John in CR wrote:
Zoot,Dorothy, just because you're on your period doesn't give you the right to attack innocent bystanders.
ha ha! That's the spunk (meant in the nice
Let's talk about Costa Rica for a moment before getting into the frame fight: THE most gorgeous country with some of the kindest, caucasian people of all Latin America. There are almost no Indians there becuase they, hundreds of years ago, wiped them all out. There ARE blacks on the Limon, eastern coast,
who speak perfect English; they were imported over a century ago to build the narrow gauge railway for the banana planter, carving through jungle no white man could withstand: the damp, decay, malaria. They are of Bahamia background and are bilingual. Most of the others are purest Spanish descent, of beautiful, light skin and dancing eyes. And Ticos of the country, the peasant works on the well-run plantations, they (cry)
they took care of my father and carried his body in a casket that THEY bought, on the eighteen dollar per week salaries, two miles, on their shoulders in turn. I put my dad's dead body in that fake-fur covered plywood, glass-lidded coffin with my two bare hands. Two hundred Ticos picked up on our procession down the road to La Virgin, to the cemetary. And..... frames.
Homes, this is twenty years ago, in the rural areas, are just like cottages in the woods that our great great grandparents lived in here in the USA in 1860, but made from tropical hardwoods for floors and framing,
trash, green woods for them, but so exotic that we cannot even obtain these rain forest woods today, not even to make on the lathe, an ashtray.
I can see my father's marker via Google Earth.
Titanium frames are a bunch of hokum.
Ticos, are broadly smiling, old fashioned plain people who will charm you out of your last dollars,
but never, no, not ever, never =steal=. Ha ha. They were so wonderful to me.
I take it that John, you are a transplant. That was my dad's work there in his last years:
running a cuttings-farm, growing houseplants on 20 thousand acres, managing the works
for the owner, his old USA yankee college pal. In his spare time, under the veranda's shade,
was a black board. On week ends, the women washed clothes near there, in galvanized tubs,
with corrugated scrub boards of old (electric washers don't get clothes clean!!!). They would not use dad's second-hand electric washer.It was a six hundred square foot, three room caretakers' cottage on loan to him.
But under the extension roof was a scrap of some defunct school's blackboard.
My father's handwriting in white chalk:
"Ingles es muy facile!" atop the board, and below that, smears, much erased and re-written upon.
I love Costa Rica. I will never go back because I cannot bear the love.
I can only see him through the glass now,
the all night wake, the food, the visitors bringing their babies and respect, and hugs for me,
who spoke NO espanol. And then the carrying for two full miles, of the most soft, sweet, coffin
any man ever slept within. We did not embalm. He wanted no fuss, not even to be buried or bothered over.
They insisted......................He did not protest in the end.
Frame materials. Remain stiff. Don't fatigue. Don't follow the crowd, except, to the cemetery.