about their fine quality, traditionally made Tequila. But our intended goal for this trip was to return to the mountain town of Patzcuaro perched above the large mountain lake Patzcuaro.

 

This is the great room at El Mesón de San Antonio in Pátzcuaro www.mesondesanantonio.com  where we stayed for a glorious week and a half.  The proprietor, Don Alfredo Del Río is a warm and welcoming host who is a retired Agronomist. He runs the Mesón with his charming wife Doña Lupita and on occasion one or the other of his five delightful children help out. In the far right-hand corner of this photo a fragrant crackling fire warms the brisk mountain mornings, as Pátzcuaro is almost 7,000 feet above sea level. The inside adobe walls are painted a soft beigey pink and the outside wall facing the street is constructed from the ancient stones from the site. In pre-Columbian times the site was a Purepecha Indian ceremonial platform with temples, a priest’s house and enormous fires for worshiping the sun.  

 

 

Frieda Kahlo is handsomely portrayed in this posthumous portrait hanging in the great room. Looking at the deep window seat you can see how thick the old adobe walls are. The windows at Mesón de San Antonio all have wooden shutters on the inside. Don Alfredo told me when he bought the place 20 years ago the windows had no glass and the hacienda had been abandoned for almost 30 years. There was a forest of weeds choking the patio courtyard and the structure was in jeopardy of general collapse. The collection of papier maché dolls gathered on the window seat is a ubiquitous type found all over Mexico although at this moment I am still researching what to call them and trying to learn their history. Does anyone know more about these little darlings? If so, please elucidate and carry on in the comments section at the end of this article.

 

 

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This is a view of the great room looking towards the all tiled kitchen. The picture just begins to give a hint of the spacious traditional design of the kitchen which is intended as a demonstration kitchen for Doña Lupita’s classes. It also is available to the guests who may want to prepare a meal at the Mesón as an alterative to eating in restaurants all the time. Leo is considering organizing a week of traditional Mexican cooking classes next winter for a small group of his customers from Casa Romero. The idea is that our group would stay at Mesón de San Antonio and take  daily classes starting with shopping at the wonderfully colorful market in Pátzcuaro and then using and preparing a meal that all would share. If you are interested in this idea please get in touch through the comment section at the end of this article. 

 

 

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This is Don Alfredo’s garden courtyard is at the center of his old Hacienda style Mesón. In Vice Regal times the Mesón or inn was host to mule teams and their drivers. Mesón de San Antonio stands beside El Camino Real, the royal road that connected the main cities of Nueva España. The animals would have then been corralled in the courtyard. Some of the surrounding rooms accommodated overnight visitors and others accommodated blacksmiths, carpenters and other skilled craftspeople to help maintain the wagons and equipment. Now the large open court is planted with many unusual specimen plants. The most spectacular of the lot is a tall Monstruo (Brownningia sp) cactus. But my favorites are the deep fuchsia colored Bougainvillea vines hugging the ancient wooden columns that support the arcade surrounding three sides of the court. In this picture you can see one of the balcony style windows that open out from the comfortable rooms onto the central garden. Each room is individually decorated and has a small fireplace which is re-laid with wood every morning. 

   

 

The weighted branches of the Mexican Lima tree are heavy with fruit. Don Alfredo explained to me in a recent email about this special fruit, “there are two kinds of such fruit (Lima), one of them with nipple, and the another one without it. Our Lima tree, as you are able to see in the picture is with nipple and it is the more tasty and odoriferous of the two kinds.”

 The Lima is not as tart as our lemon or lime and it has a heavenly scented fruit that is quite unique in flavor. Leo describes it as a sweet lime. It is in fact a distinctive plant and the aromatic wood is also used to make boxes and chests. Because it is such a  fragrant wood it is  effective as a deterrent to insects as cedar wood is. The juice of the Lima is deliciously refreshing and is often mixed with other green vegetable juices such as parsley and cactus. Yummm! 


 

 

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This is a deceptive photo because the center plant is really a variegated leafy bush that supports a scarlet bougainvillea vine growing throughout its branches. The bright reds and greens are a perfect foil to the adobe walls rubbed with soft tan color.

 

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The elegantly slim wooden pillars supporting the tiled roof of Mesón de San Antonio are shaped with reverse fluting and finished by an attractive capital that in turn supports a scrolled bracket. The ceiling of the arcade has sturdy hand honed beams with thin cedar slats arranged in a herring bone pattern. This is the traditional building form that makes an appealing textural patterning.  

 

 

 

 

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One of the myriad details that Mesón de San Antonio abounds with is this bunch of corn tacked to an ancient ceiling beam that protrudes from the adobe wall. The ears of corn incorporate all the beautiful warm colors of a Persian carpet. A small cast bronze bell crowns the ensemble.
 

 

Here are the handsome del Río Family L to R; Don Alfredo, Doña Lupita, and their beloved daughter Edaín who has just graduated from the University of Morelia with a degree in biology. Edaín’s has four brothers and sisters. The two eldest are General Practitioner MDs in Quretero, an important colonial city nearby in central Mexico.  I added the frame from a picture I took in Uruápan, a nearby town. I think the frame lends them all a proper dignity.

 

 Doña Lupita is a terrific cook and while we were visiting she gave a demonstration to a group of her guests on preparing mole. She used many varieties of roasted and ground chilies, nuts and chocolate to create her own family recipe. Doña Lupita and Edaín started at 2pm and the party sat down to eat at 8:00. She sacrificed one of her own turkeys for the repast (a much discussed event recounted with respect, concern and humor). The turkey mole was enjoyed by all and a grand success. 

 

 

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And here is the little devil himself, Mr. Leo looking rather fetching in one of his new Mexican shirts photographed against my favorite bougainvillea vine in the courtyard.

 

 

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In this photograph we are looking diagonally across the courtyard at the towering cactus. Don Alfredo identified this remarkable specimen which is well known in town. “Our big cactus, dubbed Monstruo (Brownningia sp) originally came from Peru, now it is offered in a lot of nurseries in Mexico because of its big and odd shape and its blue hue.”

 

 

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This is the front door of the Museo de Popular which is right around the corner from our hotel. This absolutely charming museum is dedicated to the local ceramics, textiles, lacquer ware, masks and furniture made in that area. In the back of the museum is an archeological site of the Purépecha Indians. The Purépecha’s built ceremonial platforms where they had huge bonfires to worship the sun. There are also ruins of a native priest’s house. The ruins beneath Mesón de San Antonio are part of the same ceremonial site just one long block away on the same hill above the town of Patzcuaro and the lake.

 

 The Museum building was built by Don Vasco de Quiroga, the first bishop of Michoaćan in 1540 as the Royal College of St Nicholas. Bishop Quiroga taught the indigenous populations the crafts of firing and glazing pottery as well as spinning and weaving cloth and the production of lacquer ware. He is generally credited with teaching the native populations income producing craft professions that are still practiced today.   At the center of the Museum building is an oasis of greenery with a sleepy fountain and some of the most fragrant irises I have ever stuck my nose in.
 

