Ramblings at the Ranch

By Carolyn Drummond-Hay

Life after Mexico

Straying down my Mexican memory lane to the moment in 2016 when I visited The Ranch and asked Syd which dogs had been

there the longest. She pointed to a white blur, saying he’s been here 5 years. Syd tried to interest me in other long term residents but I knew which one would go home with me, in spite of being called Smokey Joe!

First I changed his name to Bebe which really reflected his barking skills. He is still a baby, even at the age of nearly 13.

We moved to the outskirts of Ajijic, then again further away into the Southern part of Mexico, with us was his companion Paloma, rescued from a non-paying guard dog job. Bebe and Paloma were now a team.

Paloma managed to enjoy every minute of her freed life until the age of 14. The week after her death Bebe and I packed up and made our escape back to north of the border to get away from the cohetes. On the way, we had a tire blow out near San Luis Potosi, throwing our car around to face four lanes of oncoming traffic, on a bridge with no shoulder. Bebe remained his calm self, trusting me to resolve the issues before heading over the border the next day.

Bebe clearly missed Paloma as much as I did so we kept our collective ears open for the right addition. A neighbor had a friend who rescued and had no idea how to manage her. Once again Bebe had a partner, a mini -Aussie Shepherd we call Walna. She is his best friend.

Bebe and I are aging but still active and Walna runs rings around us both. We miss visiting the Ranch and Syd, but not the cohetes!

To learn more about volunteering or to donate please go to theranchchapala.com or email us at adoptaranchdog@outlook.com.

By Neil McKinnon

Ishiver involuntarily in the warm sun as the spirits of millions of dead Aztec warriors silently surround me and tease my face with the gentle brush of their pass-

ing. In the quiet mountain glade only a faint murmur hints at their descent—a brief, near imperceptible, flutter against the background rustle of a mid-afternoon breeze inspiring tremors in lofty pines.

Their presence intimidates me. I think of generations ritually sacrificed who now, brilliantly garbed in their dazzling war robes, are returning to earth to sip nectar from the depths of radiant flowers—placed there by the gods so that the souls of these long-ago warriors can once again repeat the cycle of life to death and back again to life.

Here, at 3050 meters, near the village of El Rosario, in the high mountains of Michoacan in West Mexico all is plausible. The pre-Hispanic belief in butterflies as the spirits of departed heroes makes complete sense as does the Aztec cosmology that associates butterflies with fire and movement—perfect proxies for the sun.

We have come here to witness one of the great miracles of the world— the annual gathering of Monarch butterflies before the spring start of their 2500-mile trip to Canada and the northeastern United States. Now with the sun’s rays intercepted at all angles by millions of fluttering bright orange and black wings we stand wrapped in a warm, hypnotic kaleidoscope of crisscrossing shadows, immersed in the dizzying wonder of the annual spectacle.

For three to four months every winter the Monarchs cling to every greygreen branch in these mountains. The trees bend under the masses clustered in near-hibernation, bowing in homage to their burden of butterflies. In somnambulant stupor they wait for the spring sun, showing only their drab underside to the world.

Then the vernal rays penetrate the forest crown. The lifeless aggregate starts to quiver. Struggling off camouflage shrouds, millions of dormant butterflies begin to absorb the energy of Aztec souls through their solar panel wings. A random fluttering begins. Soon fire from the sun infuses their radiant wings and in a blaze of golden brilliance the transformed souls of the ancients rise over the cool forest floor.

They whisper past us—a purposeful stream down the mountain. Once again noble warriors, infused with the power of the sun, are transmigrated from a distant past to a new generation. Indeed, they are the embodiment of the sun. Each, who has made this journey through countless generations, pulses with the fire of life—a fire needed for the odyssey that will eventually return their great-grandchildren to this Olympus here at El Rosario—a cycle that mimics the birth and death of the earth itself.

Fluttering upwards, surfing on the wind, sipping nectar and, above all, mating and creating new generations, these winged warrior’s journey steadily north until, in April, they find their destination. There, they again participate in the endless loop of life—butterfly to egg to larva to chrysalis and back to butterfly. Toward the end of summer, the spirits begin to long for their ancestral home. Slowly and inexorably the Monarchs amass, and the journey south begins anew. By November more than 100 million will alight on the same trees on the same mountain their forebears left some eight months before.

A pre-Hispanic poet said,

“they are flower songs; they are butterflies of song.”

Another said,

“Sweet-smelling flowers are scattering among the butterflies.

All come from the region of mystery.”

A butterfly lands ever so lightly on my cheek. I feel its wings caress my eyelash and I think of the whimsical idyl... of the flowers scattering among the butterflies and it seems that the ancient poet had dreamed conversely. With the gentle velvet touch on my face, I watch the Monarchs scatter from this region of mystery, each truly a song to the flowers.

The Ancients believed in the birth and death of the earth itself—an endless cycle. The Monarch lives its cycle, and we live ours beneath a circling sun. From life to death and ashes to ashes the roots of all living things are tied together—interlocking spirals revolving through eternity.

The End Neil McKinnon

By David Ellison

Venustiano Carranza, a wealthy landowner, was the most conservative of revolutionaries after Porfirio Díaz’

long regime. Nonetheless, he would inadvertently enable a constitutional transformation that not even his liberal allies-turned-opponents could have imagined.

Carranza was tall, impressive, even imposing, but lacked both humor and charm. Still, he believed that he alone could restore stability in Mexico, hoping to follow in the footsteps of his idol, Benito Juárez.

