Merida has the finest Roman ruins in Spain. It is also has fine restaurants. One serves Cherry Gazpacho with a dollop of Olive Oil Ice Cream.  This dish also contains pork—not surprising in a locale renowned for Iberian Ham, which requires acorn-fed, free-ranging hogs.  The soup was so delicious Mary and I ate at the same restaurant two of our three evenings in Merida.

As friends asked about our trip, we found ourselves always describing the gazpacho.  Yet, we had other excellent dining especially seafood and once, a spectacular mushroom risotto served on the street at lunch.   But mostly we described the gazpacho because it was rare and different. We assumed others would never have heard of it.   

Of course, for me, there was something else about Merida.  The city has the longest surviving ancient bridge with a span of 755 meters.  Better yet, the span crosses some wetlands harboring a species of the rail family—the Western Swamphen.  When I wasn’t enjoying great meals or touring the ancient Roman Coliseum, Circus, and Temple of Diana, I walked out to the bridge and peered into the swamp.  Eventually, I was rewarded with a great view of a Western Swamphen and chick.   I wondered if the ancient Romans noticed them.

I enjoy seeking out rare and difficult-to-find birds, many of which reside in wetlands.  Some of these are celebrated in a book on my shelf entitled: Rare and Elusive Birds of North America, by William Burt.  Most of the profiles in this book are about rails, sometimes called crakes.

My desire to study rails supports a frequent comment from my brother that “there’s a nut for everything.”  Rails have been called mice with feathers.  It would be more accurate to call them swamp-mice with feathers because wetlands are their primary habitat.   In addition, they are reluctant to fly, relying on “rail-roads,” that is, trails and tunnels within the thick vegetation. 

My first encounter was with a Black Rail on Galveston Island, Texas in 1980.  I had a business trip to Houston.  Knowing the Texas coast was a birding hotspot, I brought my backpacking tent in an extra suitcase.  It seems remarkable today; I was able to drive down on a spring weekend and easily find a camping spot in the state park. 

I was armed with a A Birder’s Guide to the Texas Coast, one of a series of guides to famous birding areas.  In the days before ebird and the internet, these so-called “Lane-guides” (James A. Lane was a co-author) were highly prized for their specific directions to prime birding locations.  After a windy and rainy night, I was walking toward a marsh and encountered an elderly couple with a large parabolic receiver for recording bird calls. Once recorded, the call could be played back in hopes of enticing the bird to show itself. 

The couple appeared friendly, so I approached. “A Black Rail!” one of them said softly.  At this phase of my birding life, I knew rails as a photo in a book.  They were not species I expected to see or even try to see.  After whispering introductions, I learned that the bird responding from the marsh was both rare and more rarely seen.

By today’s standards, our birding etiquette was cringeworthy—too much playback.  Today, birders are satisfied with a well-documented hearing or recording but we tried hard to spy the bird.  The lady of the pair had a glimpse of the bird’s face, but her husband and I never saw anything although we were within three feet of the rail for 20-30 minutes before giving up. 

Subsequently, the couple told me how lucky I was to have experienced a Black Rail.  Further, they informed me that last night’s wind and rain was the reason they had driven two hours to the coast. That storm had been what was known locally as a “Norther.”  What made it so important is that a wind blowing from the north in late March or early April is in the face of oncoming spring migrants crossing the Gulf of Mexico.  These birds, weary already, work extra hard to make landfall and often pitch into the first tree or shrub they can find.  This being a coastal plain, the few trees might harbor a dozen or more birds.  Although it immediately made sense, this phenomenon had been unknown to me.  “You have to go to the Old House,” they said.  They had already checked small nearby trees before being distracted by the resident Black Rail.

The “Old House,” where an owner had planted shrubs and trees before abandoning, was amazing.  In the same small tree were an Orchard Oriole, a Prothonotary Warbler, a Great Crested Flycatcher, a White-eyed Vireo, a Tennessee Warbler and a Kentucky Warbler.  In the shrubs underneath were a Worm-Eating Warbler and a Swainson’s Warbler. My new friends seemed happier for me than I was.  I did not understand until later what a treasure trove of sightings this was.  Indeed, Swainson’s Warblers as well as Black Rails are profiled in that same book about “Rare and Elusive Birds.”  Seeing one perched in the open was truly fortunate.  Seven of those species were “lifers,” birds I had never seen before, and they were all associated with a single small tree, less than ten feet in diameter. 