 

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This spoon wrack is of special interest to us because we collect spoons for our kitchen back home in Boston. We struggled with the question of buying one of the enticing ensembles that we saw in several of the better shops in Patzcuaro but our home is already so jammed packed that we are trying not to accumulate anymore stuff. As a compromise we bought four large spoons that were attractively painted and lacquered, rather than the wrack with a whole collection of new spoons.


 

 

 

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The displays at Museo Popular are an act of thoughtful love with an appreciation for the artistry and function of the pieces in the collection. In one corner of the “Kitchen” display is this magnificent wooden arch carved with a decoration of blossoming flowers that displays, to great advantage, a collection of pottery. This type of ware leaves the bisque fired clay body exposed glazing only the interior of the vessels and the serving surfaces of plates. The dripping glaze becomes part of the simple design.
 

 

 

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If you can picture it, this gracefully curved counter at the center of the “Kitchen” display is actually the stove/cooking range. First of all I have to mention that I love the beautiful shape of this structure that allows for four cooking places with ample tile top counter space in the center. At the butt end facing out, the small black square is one of the fire chambers and the cooking pot sits above it with a rounded bottom for even heat distribution. The pot nestles into a round opening at the top of the stove, fitting snugly. They use either charcoal or small evenly split logs of a hot burning core wood from the local trees that are highly resinous. What-ever smoke arises from these fires rises to the high ceilings of the kitchen and is vented out the eaves of the roof.


 

 

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In a corner of the museum an open door leads to the back garden where the archeological excavation is revealed. You can get an idea of the attractive displays throughout the museum arranged on tables and fascinating open shelf cupboards and wooden niches. There are also occasional glassed wall shelves with special collections and in the glass you can see the reflection of the museum’s central patio garden. . This room is dedicated to a distinctive kind of green glazed pottery.

  

 

 

 

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The two matching cupboards on either side of the central wooden niche have an interesting detail where the legged cupboards stand on low benches. The benches are part of the cupboards carefully joined together with mortise and tendon joinery. 

 

 

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This is part of the mask collection at the Museo Popular and nothing could be more of a popular art than masks in Mexico. All over the country the various peoples of different regions make and use masks in their ceremonies. Some of the characters are classic individuals and some are generic types and a lot of them are mixtures of human and beast. These zoomorphic cross species express the universal connectivity between all beings and the transformative aspect of evolving life.  

 

 

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This picture of St. Francis shaking the hand of a wolf is created with feathers. I am a sucker for St. Francis; I mean the guy talked with the animals just like Mary Poppins so how much better can it get? I’ll bet he had some interesting conversations actually listening to what the critters had to say. I am also a sucker for feathers because they are so beautiful. The art of feather embroidery is called Amantecas in the Nahuatl language. It is a decorative technique that has been practiced in Mexico throughout history. This picture is decidedly European and Christian to boot, but the subject is remarkably gentle and intelligent. We all need to converse with our fellow creatures and care for each other. Evolution is cooperation not competition! 

 

 

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This ensemble of pottery is displayed on a fairly simple shelf arrangement. The central unit is inset into the wall in an attractively peeked niche which becomes a finished piece of furniture by the addition of the scalloped wooden border that culminates in a finial that looks to be a cross between a pineapple and a pomegranate. The peaked arches of the little side niches culminate, on the left, with two rabbits kissing and on the right, a quail with her top knot feathers.


    

 

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The style of the pottery on this table is one of my favorites. The designs are created by tiny dots of glaze in harmonious shades of color in subdued tones. I think the proportions of the large covered urn are especially attractive


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Outside in the patio garden, bird of paradise flowers seem to take flight, animated by a shower of silver water beads from a sprinkler hose.
 

 

 

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Sky blue agapanthus flower clusters huddle together with pink azalea blossoms in a corner of the patio garden.
 

 

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Red and white stripped amaryllis trumpets wag long tongues tempting the patrolling bees to take a dip.
 

 

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I am not sure what to call this beautiful Lilly variety with its complex flower structure except “Elegantly Lovely.”

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This is the bell tower of the Basilica of Nuestra Señora de la Salud, which Bishop Vasco de Quiroga started to build around 1543. He had hopes that this would become a great cathedral, but the original plan - an edifice comprised of five naves, capable of holding about 30,000 people at a time was never completed. The Basilica has recently undergone a marvelous restoration. The Virgen de la Salud (Our Lady of Health), made of pasta de caña, graces the main altar. Pasta de caña is corn cane paste bound with honey. Vasco de Quiroga's remains are located in a mausoleum at its entrance.

I am very attracted to the antique windows and ancient doorways of Mexico. In the wiggly old glass of the convent adjoining the basilica you can see the reflection of the big bells in the tower. These mellow old bells mark the passage of time in Patzcuaro resounding inside the adobe walls of the patio at Mesón de San Antonio which is a half a block away.  The cast iron grill at the base of this window has a particularly pleasing neo classical design with its series of bisecting oval shapes decorated with foliage wreaths.

 

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Every morning quite early this man and his pert burro trotted briskly by Mason de San Antonio. Whether he was coming or going from his daily work to home I have no idea but he was definitely not lingering long in one place. 

 

Traveling between cities in Mexico we always take the ETN first class busses. They are prompt, affordable and very comfortable. All the seats are reserved / assigned and about the size of a first class seat on an airplane with leg rests that extend out like grandpa’s recliner.




The terrain around Guadalajara is semiarid and mountainous with miles of ancient stone walls that extend into the far distance. The dried grasses are soft shades of beige with pink overtones.




As we approach Morelia the landscape becomes greener with taller trees. Morelia is the capital of the state of Michoacán, adjacent to the sate of Jalisco.


 

The rows of distant mountains, tinted by the atmosphere, turn shades of light blue. Their smooth profiles seem to blend with the sky. In the foreground smoke rises where the farmers are burning fields in preparation for plowing and planting a new year’s crop.




In Morelia we stayed at the historic Hotel de la Soledad. The central courtyard is filled with a lush garden and a central fountain. On the old stone walls scarlet and orange bougainvillea vines climb the two-storied arched cloister showing gaudy colors against a clear blue sky. One block from La Soledad is the Plaza de Armas which is at the center of the city. There the ancient cathedral flanks one side of the plaza dominating the area with soaring Baroque bell towers, 66.8 meters high, with a dome covered with blue and white ceramic tiles crowning the transept. The cathedral was built between 1660 and 1744.

There is an impressive collection of antique carriages at La Soledad that stand on the broad arcades at the patio level and also on the second floor. You can imagine travelers of a bygone era with their well groomed horses trotting along the stone paved roads of central Morelia.




Just inside the solid doors of La Soledad is a closed carriage parked as if waiting for an elegant lady in long sweeping skirts to go pay calls on her neighbors. At the center of the garden courtyard a delicate fountain sprays graceful plumes of water adding a soothing splashing sound echoing in the shaded corners.




This is one of the old bell towers of the Cathedral around the corner from La Soledad. Some of the antique bells are six feet tall and weigh a couple of tons each. They toll the hours and announce the services celebrated inside the Cathedral as they have for hundreds of years. The sonorous bell tones reverberate in the spacious court yard of our hotel making the birds that live in the tangled Bougainvillea vines, respond with worrying chatter.