Carranza gave Francisco Madero tepid support when the latter called for insurrection. But he became the revolution’s nominal leader after Victoriano Huerta had assassinated Madero to become dictator.

When he and his forces exiled Huerta, however, Carranza failed to convince fellow revolutionaries Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata, who both demanded dramatic, comprehensive change, that he should continue to lead the country. Nonetheless, after one of his generals, Álvaro Obregón, crushed the hitherto undefeated Villa, and another one cunningly assassinated Zapata, Carranza emerged as the last revolutionary standing.

Thus, Carranza gave the first of his three, major gifts to Mexico: peace. After ten chaotic years of wanton bloodshed, the Mexican Revolution was finally over. And when Germany, with its infamous Zimmerman Telegram, suggested that Mexico take sides in WWI, he refused. He knew his country had suffered enough.

But, what to do about the imperialistic United States that had already invaded Mexico twice during The Revolution? As president, Carranza countered the Monroe Doctrine with his own Carranza Doctrine: “...equality, mutual respect for institutions and laws, and the firm and constant will never to intervene, under any pretext, in the internal affairs of other countries….” So, when the US threatened to seize the Tampico oil fields, Carranza vowed he’d burn them to the ground first. Carranza defended Mexican sovereignty with steely courage, his second great gift.

Finally, Carranza called for a convention to amend The Constitution of 1857, ratified during La Reforma. To his horror, the delegates instead crafted the amazing Constitución of 1917, which codified sweeping social, economic, land and religious reforms. (Villa and Zapata had their way after all!) Although Carranza simply chose to ignore most of them, one of his successors, Lázaro Cárdenas, would not. The Constitution of 1917 was and is an astounding legacy, no matter what Carranza thought of it.

Carranza did honor, though, the hard-won tradition of no-reelection (which Díaz had repeatedly spurned, igniting The Revolution). Carranza chose not to seek another term as president. Unfortunately, he also decided to support a civilian to replace him instead of his faithful general, Obregón. That was his undoing.

Obregón—spurned, furious—simply used his army to take what he believed to be rightfully his.

And, as Carranza fled the capital, he died—either by assassination or suicide, the circumstances remain unclear.

Poor Carranza! He deserved a better end. But at least Mexico has named a lot of city streets in his honor.

This is a selection from Dave’s forthcoming book, Niños Héroes: The Fascinating Stories behind Mexican Street Names.

By Christy Wiseman

My son is very patient and took his time in finding

his life’s partner. Finally he met THE ONE and proposed, with one request. “I want a dog.” It seemed a simple request as he owned a house with a nice, fenced back yard. “Well,” said she; “I do love you and want to marry you, but I have two cats.”

This took some negotiating, but finally they came to an agreement that when both cats died, he could get his dog. For years I was the proud grandmother of two grand kitties.

Over the years, I visited and helped them welcome first a daughter, Reagan, followed by a son, Carson. The cats remained healthy, but one eventually died. I’m sure my son missed that cat, but it was a double-edged sword as there was one cat left and after all, a deal is a deal.

This last August I went to visit and the cat, Annika, was closely watched by four rather eager people. Cats can have long lives, but this cat didn’t seem to look geriatric, didn’t require special attention and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to cross the river Styx. Her housemates (my son, his wife and their two children however, seemed eager for that move.) Annika’s main interest seemed to be napping. Just how old was she, anyway?

Each family member thought when Annika would choose a new spot for her nap that just maybe she was going there to die. The interest in that theory had become almost obsessive. “Where is Annika?”

“Maybe Annika is dead. We have to find her body.”

They always did. She always stretched, showed her annoyance at being disturbed and went back to sleep. Her favorite place seemed to be on my pillow. Was she getting ready to die? No such luck, but they feel she bears watching...

To figure out a cat’s age, “a one-yearold kitten is developmentally the equivalent age of a 15-year-old human, and the physical maturity of a two-year-old cat is roughly equivalent to a 25-yearold human.” After that you add 4 years for every year so Annika is at least 24 human years which would make her 113. Damn, no wonder she sleeps so much! Surely that’s a sign she’ll die soon. The vigil continued; so did Annika.

Finally the day came when Mark wanted to re-negotiate. “Honey, the ‘men’ in this family need to have a dog — no make that two. We’ve been patient. Annika is not going anywhere and our daughter Reagan has her horse and you have Annika. Carson and I want our dogs. Carson will be in high school soon and then off to college and its only fair that he have a dog while he is here to enjoy it. He wants a French Bulldog and I want a Berniedoodle.” He had been very patient. And so it came to pass…

The Berniedoodle arrived. It was seven pounds and so cute and everyone loved it. Everyone, with the exception of Annika who simply tried to avoid this obvious interloper. Mark soon seemed exhausted as he had been given the task of training the pup; so he had to get up every hour to let her out, until he finally got her trained to hit a little rope to ring a bell when she wanted out. Very clever and soon he was looking rested again. Then along came the little French Bulldog and Carson began the training of his new family member. It is now six months later and the dogs are growing and seem to love one another. The horse is definitely totally Reagan’s and is boarded away from the house. And Annika? If she could talk, I think she would be saying, “Die? I can’t die. I am needed to oversee all these new folks, besides I heard the big folks talking and they were saying Grandma is coming again soon and you know, she is getting old. Just how old is she anyway? Pretty old for a human. I want that pillow in the guest room to be all mine. When she dies it will be. She bears watching.” As for me, I’m ready for another nap.

Christy Wiseman