Shuffleboard is more cut throat than it appears.
Before these players take a shot, they consult, put chalk on their hands,look at the weather, visualize their stride.
You are the one responsible for propelling your disc down a slick, treacherous court. You live or die by your own hand.
In this game, strength is not needed, but steady nerves, strategy, and touch are critical. Your only uniform is a good pair of tennis shoes, loose fitting clothes and a cap.
There is no crying here because these are grownups who know the odds, and the score.
The only thing harder than playing shuffleboard here is playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship, with rough waves.
I wouldn’t play shuffleboard against any of these old people, man or woman.
I know sharks when I see them and old sharks are particularly dangerous.
The Rincon Railroad is for kids at heart.
Around the corner from the front office, the railroad town of Rincon has been created. On certain days of the week, on a strict schedule, railroad caps are donned, engine whistles toot, and trains roll around five different sets of tracks.
Frosty’s Diner is a favorite fifties stop on this line, and, if a visitor pushes a red button by the side of the tracks, jukebox music takes you back to when these railroad men were kids.
Inside, chocolate shakes are thick, hamburgers are bigger than the buns, a waitress named Flo tells her annoying customers to ” Kiss My Grits. ”
I would love to eat here but I am too big to fit inside the car.
Saturday is laundry day, and trombone day.
Over the blue wall, next door, someone is practicing trombone. I was up late listening to Masterclass You Tube Videos by Hal Galper on jazz improvisation, hearing, thinking, the tribal attitude, musical tradition.
Learning to play jazz is like learning to walk, learning numbers and letters, reading, all over again.
You start at one note and then find the next one that sounds good. You put them in an order that is pleasing and play till you have it where it sounds good to you, and to an audience.
According to Hal, we don’t have slow hands, we have slow brains.
While I listen, and hum along, a lizard scales the blue wall, rests on the top ledge, looks over the other side. He catches the morning breeze.
Making sounds is one thing; making music is another.
I need to go practice.
Getting triggered by your surroundings, goes to the heart of Scotttreks.com
Mombacho Volcano is only two thousand feet above sea level but it has a commanding presence.
From the Vista Mombacho Apartments, as well as most places in Granada, you can see its summit with its halo of clouds, a reminder that we live on an active planet spinning through an unimaginably large solar system in an unmeasurable universe.
As you climb Mombacho, it gets cooler, and once you start hiking you lose sight of the sun, moving up and down narrow paths cut through the jungle. You step on stones and steps made from tree trunks. The canopy is over head and you wouldn’t want to get off the path because there are canyons and drop offs.
Water drips from leaves, ferns and trails are slick.
Jose directs our attention to a bromelia that thrives in this rain forest.
He explains what monkeys really like to eat.
There are monkeys in this rain forest, as well as jaqaurs and small mammals. None have reason to interact with awkward, loud humans.
After our lesson, we continue, cool, secluded, smarter.
The animals are watching us, hidden in the undergrowth.
Nearing the end of our trail, Jose takes a side trek to show us fumeroles.
At this spot, the Earth’s breath is moist and hot. There is a steady updraft of steam in columns as if it was squeezing up between clenched teeth.
If you believe in dragon’s, you would call this dragon’s breath.
When you lean over, the steam is warm, seductive.
I hate to leave.
Dragon’s cast deep spells.
Baseball is played much the same everywhere it is played.
The rules are the same. The setup of the bases and equipment is much the same. The length of the game can extend in close games, be called off because of weather, or the daylight left in the empty lot or street where kids emulate their heroes.
Some games are played in massive stadiums with thousands of spectators, night lights, press boxes and entertainment. Other games are played on simple fields like this with chain link fences keeping spectators off the field and concession stands selling soft drinks and plantain chips.
This umpire calls the game as he sees it and there is no room for protest, no instant replay, no second guessing.
No one cares about skin color or political philosophies.
What counts on this field, is how well you hit the ball, catch the ball, throw the ball, help your team win the game.
My Mombacho apartment is a few blocks from a neighborhood school attended by kids in uniform, carrying backpacks. They learn reading and math in the morning. In the afternoon, they assemble in the street in front of their school and little drummer boys begin a military cadence.
The parade practice goes well and considering children’s futures is my teacher’s hard to get rid of habit.
Some of these kids will go into professions. Some will be builders and others artists. Some will leave Nicaragua and not come back till they are old, sending money back to support their families. Some will end up in the streets, victims of poverty. Many will be mom’s and dad’s, contributors to the city and country.
These kid’s energy level is high and their enthusiasm is up.
When I hear drums, I fall in step, remembering my own school band days practicing marching at seven in the morning in a dusty dirt lot by the new Manzano High School stadium in Albuquerque in the 1960’s.
Practice makes parades perfect and these kids will represent their school well.
Education is always more than pencils, paper, and books.
Granada is built on the shores of Lake Nicaragua.
In olden days, the rich or famous of Managua came to the lake to relax with their families and built huge homes that go unused by heirs who have moved to the United States or other foreign lands for more opportunity, better weather, or because they can. There is a huge park at the end of Calle Libertidad with open air discos, park benches and swings, nooks to enjoy a swim and cooler breezes.
This morning, horsemen push cattle past as I stand in shade, out of the way. When one of the herd moves closer to the park’s grass, it is driven back towards the shoreline by one of the cowboys. A slight breeze moves leaves in the trees, water gently kisses the shoreline, and people have not yet begun to wake.
Granada is a place where animals are important and a part of daily routine.
This moment speaks of a more pastoral time when men spent the day with their animals, weren’t in a hurry, and lived well with nature.
In the evening these cowboys will come back this way, cattle driven home by the caballeros, the lake turning pinks and yellows and reds as the sun goes down.
Dogs will keep the cattle in a straight line and everyone will be hungry after a hard day of work.
This is a small poignant piece of the nineteenth century still alive in the twenty first century.
These days, we too are being driven, but it isn’t cowboys that herd us.
The three hundred foot rock walls of the crater go straight down as if a giant using a post hole digger, dug a hole for a fence post and then walked away without filling it. Light on the sides of the walls is the color of the fire in the bottom, and, at that bottom, are moving waves of reddish yellow molten rock.
” It looks like Hell, ” someone says, and a woman clutches her cross, and says a prayer.
For the scientist,this is just a fissure in the Earth and the magma belies intense heat and pressures at the core of this planet. it is all explained by the Big Bang Theory..
Sightseers move along the length of a stone wall along the crater’s edge, fixated on the fire in the hole. It is a dark, starless night, and some sightseers have brought flashlights to help them see the path around the volcano as they scramble for better places to see it. This whole place smells like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Walter, our guide, motions me to the exact spot where I can see the cauldron.
Ancient men would have sacrificed to the Gods here, but that custom has been abandoned.
Now, we worship ourselves.
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