Within the Federal Palacio are a series of arched courtyards of different sizes. Upon entering the complex the first courts are of monumental size. Each individual area is a carefully considered and perfectly proportioned architectural composition. This side court was a smaller and more intimate space and you can almost hear the delightful splashing of the central fountain where doves dipped their bills for a refreshing drink and Poinsettia plants splashed bright scarlet color onto the white walls that are trimmed with buff colored stone.





The exterior of the Federal Palacio stretches an impressive length along the Avenida Madero which is the main street of the historic district. In the distance can be seen the tower and dome of the Church of Santa Catalina de Siena.




This is the Tarascas Fountain depicting three Purepecha women carrying an enormous basket filled with the bounty of the land. Although the beauties here shown are bare-breasted the actual Purepecha people, both men and women, are modest, dignified and reserved in their demeanor. This great fountain is at the Plaza Villalongin where the aqueduct enters the city.




Morelia’s aqueduct dates from 1785 and is 1,810 meters long with 253 arches. Here the handsome masonry frames a blooming Jacaranda tree.




Traffic is a reality of our era and Mexico has a constant stream of zippy vehicles dashing all over the place. The aqueduct makes a statement of stability and history against all this kinetic frenzy



This monumental equestrian statue of Father José María Morelos y Pavón was erected in 1913. Father Morelos was, of course, one of the great heroes of Mexico’s war for independence from Spain and a much beloved symbol of the ultimate freedom fighter. In addition to being an ordained Catholic priest he was also a successful general and his campaigns criss-crossed across central Mexico from 1810 until 1815 when he was executed by a Spanish firing squad.



Father Morelos is portrayed at the center of revolutionary energy in this powerful mural decorating the main stair hall of the Morelia Palacio de Justicia. The city of Morelia is the capital of the state of Michoacan and is named after Morelos




Symbols and expressions of justice and liberty are ever present in the government buildings of Mexico. Here is Blind Justice gracing the central fountain of the school of law in Morelia.




Also at the law school is this mural of Justice with eyes wide open but instead of a sword this time she offers a beautiful rose in her open hand.




Families are strong and prolific in Mexico. Everywhere you look there are kids with their parents, grand parents aunts, uncles and cousins. Morelia is a conservative community and the children of all ages are in school in uniforms. On our last visit to Morelia there were festivals and marches celebrating exam time and students from all the surrounding communities were marching proudly in downtown Morelia. The University of Morelia is in the center of the city so you also see college students everywhere. On Sundays families come to events in the historic district and also to shop. Everyone ends up strolling around the fountains and under the shade trees in Plaza de Armas, the beautifully tended park which is the center of the city. Families and friends visit and play.




Every where I look in Mexico I am delighted to see young fathers spending time with their children. Some of the fathers don’t look more than teenagers to me and maybe that’s a good thing too. It must take a lot of energy to be so attentive to the toddlers. I see fathers in close contact with their kids; holding hands, embracing, talking and generally having a good time. Moms are, of course, also in evidence but in the United States I don’t see as many fathers engaged with their young children. In Mexico this is true with all classes of people even the poorest Dads have a wee one cuddled up within a protective embrace.




Now, this place I call the wedding cake church. Part of the reason is that I have seen non stop weddings performed here back to back all day long. The other reason I say wedding cake is that the interior is seemingly made from colored frosting. Although the outside structure dating from the 18th century has a simple baroque style the inside was decorated by a Michoacan artist, Joaquin Orta and is completely over the top The real name of the church is Templo de Guadalupe and abundant images of Juan Diego and the Virgin are depicted around the church. The Virgin of Guadalupe is the patron saint of Mexico and as such she is ubiquitous. I even bought a baseball cap with the Virgin and her roses embroidered in Technicolor brightness. Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin, his last name means “talking Eagle” in Nahuatl, was an indigenous Indian living near Mexico City. He saw a vision of the Virgin In 1531 and she asked him to build an abbey at that site, the hill at Tepeyac. But when Juan told the Spanish bishop, Juan de Zumárraga, the bishop asked Juan for a miraculous sign to prove his claim. The Virgin instructed Juan to look for flowers, even though it was winter. Juan found some and gathered them together in his cloak. They were Castillian roses and when he presented these to the Bishop the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe miraculously appeared imprinted on the cloth. I love depictions of spiritual revelations of all kinds and especially of the Mary, whom I call the Goddess. I especially love The Virgin of Guadalupe because any vision of the Goddess in a shower of roses is my kind of hallucination. I don’t mean that irreverently although yes I laugh when I think of it, but I am laughing with the excitement of such beauty.




You can begin to see what I mean about this place. This view is looking up at the dome over the transept. The exaggerated three D sculpture painted with scintillating color is on the razor edge of kitsch and yet it is really beautiful in an naïve way, like an old fashioned merry-go-round.
 



The execution of the plaster work is flawlessly crafted and perfectly painted and the whole ensemble is as fresh as overblown summer flowers.
 



I could just scream with delight looking at this ceiling!




The doors of Mexico are a constant joy to behold and I take tons of photos of them. The central medallions of leaf men are traditional in Morelia and although these doors are fairly new the same motif is seen all over the city. Note the hand-wrought iron handles in the form of dogs with twisted bodies and curling tails. They also act as knockers and are hinged at the top legs by their tails and you knock with the head end. The door is, of course, all hand joined and hand carved.




A cast iron door knocker with an especially lively looking fellow with flowing tresses. The antique wood has been cleaned and varnished, showing its graining.
 



Some fellow tourists I met up with were asking me why Cervantes was so popular in Mexico. I really hadn’t a clue although I know there is an annual Cervantes festival in Guanajuato, I wasn’t aware of an enthusiasm for the author. I did suggest that because Mexico is such a literate country they probably claim Cervantes as a literary treasure just as we in the United States consider Shakespeare part of our literary heritage. Whatever the reason, books and reading are a big part of Mexican life and here is an interesting hand painted mosaic of a man reading that decorates a school in Morelia. Perhaps all the fanciful swirls, creatures and crowds of people are from stories that he is reading in his book.




I was so impressed by this detailed bronze relief that I forgot to note who the man was. I was more intrigued by his wizened head emerging from a book which forms his collar. At the bottom of the sculpture there is a dipping pen and an old fashioned bottle of ink so I assume the subject was a writer. Anyway he fits the book theme and I thought he had an interesting face. Can anyone identify our mystery writer?

                            The Agaves are planted in neat and endless rows all throughout Jalisco

The town of Tequila is in the State of Jalisco about 50 miles from Guadalajara. Tequila is also a regional appellation that is applied to the area of Jalisco where the blue agave is grown and then distilled into the spirit we call Tequila. This distinction is scrupulously regulated by the Mexican government much like the strictures imposed on regional French wines. Our hosts, Brown and Forman who are the parent company of Herradura Tequila, invited Leo and our general manager of Casa Romero, Rogerio Padilla, to Guadalajara for an informative weekend conference. I tagged along for the ride and to keep an eye on my hubby. Brown and Forman arranged an excursion for our party to the Ex-Hacienda San José del Refugio or Casa Herradura where the venerable Herradura Tequila has been made since 1870 in the town of Amatitan in the region of Tequila.