That previous night’s heavy rain had filled all the ditches and marshlands such that other birds had been forced to higher ground.  Hence, I spied another rail later that day—the less-reclusive and larger Clapper Rail.  My life with rails had begun!

According to Wikipedia, there are more than 150 species in this family that includes the more-easily seen coots and gallinules.  Twelve from this family are already extinct and others are on the brink of vanishing.  I have seen thirty.  The Black Rail, although not formally protected at the federal level, is threatened or a “species of concern” in most of the states in which it is found. 

It is no wonder. In my work life, I found that many contaminant dumps, landfills, and random disposal areas were in wetlands.   Furthermore, for most of US history, wetlands were so little valued that draining them was referred to as “reclamation.”

Fortunately, the value of wetlands is now recognized.  Coastal wetlands mitigate storm surge thereby limiting hurricane damage.   Interior wetlands are important buffers and sinks for contaminants in industrial and agriculture discharges.  One source suggests that the value of wetlands exceeds $3 billion dollars annually.  I have not reviewed the details of that estimate, but I wonder if it adequately accounts for the recreational value from waterfowl rearing, hunting, and birdwatching. 

Our attack on wetlands has been so relentless that birders are usually intimately familiar with local sewage ponds and landfills because those are where remnant populations of marsh-dwellers can find a place to survive.    Continuing today is a constant battle regarding the definition of a wetland.   A weak definition is desired by developers because federal laws require mitigation.  Climate change exaggerates this problem because historic wetlands are drying up, further squeezing the remaining homelands for rails and their allies.

That day in 1980 remains important to me because it opened my eyes to another window into nature.  I read extensively about these birds and have considered them to be primary quarry in my subsequent travels.   I have been lucky enough to have found others.

My most memorable encounters have occurred in Costa Rica.  There was, for example, the day I set out to find a White-throated Crake.  My wife and I were staying at the Las Cruces Biological Station (aka Wilson Botanical Garden) near San Vito.  We did not have a car, so I hired a taxi driver to take me to the “swamp near the airport,” which was reputed to harbor the crake. 

I asked the taxi driver to pick me up after two hours, but noticed he simply turned off the engine and planned to wait.  My directions said to stop at a house adjacent to the small airstrip and ask for permission.  The inhabitants smiled and waved me on.  Minutes later, I was ankle deep in gluey mud.  I backed up to dry ground and surveyed the area.  It looked too wet for passage and with the thickness of the vegetation and darkness of the water, I had no idea how deep it might be. 

I spied a fence about 100 meters away and thought I would try there.  Surely, if posts were in the ground, there would be an area I could walk.  Being careful, I trusted tussocks of vegetation held in place by the wire and inched my way into the marsh.   After about ten meters, I was satisfied I was far enough and played the call of the White-throated Crake.  There was an immediate response.

It is worth noting that rails are not songsters.  One of my sources describes the vocalization of White-throated Crakes as an abrupt, explosive descending trill or churr.  My own description is a rapid dry rattle.  Another example is the description for the Paint-billed Crake.  As described in Birds of the World: “Song a long, gradually accelerating series of up to 36 staccato somewhat yelping kjek notes. Occasionally followed by 3–4 short churring notes which fall in pitch, the last being a 3-second flat trill. Also, frog-like, guttural, buzzy, single notes rendered qurrrk and auuk and a mellow soft purring. Alarm a sharp twack.”  In other words, I am nutty enough to spend hours in insect-ridden swamps listening for kjek, qurrk, auk and twack.   Reading that sentence makes me reconsider my sanity and confirms my brother’s statement about a “nut for everything.”  (Why do I think he always means me when he says it?) 

Anyway, the San Vito airstrip White-throated Crake answered and was nearby.  As with my Black Rail encounter, it often is not difficult to be near a rail—it is the seeing of them that is a challenge.  In this case, I was determined. Again, I confess to overuse of playback.  In my defense, this was twenty-five years ago. Most birders are judicious these days regarding disturbing the birds they are trying to see.