We traveled aboard the Tequila Express a handsomely restored train, vintage 1940’s, leaving from Guadalajara. This being Mexico, our excursion was planned as a grand fiesta which always includes Mariachis. Starting at the train station we were entertained by our very own troop of handsome musicians all decked out in traditional skin tight uniforms decorated with lots of brass. They traveled with us on the train and throughout the tour.





   
These are two more of the  Mariachis, another  trumpeter and a man on his big hand strummed base. All the men joined in singing boisterous Mexican ballads, mostly at full voice with unflagging energy throughout the day and on the return journey.




 
Here are some of the boys in the band creating a gay and festive atmosphere aboard the Tequila Express train. Although slightly alarming at 10:30 in the morning we were amply fortified by generous servings of fruit sodas, 5% alcohol, that the Herradura Company has recently created. For those of us who had imbibed beyond wisdom the night before, a fiery hank of “hair of the dog” Jimador tequila was also liberally provided. Last night I had sipped my share of golden Selección Suprema which is 100% blue agave tequila, aged for four years in oaken casks. This extra special spirit was served in elegant crystal snifters at the equally elegant bar of the Quinta Real Hotel where we were all staying. The stuff had me dreaming in Technicolor, so on the train that morning I stuck to water, at least for the ride out of Guadalajara.

This morning before sunrise in the garden courtyards of the Quinta Real Hotel in Guadalajara, Mexico, a clutch of gossiping birds burst into chattering song. Opening the sliding glass door of our suite to hear them more clearly, I spied the gibbous moon peeking down at me from between drooping palms fronds, black against the starry night sky.

                     The balcony of our suite with a view of the court yard, note the archangel sculpture
 
I threw on some clothes and headed out in search of coffee, traversing the front courtyard still shrouded in night shadows. The dining terrace was already set up with an elaborate buffet table and although no one was about, I could hear gentle voices speaking in lilting Spanish from the kitchen. As I passed by the buffet I caught the enticing smell of tropical fruit, the stinging clean scent of fresh sliced pineapple and the slight earthy muskiness of soft papaya. I love papaya and it was all I can do to resist heaping a plate right away. But no, I must write and tell you about this leg of our journey here in the state of Jalisco before we take off for Morelia later this afternoon.

                                                           The drooping fronds of the Royal Palm.



The Herradura tequila company, in recognition of the virtual river of that heavenly spirit, tequila, which the Casa Romero has been pouring down the thirsty gullets of proper Bostonians for the last 36 years, has brought us here to Guadalajara for a conference and tour of their impressive Hacienda. Herradura has recently been purchased by the parent company, Brown – Forman who are serious competitors in the international liquor market. I am learning, from the men at the conference that the liquor industry is one shark-infested whirlpool churning with rapacious aggression. Being also inexorably connected to the hospitality industry, the B & H booze kings are generous hosts. We are enjoying the rich comforts of the Quinta Real Hotel here in Guadalajara in a suite with two balconies protected by wrought iron railings that look out on a spacious court yard.

                              A very gay archangel guarding the entrance lobby of the Quinta Real Hotel
 
The staff here is composed of a small army of friendly, bilingual men and women who are at our beck and call with professional dignity that is efficient and cheerful. I really get the idea that they are happy we’re here. Every night on our pillows scrumptious chocolate truffles magically appear along with a neatly printed “buenas noches” note with quotes from venerable folks. Last night's message was from Pablo Picasso, who apparently uttered the useful observation, “Inspiration exists, but it must find you working.” As you can see from this little note I have taken Pablo’s advise to heart and am scribbling away, albeit electronically, to you.

Last week on the day before Valentine’s Leo and I slithered over to the Lizard Lounge in Cambridge for a quickie, and boy what a delight that was! Yes, Opera Boston’s Music Director, Gil Rose hosted and conducted a talented bunch of young singers in four, nine minute operas at the lounge. This was an Opera Boston Underground event geared towards cultivating a younger audience but they graciously allowed us aging beauties to squeeze in with a minimum amount of kow towing.
 
The Lizard Lounge is, as you probably know, a cozy little nook down stairs from The Cambridge Common restaurant. I had never been to Lizard before but I love cabaret night clubs so I was psyched. The joint is tiny and at first I was scratching my head wondering how Maestro Gil was gonna pull this one off. So I repaired to the bar where a cheery duo of mixologists shook the shaker and poured me a perfect Manhattan which went a long way to settling me down. I chatted pleasantly with Carole Charnow, (General Director of O.P.) and Will Chapman, (Director of marketing) as we watched Gillian Morrison and Stephen Libby (O.P. staffers) oil the wheels of the evening, enabling the event to roll on smoothly. I might add that the lovely Gillian was looking especially foxy as she graciously tended to the fans squeezing down the stairs.

The curtain went up on a zippy little ditty by Lukas Foss, Introductions and Good-byes, libretto by Gian Carlo Menotti This consisted of a host (Brian Church) of a typical cocktail party madly singing hellos and good-byes with a group of four guests( Sol Kim Bentley, Glorivy Arroyo, Christian Figueroa, and Sepp Hammer). Somehow these five gifted singers with flawless professional voices enacted a fully developed party; arrival, conversation and departure all in nine minutes.
 
The next opera was Menotti’s The telephone which you will remember consists of a girl,(Sol Kim Bentley) glued to her phone chattering up a storm while her boyfriend, (Dan Kamalic) drops by to propose. But he can’t get a word in edgewise until he leaves her apartment and calls back from outside. This proves my point that, “the only important person to talk with, is the one who isn’t there.” The frightening thing about this modern dilemma is that the opera was written forty plus years ago proving that cell phones are only the latest manifestation of phone gluttony.
 

                               "Pamela", Angela Gooch and "Antonio" Christian Figueroa in "Broken Pieces"

The last opera, Broken Pieces, music by Daron Hagen and Libretto by Barbara Grecki was a delicate interaction between Pamela, (Angela Gooch) a lonely divorcee living with her cat and Antonio, (Christian Figueroa). Antonio is a bathroom tile man for  whom Pamela has been waiting, seemingly forever, to do some work at her apartment. This unlikely duo has a flirtation which accentuates the loneliness of their separate lives.
 
In all four operas the singing was superb and the singers were deeply engaged in their characters, either comic or tragic, to an extent that allowed me to be totally absorbed in their stories. I was briefly swept away from a rainy winter night in Boston into the expanded world of opera where the music of singing voices soars  beyond ordinary limits.

Yesterday Leo and I hosted a brunch for a delightful bunch of friends who had gathered from places near and far, the farthest being Chiang Mai, Thailand.

Brunch at Casa Romero is always a pleasant time for us to see friends and relax. My hard working husband Leopoldo is, without fail, at his delightful snuggery on Gloucester Street every Friday and Saturday night, when we are in town. He likes to greet the three generations of hungry and thirsty revelers who loyally return to his venerable restaurant which as you probably know is a bright ray of Mexican sunshine right here in Back Bay Boston.
Anita's photo of Leo and Bud was the only snappy shot of our party that day so they will have to represent the rest of us who were also being just as jolly.  

On Sunday we can breathe easy and visit with our friends. This week the roster included; Will Chapman the Director of Marketing and Development at Opera Boston and his husband Professor Ricardo Barreto Director of Urban Arts at the Massachusetts College of Art
 
Anita Klaussen, travel photographer, fine art dealer, and wife of Bud Collins who, of course, is the raconteur par excellence of the tennis world. Don't miss his travel articles on their web site because Bud is one smart cookie and delightful to read. I suspect he could carry on about the polar ice cap and I would be riveted to his every word.
 
Mike Mennonno is an Administrator at The Franklin Institute, Boston and a prolific blog journalist. Mike is the also the self proclaimed "Naked Gardener" and too bad this doesn't include naked lunch because he is yummy. This guy is my blog tutor, although he prefers "Blog Guru", but Blog Professor would be more like it, he's as bright as a comet! Go see for you self at.

Fred Atherton is a Harvard man with a Master’s in Architecture from the University of Oregon and a walking encyclopedia of architectural lore. He is a young man with a big future anchored solidly on the foundations of architectural history from which he builds a house of sophisticated world interest. Fred is an exciting companion for me as we trudge Boston's byways where we inevitably get into lots of La La about the built environment with a little bit of Ryan Landry thrown in to add spice the pot.
 
So those are the dramatis personae and here are a few snippets of what was bandied about:
 
Bud and Anita have just returned, this Friday, from Chiang Mai, Thailand where Bud’s grandparents had been missionaries making a perilous journey to that city in 1887 all the way up the Mae Nam Ping river from Bangkok. The trek then took 3 months because they were going up river against the current (a fact of opposition that may be allegorical - Iory's comment) Once the couple arrived on the scene they quickly got to work creating a school that developed into the Prince Royal College. It still operates today and is one of the most respected institutions of secondary education in that nation. Bud told us that he had never known his grandparents so he naturally wanted to see their home, but sadly the actual building no longer exists. He was guided to the location of the old homestead in Chiang Mai, now the second largest city in Thailand, if we can judge by Anita's beautiful photos this is a charming city indeed. At the promised location, Bud discovered a plaque commemorating his revered forebears and as he stood there it occurred to him that this was the very spot where his father, aunts and uncles were all conceived. Bud's tone of voice and pride in this story said a lot about the power of finding our roots no matter how distant in time and place.
 
Ricardo grew up in Guadalajara, Mexico, where coincidentally much later on, Leo's parents retired. So Ricardo and Leo have a lot of common references. Ricardo is a professor of art and has been a fine art dealer. He has also, like Leo has been a successful business man bringing the delights and nourishments of Mexican cuisine to New England. Ricardo and his cousin started Boston’s first tortilla factory in Jamaica Plain and Casa Romero has been a loyal customer of the company for years. Tortillas as you may know, are the staple of Mexican life and have been so for the last 3000 years or more.
 
Ricardo who is a suave and cosmopolitan charmer is long retired from his family tortilla business and he told me that with the settlement from his share in that business he and Will bought their home in New Hampshire, where his true heart and soul find solace and repose. Actually he did not use quite those words, I'm sure you can hear my interpretation here, please forgive my flourishes. What he did say was that when he and Will left New Hampshire that morning, a beautiful fluffy snow was gently falling. While we here on the coast were suffering the wishy washy vagaries of rain, sleet and arctic blasts, in New Hampshire they were enjoying the beauty and protection of two feet of accumulated snow blanket. Again forgive the bit about vagaries; he was just saying how beautiful real winter is.
 
Anita’s conversational talents are a cornucopia of enthusiasm. She is, of course, Bud's constant companion on his travels around the globe and together they follow the bouncing tennis ball to all corners of the earth. Her photo essays documenting their wanderings are nothing short of dreamscapes. Anita’s visions spring from her bubbling joive de vei brought to life by her powerful creative talents. Take a look at "One of the charming Thai girls in the Flower Parade" and you'll see what I mean.
 
Anita is never one to sit long in one place. She told us that she is making a pilgrimage to the archeological site of Choquequirao in the Andes, one of the sacred Inca cities 6888 feet up in the mist-shrouded mountains. She will naturally be taking photos and I am looking forward to seeing them when she returns at the beginning of June. The tallest mountains I am likely to hike in are the Green Mountains of Vermont which by comparison are sorta like mountainous bulges.
 
Will recounted an interesting and exciting fact about his opera company, Opera Boston. The productions originate here in Boston; sets, costumes, direction and chorus, only recruiting the principals from an international roster of artists. I had no idea that the sets and costumes were conceived designed and produced here and I am really happy to hear it. Now I know why, when seeing OB’s latest, "Semele" the whole collaborative production was cohesive, fresh and powerful. The fact that Opera Boston is creating entire opera productions and sometimes even commissioning original scores and libretti makes them a unique company and one that we can authentically claim as our own.

Fred, Mike Leo and I also contributed our two cents worth of conversational scintillation to the general chit chat but the perfect margaritas I was imbibing seem to have glossed the details into a pleasant frosting of good times and good company for which the Casa Romero is justly famous.

Boston swells with August heat, stuffing narrow canyons of glass and steel with transparent heat waves radiating off the gritty pavement. Tight city spaces are crammed with steel skeletons, as soaring cranes dangle “I” beams high above the street. Deafening blasts of construction noise war with the roaring street traffic below, while hard hatted workers force the towers of big business higher into the inferno.




We’re off on the fast ferry to Ptown and good riddance to the sizzling summer in Boston. Here are a bunch of boy friends on their way to the Gay capital of New England.





The fast ferry cuts a foaming path through Boston Harbor and then across Massachusetts Bay as it skims over the blue-black water. Bow blades slice the waves apart throwing spray, shattering light, and making rainbow wings that fly through the morning air.





This cute couple is drinking in the view at the bow of the boat. The guy on the right spoke with an attractive accent and his hunky body was easy to look at. His boy friend wasn’t half bad either—very winning smiles on both of them. When the ferry clears the dock in Boston Harbor it cranks up speed and actually rises in the water, shooting over the waves and creating a great rush of cool wind that immediately lifts your spirit.


The granite hard tower, known as the Pilgrim monument, is the May Pole of Ptown. This ubiquitous landmark with all of its unintended pagan implications is Chutzpa incarnate. The erect tower marks the first coming of the Pilgrims, an event that shoots way beyond that distant time right into this steamy summer and has spawned countless generations of revelers over the years.

The architect was Willard Sears and his marvelously incongruous design references the late medieval tower, Torre del Mangia, in Siena, Italy. President Theodore Roosevelt laid the cornerstone in 1907 and President William Howard Taft dedicated the tower in 1910. Standing 252 feet tall, it is easily seen from all over town and far out to sea.