I had an old-fashioned tape player. I would play the call, then hit rewind, find the call, and play it again. It was awkward and inconvenient.  I had the tape recorder in one hand, and I was both playing the call and trying not to drop the player in the marsh.  I had binoculars and an expensive camera about my neck, also needing to stay dry.  My footing was precarious.  I am glad no one was filming my fumbling efforts to use my equipment and remain balanced.

Repeatedly, I played the call, and the bird would answer so close I could not imagine why I could not see it.  I continued to shift about. Eventually, I realized the vegetation was so thick that the bird was underneath. I was not heavy enough to compress the thick mat of marshy vegetation to disrupt the rail’s passageways.   My next thought was to move slightly away in hopes that the bird would again approach the call.  I reached out with one foot—seemed solid—then the other—also seemed solid.  I slowly edged away.  Once settled, now about three meters from where the crake had been underneath, I shifted my weight to play the call but lost my balance and barely avoided falling.

Everything below me was sinking and wobbling. I was teetering on top of floating vegetation!  It was thick enough to bear my weight, but this section had separated from the rest of the heavy mat.  I was flailing — throwing around my arms and legs to stay up.  It was like balancing on a six-foot diameter piece of floating plywood.  I did not last long.   I slid into the marsh reflexively raising my arms to hold my electronics and optics above the water…but now I was waist deep in water and muck.  

Waves of emotions hit me—frustration and embarrassment foremost.  I looked to see if anyone was watching.  No one was visible at the nearby house and the taxi driver was too far away.  Quickly, discomfort seeped in along with the water.  It was hot. I was in full sun on a hot afternoon.  Half of me was ensconced in wet and sticky water and mud.  Although well-covered in repellent, insects were swarming. A few were crawling on me.   I was done. “The crake wins,” I thought.

I carefully shuffled my feet and slowly inched toward higher ground. I was fortunate to emerge without stumbling.  I slogged defeated, dripping, and smelly back to the taxi.  It was an old car so maybe the driver did not mind, but my wife did when I returned to our room.  The old tennis shoes I was wearing went to the outside trash, myself, and my other clothing to the shower to remedy as best I could.  I decided I would never see a White-throated Crake.

This was early in my Costa Rican birding experiences, and I have since, seen White-throated Crakes eleven times.   They are so common, that any birder spending enough time will finally spy one walking in the open and that eventually happened. 

In fact, on a recent trip (June 2022), I saw White-throated Crakes so easily, we were annoyed because we were after the much rarer Paint-billed and Gray-breasted Crakes.  Eventually, we saw the other two.   What is different today?  In a word…Bluetooth.   Also necessary is knowing the right person.  

With all my years of experience in Cost Rica I have made many friends among the excellent guiding community.  One of these, Daniel, lives not too far from the Panamanian border.   Sadly, this area is devastated by oil palm plantations* and rice fields.   Plowing, ditching and drainage have eliminated most of the swamplands.   The oil palm areas are dark, pesticide-laden monocultures.   Rice fields, while monocultures, at least must remain wet and still provide habitat.  Adjacent ditches and strips between these fields remain rich with marsh species.   

Daniel has an impressive ability to hear and triangulate on the various frog and insect like calls emitted by the resident crakes.  Residing nearby, he has learned where the remaining local crakes live.   I wanted to see a Paint-billed Crake.

The online resource Birds of the World refers to them as “a mysterious bird, even for a rail, a family full of mysterious species.  Nowhere easy to find…status unclear in Central America, could be accidental, migrant, or rare resident, perhaps overlooked.” Paint-billed Crakes and another rare, nearly identical species are the only members of their genus.

Besides the mystery of their status, unlike most others of their family, Paint-billed Crakes are handsome. They are mostly indigo blue with bright orange legs.  Their bright beaks are red at the base and bright yellow green at the tip.  A few months previously, I was successful having one respond to its call, but much like the White-throated Crake experience, I could not see one.  

I met up with Daniel early one morning.  This was our second outing.  On the first, some months earlier we had tried and failed to hear or see a Yellow-breasted Crake.  We had tried hard.  It is difficult for both birder and guide when such a quest fails.  Daniel had been regularly finding the bird, quite rare in this part of the country. Yet, that evening, it would not cooperate.   Daniel knew I had made an unpleasant drive over poorly marked unpaved roads and would have to return after dark.   I began thinking what a nice afternoon and evening it would have been at the beach.  I considered myself stupid for abandoning my wife for six or seven hours and complicating our dinner plans.  Instead of a relaxing evening I had a harrowing return drive almost colliding with a couple of bike riders on the obscure, dusty back roads.   I certainly did not blame Daniel, but we had parted feeling exasperated.   

Now I was back, and we had heard Paint-billed Crakes in two locations, far out in the swamp.  Daniel shrugged and said something like, “the only way to see one would be to go in there with them.”  I responded, “Let’s go.”  He looked up, surprised. “Really?”  “I’m prepared,” I said.  I had worn a pair of old canvas shoes that I could abandon if necessary.  I had a walking stick for balance.  

Daniel removed his shoes and waded in barefoot.  I followed, our feet slurping and slipping as we moved along.   This was a shallow swamp.  A misstep would not cause a plunge into deep water, but a mucky face plant was still probable. More likely was to lose a shoe in the sticky muck.

After a few minutes, Daniel pointed to a small, narrow ditch dug by one of the big tires of the rice field tractors after having been mired and then digging itself out.  Here is where Bluetooth came in.   Daniel set a small speaker on one side of the ditch, and we positioned ourselves to have an unobstructed view if an approaching crake crossed to find its presumed rival.

It was easy.   These crakes are rarely disturbed.  Hence, they respond readily.   Birding groups do not try for them because it would be impossible for more than two or three people to be in position to see.   Being in the swamp amidst them, even I could hear the crakes.  Two approached and within minutes I had obtained great binocular views.   The lighting angle, the narrow ditch and rapidly running crakes precluded photography but I was, as they say, “a happy camper.”

Driving back, I asked Daniel about Gray-breasted Crakes.  These are detected by their calls now and then, but this species is the rail most difficult to see in Costa Rica.  Detections, most of which are “heard-only birds,” number less than 1000 according to the ebird online database.  In contrast, White-throated Crake detections are nearly 15,000. I had asked other guides about them.  They rolled their eyes and shook their heads. Daniel simply said they were “really hard.”  The fact that he had not shut off the idea, however, clung in my brain.

Back in his part of the country on a family trip six months later, I contacted Daniel.  “What about trying for a Gray-breasted Crake?” I asked.  “We can try,” he responded.

I do not know which part was luck, skill, or prior scouting/preparedness, but a Gray-breasted Crake responded at the first location we tried.   My son in law, Ryan, was accompanying us.  We had borrowed rubber knee boots.  There was also a wide bare spot in the mud for good viewing and the sun was behind us.   Daniel placed the speaker about ten foot distant and across the open space from where the crake had responded.  We did not have to wait long.   The crake did not dash across but sauntered.  I obtained great photos.  This crake is a close cousin of the Black Rail I had listened to so many years ago in Texas; the primary difference being lime green on the lower mandible as opposed to the bill of the Black Rail which is black.  

This had happened so fast, I suggested we try again for a Paint billed crake.   Maybe Ryan could see one. Maybe I could obtain a photo.  Initially, we tried near where we had seen them six months ago. No luck.  We drove to another location nearby.   We waded into the shallow marsh.  Here, we had success. A Paint-billed Crake was calling.  We set up as before–the speaker in an excellent location for viewing the bird. We spied movement.  Here it came. But!  It was a White-throated Crake.   Three times the same or another White-throated Crake came into view—the only times I have been disappointed to see a crake.  At last, two Paint-billed Crakes arrived. 

After three or four brief appearances as they jumped over the bare area, one moved stealthily through the reeds.  The yellow and orange-red beak reminded me of Easter’s candy corn.  The large orange-red feet matched the beak and the color of Cherry Gazpacho!

*Palm Oil is responsible for a tremendous loss of habitat throughout the world. Its production also exacerbates climate change and causes other environmental damage. Here is a site where you can learn how to minimize your own usage of palm oil products: https://rspo.org/

The attractive, mini-skirted, young lady pointed at the thigh-high boots. “I’d like to try on a pair,” she said.  When I returned with the box, she asked, “Just how much help do you give customers when they try these on?” “As much as I can,” I replied. We were laughing because she obviously had no intention of letting me help.