It seems like the farthest thing from the Puritan fathers and their dames who would certainly recoil at the antics regularly performed in the bedrooms of the town at the base of their memorial.



Greeting all travelers to Ptown are these weathered faces of the Mothers of Courage reminding us that this town is more than cotton candy and half remembered kisses.
 
“The installation of five larger-than-life black and white photographs of Provincetown women of Portuguese descent, mounted on a building at the end of Fisherman’s Wharf in Provincetown Harbor, is conceived as a tribute to the Portuguese community and its fishing heritage.

Norma Holt's photographs of Almeda Segura, Eva Silva, Mary Jason, Bea Cabral and Frances Raymond, are meant to represent all of the women of Provincetown who over the years have been the backbone of this vital fishing village. They came from a long line of hard-working people, immigrating mostly from the Azores and mainland Portugal. Their families fished the waters off Cape Cod for over 200 years, built a major fish packing and distribution industry and made an important contribution to the history and culture of Provincetown” quote from: www.iamprovincetown.com

In reply to my inquiry about the funding for this project,  Donald Winter emailed me from San Miguel, Mexico where he spends his winters in a glamourous and beautiful historic adobe home that he and his late partner Richard Di Frummolo renovated. 

 Donald: " Indeed Richard Di Frummolo and Donald Winter were the guys who raised the money to bring the project to fruition. Richard especially, deserves recognition. When Norma took the pictures of the Portuguese wives and mothers, they were, of course , all alive. When we erected the photos two were living, then one, and now none. They were tough women who kept hearth and town alive while the men were at sea."

Thanks to an informed reader, Donna H. I have been corrected.  Frances Raymond is not deceased and in fact is 103, still voting and very much with us. My sincere apologies to Ms. Raymond for my disturbing misinformation and may I extend to you my prayers and wishes for the years ahead. Also thank you Donna H.  for good editing skills. Correction made 03-25-09 

Iory's  note: 
Sadly Richard Di Frummolo is now also an angel. But I knew the guy and I can tell you that he's up there renovating  cloud places with impeccable taste and remarkable energy!




Two gay daddies pushing a stroller down Commercial Street in the shaded west end of town. I could actually hear Jr. gurgling with joy and delight as they went past me. Yes this is the hard won and happy phenomenon of our era and state, lesbian and gay married parents.



The flower draped cottage with the white picket fence, now doesn't’t this look like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? I wonder if this is where the gay daddies and Jr. were headed. Can’t you just picture the three of them enjoying domestic bliss here?



I always associate hydrangeas with Cape Cod especially this shade of washed out blue, like old worn blue jeans. This particular clump has gotta be the definitive example of the plant and boy, whatta beauty! The low stone wall is composed of smooth beach stones collected over time and lovingly arranged. It has a delightful homemade feeling. I know it’s old because it’s right down the street from Uncle Sam’s where I have camped out for thirty summers.

Ptown has more nature conservancy land in town, i.e. National Seashore Park, than honky tonk tourist resort or pissy elegant real estate shuffle. Not that the carnival crowds or steamy rolls in the hay aren’t the cat’s meow too. And I must admit I love nothing more than playing house but….

The great out-of-doors in Ptown is astoundingly beautiful, with dramatically varied terrain. Above is one of the readily accessible paths that wander through the pine woods leading to a surprising number of fresh water “kettle” ponds that are fed by the deep mysterious aquifer draining from New England’s mainland.
 
I usually start my day in Ptown with a bike ride, pedaling out past the beech forest on the paved bike trails which are a bit bumpy but otherwise a slice of heaven. These trails are criss-crossed by numerous paths into the calm and quiet woods where I like to walk.



The door of the market is plastered with all the posters of the moment. I am sure these will appear in the archives of MoMa under the heading “marginal ephemera from the sizzling shores of Gaydom”

This has got to be the cutest little shack in town and right now it’s for sale! I’ve always loved the place and over the years it’s been tastefully upgraded. This probably means that Sotheby’s is asking a million bucks for the joint but hey, I can dream.

I love the blue corn flowers or chicory that grow alongside the road, usually in the funkiest of places. It must be an S&M species because it apparently thrives on abuse.

There are many phenomena in Ptown and this is one of them, the bike rack at the head of the waking trail leading out to the boy’s beach at Herring Cove. There is really no bike rack per se but everybody chains up on the post and beam fence there. The trail, out-lined by yellow rope, goes over the salt marsh. This walk is spectacularly beautiful with wide open spaces looking out over the waving grasses that turn all shades of green when tussled by the wind.



This is the Long Point lighthouse at the finger tip of the reaching arm of Cape Cod as seen across the salt marsh with its waving grasses sparkling in the morning sun.



There are times when having a camera handy is a blessed gift and this was one of them! When I first spied this horse-man way out by the barrier beach I thought, oh there is a park ranger, and I snapped away thinking he may be an interesting aside for this article. Well, as my zoom lens began to focus on the vision before me I had to gasp at my luck to catch this astounding sight.
 
The man of all of our dreams came prancing on his handsome horse, zigzagging across the marsh. The high tide waters soaking the emerald green grass threw plumes of spray flying and he was headed directly toward me. From the angle I first saw him he appeared to be a naked centaur although as it turned out he was only stripped to the waist but that was more than enough to behold.



A great blue heron, fishing in the tide pools of the salt marsh was startled by the rider approaching, and seconds after I took this picture it rose on gigantic gray wings into the bright cerulean blue sky.

I brazenly followed the progress of the rider as the sun played over his buff torso, highlighting his silver-gray hair and the mahogany brown sweat-slicked coat of his mount. By this time he was well aware of my paparazzi intrusion into his solitary morning ride and his expression took on a stern glare making him if anything, more handsome. He rode past me at a brisk pace and disappeared over a low dune.



The eye of a photographer is fickle with so many distractions to capture the imagination. This guy was friendly enough to pause on his way out to the beach for an iconic pose. His sturdy youthfulness echoes the solid tower behind him in the distance.


The beach stones and moon shells of Herring Cove beach eventually grab everyone’s attention. I’ll bet we all have at least a small stash of these beauties at home tucked away as a reminder of our days on the boy’s beach.




And finally the barrier beach of Herring Cove where two men are enjoying a good gossip. I am a shameless eavesdropper and I was amused to catch some of the details here regarding last night’s conquests and the ones who got away. I am fascinated by the predatory nature of men, ever seeking the distant prize sparkling in the eye of a stranger.




With the flower of youth crowding Herring Cove, it is easy to miss the wild Rosa Rugosa growing in the hot sand dunes of the barrier beach. The sweet perfume of these flouncing blossoms mixes with the briny scent wafting off the ocean creating an appealing mix. Turning to find the source of this fragrance I am delighted to see the lush magenta color crowning the thorny bushes.

As the guys bake on the beach a schooner slips out to sea onto Cape Cod Bay. There are several ships in Ptown that offer sailing excursions both during the day and for sunset cruises. If you haven’t gone out on one of these peaceful journeys, do yourself a favor and go.

I was once out on the Hindu for a sunset cruise when we were approached by a whale. The captain tacked into the wind, a maneuver that slows forward progress by dropping the wind from the sails. As we sat becalmed in an eerie quiet, the whale swam almost within touching distance to the ship, apparently as curious about us as we were of it. The little darling was as big as the boat we were in—which added a healthy dose of respect for our ocean swimming cousins After some time the giant swam away and as a parting gesture, waved its gigantic tail fin and dove into the deep.




Two new friends enjoy an electric moment of meeting. From the start, their conversation is animated by gesture and body language that is loaded with excitement, as they struggle to appear cool in the sultry blast of the noonday sun.




The contrasts of the Province lands are extreme and glorious. Within a tiny town of barely eight square miles, approximately 32 miles off the mainland of Massachusetts, there is a unique environment that fosters individual expression like no other place around. Last week my husband, Leo, and I went for a visit. After tea dance as we walked down Commercial Street, the full moon rose blood-orange in a violet-lavender sky. Everyone around us stopped in their tracks and gazed with wonder at the beauty of it all.




Iory Allison is the author of the Glamour Galore Trilogy, a series of Gay Comedic novels set in and around Boston consisting of: The Family Jewels - a mystery, Naughty Astronautess – a farce staring the first drag queen astronaut, and The Mermaid and the Sailor- a romance set in Ptown. www.ioryallison.com available at www.calamusbooks.com  92-B South St. Boston.

 
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
 
This morning when we went to our garden, Myrtle was laying her eggs in the Dahlia bed. The end of June is the beginning of summer, a time when the days are gloriously long and the season heats up, producing festive sizzlers. Predictably enough the weather lady has reported, with undisguised gloating, that the mercury will soar above 90° today. With this in mind my husband and I trundled off to “Never, Never Land”, otherwise known as the Fenway Victory Gardens, to water our garden.

Just so you know, my husband Leo and I have been shacking up for the last thirty years and although Equal Marriage has been in place for three years, we just got around to tying the knot on May 10th 2007. Now that our tails are firmly tied in a tight square knot, we are apt to trundle in the same direction with a whole bunch of glee.
 
The two questions I get most about our marriage are, “Why, after being together for so long, did you bother to get married?” To which the simple answer is, “Because I love him with all my heart.” The second question is, “Do you feel any different?” I assume this is a rhetorical question meaning to imply that being married doesn’t feel any different, however, nothing could be farther from the truth. I feel altogether different! I am a Husband not a “partner” any more. My love can finally speak its name loudly and proudly! I feel that our marriage has dignified our union and we are now fully part of the community at large. That is, until the purveyors of hate start stoking the fires beneath their cauldron of witch’s brew again. At that point we will all need to do battle again, big time.

Which brings me back to Myrtle and her eggs, the little darling musta had some rough times of her own because she carries her armor around with her and on a hot day like today, 80° at 7:30am, that’s gotta be a caution. How Mother Myrtle got into our garden is anyone’s guess considering the joint, lovely as it may be, has a four foot fence around its charming flowered border. But those of us who have found ourselves on the outside of arbitrary boundaries know that urgency is the key in these situations and Myrtle apparently had a load to drop, consequently my spindly wire fence was but a trifle to her.

 
So as I mentioned, I found  Myrtle in the dalhia bed where she was digging with detremination a smallish whole using  her hind feet, which indecently have a set of sharp claws that you don’t wanna mess with. So what was Myrtle up to? No sooner had I posed this question and before I could scratch my head thoughtfully, out she came with a whole bunch of little eggs!

Did I tell you Myrtle is a painted turtle from the Muddy River? Cute little beggar too, about six inches along her hard shell. Myrtle the turtle lumbered up to our garden some time during the short summer night obeying the call to motherhood, searching for a proper place to deposit her clutch. I know I’m biased when I say Myrtle chose wisely, but Leo’s dahlia bed is sorta like a Sealy Posturepedic mattress in comfort and accommodation. My Honey’s flower beds are admired by a whole bunch of folks, all of whom heap praise in his direction and justly so. He has immaculately weeded rich loamy beds chock full of absolutely charming flowers and his well turned earth is practically waiting for a special planting like Myrtle’s. While we are waiting for the Dahlias and the incubating baby Myrtles to do their thing—some time in mid July (?)—there are, amongst other colorful flora, pretty pink petunias to tickle a turtle’s fancy and yours too if you care to come by and take a peek.

So there you have it, a view from our garden across the verdant Fenway where in the midst of the city wildness thrives. The trees are dancing in the morning breezes and the sun shines brightly on all the creatures of the Fenway.

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PS The baby Myrtle turtles did miraculously hatch and one morning at the end of  July I found a wee one, about one inch accross the shell, maddly scrambling accross the dallia bed. I scooped up the little darling into the palm of my hand and went down by the Muddy river and launched the Myrtlette into the river. Let's hope some hungry blue herron did't snap up my adopted babby for lunch.

Some of them must survive because periodicly durning the summer  I see adult turtles of various sizes sunning themselves on an old tree trunk that sticks out of the river over by the Museum of Fine Arts.

 
The constellation, Cygnus bears a resemblance to a wide winged, long necked swan in graceful flight.
 
In ancient Greece the young king of Liguria named Cycnus was the lover of the ill-fated Phaëthon, a mortal son of Apollo. Phaëthon stole Apollo’s chariot of the sun and tried to drive it across the heavens. This enraged Zeus who cast him out with a bolt of lightning and Phaëthon, like a falling star, fell to his death into the river Eridanus. Cycnus searched desperately in the river for his lover’s remains in order to give him a proper burial. Cycnus dove so many times into the Eridanus that Zeus took pity on him and changed him into the swan, Cygnus. Cygnus wandered the banks of the river singing a song of loss and sorrow, the “Swan song” of farewell. Zeus and his family of gods placed Cygnus, the noble swan in the Milky Way, the scorched path of Phaëtheon’s disastrous ride.

15,000 years ago a star in the constellation of Cygnus exploded. The background of the above image shows a portion of a shockwave from the supernova explosion still expanding past nearby stars. The collision of this gaseous shockwave with a stationary gas cloud has heated the gas causing it to glow in a spectacular array of colors, known as the Cygnus Loop. This phenomena is 26,000 light years away from earth. The photograph was taken from the Hubble Space Telescope.
 
The angel image is a photograph I took of a marble statue created by Emma Stebbins (1815~1882) who also sculpted the Angel of the Waters crowning the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, New York City. Emma was the affectionate partner and soul mate of the world famous actress, Charlotte Cushman.
 
The photograph of the reaching man is an image I rescued from mundane obscurity on the Web. My intention is to articulate, in a lyric manner, his frank sensuality and tell a story around that focus.
 
Recognizing the desperate longing of the naked man with his gift of powerful and arresting beauty, I have envisioned him as Phaëthon being raised from the Eridanus River. To me he illustrates the urgency of a questing soul. His human frailty, a lust for godly power, had blinded him from recognizing the ultimate goal, union in love. Above him hovers the now transformed Cygnus, already honored by Zeus as the white swan. Cygnus, with his powerful wings will raise Phaëthon into the heavens where they will be forever enthroned in their constellation. Thus nestled in their heavenly home which in turn is within the embrace of the galaxy know as the Milky Way, Phaethon and Cygnus are entwined in a more perfect union of fulfillment. There, the ambitions of the individual are subsumed into the heroic bond of men loving men.