Being good with customers was a skill I learned early at my dad’s shoe store. Dad had the ability to talk with people and listen to them without expressing his own feelings. He let them have their say without agreeing or disagreeing. They found him friendly, not judgmental. Watching him was a great lesson.

He was cognizant of the reputation required to have a successful store in a small town. He reminded me often that “the customer is always right.” Now and then, I would suspect him of suppressing frustration when someone demanded a refund for a pair of shoes that were obviously abused. Fortunately, that was a rare occurrence.

My hometown was composed mostly of people who were hard-working and honest. Most of our customers were farmers. They would “come to town” on Friday night; the only night the stores were open in those days. Those evenings were often quite busy. We would have customers standing two and three deep behind the chairs. Often it would be a family—the parents and some number of children—all needing shoes—except the wife; dad stocked few women’s shoes. We did not have room for the inventory. Besides, Dad’s shoe “department” was a rented space inside of “Hugs Men and Boys Wear.” Our lack of women’s shoes was natural.

Growing up in the shoe business is how I found a part-time job at a shoe store while in college. Lest I give the wrong impression, that was a full-service shoe store. The thigh-high boots, of which they only had a few pair, were a novelty only in stock to demonstrate the comprehensiveness of the merchandise.

I was probably 12 when I sold my first pair of shoes. By the time I was 14 and in high school, I was expected to work whenever needed, which meant every Friday night and Saturday. I had organized stock at the store for a few years by then. Dad would have me unload boxes and put shoes in order on the shelves. It was a fortunate circumstance because whenever I needed a few dollars, I could go to the store and Dad would give me a few hours of work. I became familiar with the stock and easily slipped into being a salesclerk when I was old enough.

I enjoyed the work. When busy with customers, the hours seemed to fly by. Dad always said, “I never minded getting up and going to work.” I could understand this, but eventually, I noticed the restrictions caused by owning a retail business. Working every Friday night and every Saturday does not seem as restrictive these days when stores are open Sundays and every night. But Dad always had to be at the store, more than 60 hours per week. His only help most of the time, was my mother and I, and we were there when it was so busy that more sales help was needed, not to give Dad time off.

Similarly, with no other help, Dad had no vacation. The only time he had two days in a row away from the store was when a public holiday fell on a Saturday or Monday. This was before some of the holidays had been collected on Mondays. For that reason, we loved Labor Day because it was always on Monday.

Dad never complained. This was an easier life than the farm he had grown up on. In addition, many of our customers were dairy farmers. Their cows needed to be milked every day—twice. I think Dad looked around and was grateful he had it so good.

That store served our family well. There was always enough. Dad was lucky to sell out before the onslaught of Walmarts and Footlockers made stores such as his obsolete. He earned enough to invest wisely and then subsequently, to work mostly part-time selling real estate. But, that initial 24 years had plenty of shortcomings. It wasn’t just the lack of vacations; it was also the events missed because Friday night and Saturday were never free.

For example, I received my school’s Scholar Athlete award. The St Louis Post Dispatch had each area school select an awardee to attend a banquet. Speakers and other attendees included the well-known sports personalities of the St Louis area including baseball players and announcers. A couple of the other awardees, already locally famous, went on to professional careers. Only awardees and parents could attend. It was a Friday night and a very busy time at the store. Dad could not go. It was a great event. He would have loved it.  I would have loved sharing it with him. Mom came with me. She was proud of me but had little interest in the rest of the proceedings.

I did not like the hours of my part-time job in college either. I wanted to go to a football game or Saturday afternoon basketball game—not if your job is retail. I was never interested in that life.

The summer I was 13, my mom decided I should not be at home at all but should be working. There was not nearly enough work at the store to keep me busy, so I had to find something else. What many of us did, was work on farms. “Making hay,” we called it. I learned a great deal from participating in this world.

Farmers would wait for what they hoped was a dry and warm period and cut and rake hay, usually alfalfa, but sometimes clover. The hay would be left to dry, then raked into rows and baled. The baling system consisted of a tractor pulling a baler that operated off the PTO (power take-off)) on the tractor. Attached to the baler would be a wagon. On the wagon would be a boy like me, hay hook in hand, ready to snag each bale expelled by the baler. I would pull the bale onto the wagon and then slide or carry it to the back and stack it.