The nature of the universe is benevolent and its structure is balanced by resolution. Lovers are united by the very forces of separation, longing and regret. Where power is great, explosions implode, energy transforms and the universe evolves.

No one takes glamour seriously anymore. To an alarming degree glamour is the avoided G word. This thoroughly delightful and venerable component of the human “G nome” is, in my mind, unjustly maligned when it is dismissed as deceitful. My definition of glamour includes the shimmering laughter heard echoing off complex surfaces of elaborate embellishment.

Glamour is a Scottish/Celtic word originally meaning to cast a spell and as such glamour is a power unto itself. It is an ancient word with a powerful meaning and a long evolving history.

In our era glamour has been trivialized to connote vapid personal beauty or charm, projected by film stars and models. It is ironic then that the original Greek term from which glamour evolves is “grammatike tekne which translates as the art of letters with a sense of both philology and literature. The root word gramma or "letter," stems from graphein, "to draw or write."”
[Dictionary.com Douglas Harper]

Graphein then refers to the very foundations of learning and civilization with its dual meaning to draw and to write. This clearly describes the art of calligraphy with all of the additional richness of that art when the hand of the scribe imparts his very soul into the message. With this image in mind we can begin to trace the thread of supernatural power lurking at the periphery of our understanding of glamour.

Glamour makes a continuing journey across international borders and throughout the centuries surviving the Roman Empire in the form of grammatica which the old French tweak into grammaire sending it along the way. Stopping in England around 1176, grammaire morphs into gramarye. The English understood gramarye to mean “learning in general and knowledge peculiar to the learned classes, which at that time included astrology and magic; hence the secondary meaning of occult knowledge.” Glamour then traveled on to the mist-shrouded highlands of Scotland where by 1720 the ever magical Celts added their rolling brogue and came up with the now familiar word, glamour. They believed that the “knowledge of the learned classes” and skill to weld that power, allowed the initiate to cast a spell. That’s what the Scot’s meant by glamour and so do I.
 [Dictionary.com Douglas Harper]

Glamour Galore is a trilogy of fictional novels that are the stuff that dreams are made of in a place where magic spells are cast. But this in no way refers to the waving wands of Merlin or Gandalf. Much as we dearly love those two fairy fathers with their sweeping robes and all knowing protective spells. In the world of the Glamour Gang we meet a new class of actors and conjurers playing roles they wrote for themselves. Although they often break character they do not revert back to tired old Dick and Jane. Rather they change their mask, like clicking the remote, revealing a new layer of fantasy.
 
Naughty Astronautess, Book Two of the trilogy, includes the outrageous space-case, Urna Flamanté who gets booted out of Lilly Land with a swift kick to her sorry ass and goes flying over the pink garden fence landing in the trash. Some say this is Urna’s natural habitat so sympathy need not be heaped too liberally.
 
The Star of Naughty Astronautess is Lilly Linda le Strange who throughout the book keeps slipping in and out of gender—much like Virginia Wolf’s Orlando. In some strange way her ambiguous identity contributes to her extraterrestrial meanderings. At one point she is sprung from a circus cannon and rockets over the rose garden in Boston’s Fenway neighborhood landing at an unexpected destination in uncharted territories.

It seems to me, practically the only glamorous people left in our time and place are drag queens. They are the ones who dare to walk the razor edge of acceptability wearing jewels, feathers and high heels. Although I say 'drag queens,' and some of my best friends are, what I am really thinking to myself are people who wear masks. I believe we all have a universal desire to be more than our one self, to wear a mask, to walk in another man’s shoes, even if they happen to be three-inch spike heels. This is why we read books, go the theater and opera or for that matter the baseball game. We all want to be Red Sox heroes, bigger than life.
 
In ancient Greek drama the famous masks of tragedy and comedy were used to assume different opposing characters and also, at the same time, as megaphones to project their voices in the outdoor theaters that often seated several thousand spectators. The actors needed masks to project both the visual and audio aspects of a character portrayal.
 
In my writing I need glamour to project my voice above the clamor and din of roaring traffic. So many of us are rocketing down the proverbial highway encased in 6 tons of steel going sixty miles an hour—one person to a car. While we trudge those lonesome highways I intend to give you something to laugh at and something to think about.

For years Diva Le Strange has gone far beyond the confines of gravity in her relentless pursuit of stardom. In her quest for the ultimate high she brings the experience of the hopelessly addicted as she desperately searches the glittering galaxies for  her alloted  fifteen minutes of fame. She is ready to bribe any and all in her efforts to climb aboard the Twinkle Star Ship and rocket above the common ground. To make good on that promise, here is the Naughty Astronautess two dollar bill. Copy, paste and down-load this little honey to your favorite program where you can conveniently print a bunch'a bills for your general consumption.

If you land in the clink as a result of this scam Lilly will have to  disavow all responsibility but.... She will visit any inmates-on alternate Thursdays,  and remarkably enough, our Lil has had a 47% success rate with her "file in the cake" rehab program.
 
She is also available for concerts benefiting  the woefully incarcerated. In response to her performance of "Peckers in Deep Space" at a  fund raiser for "The New Jersey 7" a riot broke out in the mosh pit and the ravers burnt down the Super Hole Stadium in Hoboken. This was not generally considered way cool by the authorities but the moshers sorta felt it was kinda ultimate like headbanging and stuff.  
 

 My name is Iory Allison and the Glamour Galore blog is about self-publishing. The main body of my work consists of the Glamour Galore trilogy which is a gay comedic saga set in Boston and Provincetown, Massachusetts with a hefty side trip to Aruba.

This blog explores the avenues of self-publishing that are  opening up for me as I realize the potential of developing media in our time. I started with a print on demand edition of my first book The Family Jewels. iUniverse is the publisher of my books and I will have more to say about all of that presently. I created a website for The Family Jewels and now I am adding  pages to that site which are specific to my second book, Naughty Astronautess. 
www.ioryallison.com

In addition to writing I also create photographic collages with layered digital imaging. My collages are a progression of works that I have created since I was a boy starting with found natural objects and evolving into photographic and antique printed material. Using my extensive travel photographs and my collage graphics I illustrate my fictional world creating the covers of my books, website decorations, business cards, post cards, newspaper advertisements and even my own glamour money (the Naughty Astronautess two-dollar bill).
 
My newest venture into self-publishing is this blog and as I become more proficient with all of its capabilities I will also be audio broadcasting (pod casting) my writing from this platform, a venture that has my brain fairly buzzing with ideas.

 Any posting that I create here will be within the realm of self publishing but I am not an expert concerning this and I will not be writing a How-to Manual of any kind. My concentration is on creating original material through writing, collaging, blogging, photography and dramatic reading. My subjects will be life’s comedy through a filter of my fictional world where I invite you to ponder the unfolding drama and look for the fact in the fiction.