Once the wagon was full, it would be unhitched, attached to another tractor, and pulled to the barn where the bales would be put on what we called an elevator—just a simple conveyer that carried the bales up to the loft. Usually, boys such as me would be in the barn to do the final stacking. I loved working the wagon. I liked being outside. I could hear the occasional calls of Bobwhite quail and Eastern Meadowlarks.  Sometimes a Red-tailed Hawk would soar overhead.

The job was often enlivened by the baling of a snake. I would turn from stacking the previous bale and be shocked from my reverie to face half of a snake swinging menacingly; the rest of its body trapped within the bale. I do not know what the farmers thought of this besides the aggravation of having to stop and dispatch the snake. All those I remember baling were beneficial varieties that helped rid the farm of mice and rats.

Working in the loft sometimes permitted more rest, but the loft was often nasty work. Sometimes, the only window was the one in which the elevator was inserted. The light was dim, ventilation almost non-existent. This was mid-summer Illinois. Days of 90 and 90, temperature and humidity, were common. That’s the way it was. We never thought twice about it. Well, with clover, I did. Clover has a lot of chaff—small particles falling off. An hour of stacking clover bales in a hot barn would have my eyes and nose full of dust and chaff. Worse was that it permeated my clothing. Combined with sweat, there seemed to be nothing else as itchy.

The only farming task that was worse was when I was put in a small shed with only a tiny opening for the “hopper” that was to dump recently harvested wheat. My job was to shovel the wheat away from the wall by the hopper so that the shed could be filled. I had to shovel quickly as I braced myself on my knees on top of the ever-growing pile of wheat. What a dirty job. My eyes, my ears, my mouth were all full of dirt. I spit mud when I emerged. The farmer laughed. He was in his 70s then. This was a once per year job. He had probably done it 50 times.

Typically, however, I liked the work. Most of the farmers were friendly and appreciative that I worked hard.

On my first job, I was almost sent home when the farmer learned I was only 13, but I was able to keep up and after that was never questioned.

I never received instruction on how to work for others, other than my mother reminding me I was getting paid and needed to earn it. I will never forget how on one of my first jobs, I was rapidly unloading bales when the farmer came over and said “s__t-g__damn boy, Rome wasn’t built in a day.” He had decided we needed a rest and a drink. He went over to a well and pumped. Hanging from the handle was a rusty tin can. He filled it and gave me a drink. Rust and all, it quenched my thirst. I never thought twice about it.

My education included the variety of people I worked for. There was one farmer who always hired four of us. One would work behind the baler. One would drive the wagon of bales back and forth and put them on the elevator. The other two would stack the bales in the barn. Bales were fed quickly into the barn, and many were simply put aside to be stacked properly while the next wagon was fetched.

We would get a lot of hay baled and stacked in a hurry. There was little idle time. What I noticed is that the first time I worked on the wagon, the farmer said, “now only stack those bales three-high. That way, the timing should be about right to run wagons back and forth and keep those other boys busy.” This worked well and we usually completed his fields in a single day—at most two.

In contrast, I worked for another man who either by choice or economic circumstances approached the job differently. He let it be known that he was uncomfortable hiring help. He said he couldn’t afford it. He even paid me somewhat less than the other farmers, but I was his only worker, so I received a lot more hours.

I would load the wagon, and then stack in the barn while the farmer loaded the elevator. His instructions were different. “Stack the wagon as high as you can so we don’t have to make so many trips.” This meant a wagon of “seven” or “eight-high,” meaning I would have to terrace the bales so I could climb up and stack them. As the stack grew, the farmer would watch and slow down so that I could get back to the baler before the next one fell off. Although we managed a big wagon load, we probably stacked bales on the wagon at about half the rate as the man who had me do them “three-high.”

Efficiency was not very good back at the barn either. Unloading the wagon meant carefully undoing the big load. The high load inevitably meant a few bales would fall off the wagon while unloading. The farmer had to jump to the ground, put the bales back on, then climb back on the wagon to put them on the elevator. I had no problem keeping up in the loft and would be idle for several seconds in between bales.  All of this meant several days were required to complete the project and a much greater risk of a rainstorm spoiling the hay.

The ultimate inefficiency of this effort occurred early one hot afternoon. I was climbing to the back of the wagon and hoisting a bale to the top of the stack. All the weight at the back of the wagon, which had probably been occurring for many years, was finally too much for the wagon’s running gear. It broke. The wagon bed, now free, flipped vertical throwing me and the bales into the field. I was unhurt. I had scrambled atop the bales as they tumbled and suffered no more than a few scratches. The wagon, however, was now bent and broken. The farmer, always taciturn, looked at the mess and expressionless, said, “yup, can’t use that wagon no more.” Back at the barn, there was an ancient wagon with iron wheels. We had to use it the rest of the time, even though it did not hold even a fourth of the bales.

Eating at the various farms was also an experience. Some farmers I worked for were deeply religious. We were asked to hold hands and grace would be said before every meal. There was another who had stacks of naturist magazines. They were just lying around. He and his wife treated them as if they were the latest issue of Time or the newspaper. This was the mid-1960s! None of us teenagers had ever seen anything like those. As I said, it was an education.

The wife of the efficient farmer I described above, was a great cook. She would serve an enormous and satisfying meal at the end of the workday. But, the wife of the farmer who only owned one wagon, served such a variety of food, breads and desserts; it was incomprehensible. And she would serve such a meal at lunch and again at supper. I always wondered what breakfast was like. 

Meals with the farmer with the naturist magazines were much simpler. There was plenty of food, but it was always the same. His wife would place a big bowl of boiled hot dogs in the middle of the table. Another bowl was filled with potato chips.  There would be a plate of summer sausage and bread and jam but always hot dogs. Is that what they ate when there were no workers?

These farm meals introduced me to roasted cow tongue, head cheese, and blood sausage. Tongue was ok, the rest not!

This was a stoic and taciturn German community. Houses were neat and rows were plowed straight.  Once, I was asked whether I could remain and do some work after dark. This was strange, but they were nice people, and I needed the money, so I agreed. Once it was dark, out came the hay mower. The farmer explained how he had a couple of fields in what was then the equivalent of today’s Conservation Reserve Program. He was receiving federal payments to fallow some acreage for the purpose of protecting wildlife. He couldn’t stand it. “Those fields make my farm look sloppy. I’m going to mow it after dark so no one can see what I’m doing.” My job was to hold a light so he could see well enough to do the mowing.

Most of the farmers treated us well, but there were exceptions. Once I was enlisted to work on a farm owned by a relative of my mother’s. It was inconvenient getting there as I was not yet old enough to drive. On our drive out, mom admonished me to work hard because the father in this family had passed away and now the wife and sons were running the farm.

The eldest son, probably in his early 20s was surly. When introduced, I said the usual, “How’s it going?” He replied, “I don’t know yet.” He put me on the wagon at 11AM. His mother came and got the wagons as they were filled, and younger siblings stacked the hay in the barn. We quit after 7. There had not been a break—not even for a drink of water. Whether the young farmer had water with him, I don’t remember. I just remember how angry my mom was when I told her. She called the farm that night and told them I wouldn’t be back.

Making hay did not take up the entire summer so it was that my mom found other work for me. For a couple of summers, I worked for the County Fair Board which conducted the Madison County Fair. There were several odd jobs suitable for a teenager.

Before the fair started, I was assigned to the man in charge of the concession stand in the exhibition building. His name was Pat. He had me do some clean up and arranging of a few chairs and tables. Then came time to prepare the food. I do not recall anything about permits or inspections. For the most part, we sold fountain drinks and packaged snacks that were consumed in paper cups and with plastic utensils. We also sold chili dogs. The “dogs” went into a device designed for them. No problem there—except those remaining from one night were still on top the next morning. What appalled me was the chili.
 
The day before the fair, Pat told me it was time to prepare the chili. There were some large commercial-sized cans. These were to be opened and dumped in large pots as needed. “Where are the pots?” I asked. “Hop in the car,” Pat said. “We’ll get them now.” Our town still had an old “locker” or ice plant. Lockers were rented to store frozen food until needed. My family often purchased a “quarter of a beef,” and stored it at the locker. Every so often we would stop by and retrieve whatever of our stored meat we wanted. The Fair Board had a locker and in it were two large pots—probably 30 inches tall and 18 inches in diameter. Each was approximately half full of the two types of chili for the chili dogs. I questioned the source of the chili. “Oh, I bring these back each year. That way I don’t have to buy as much,” said Pat. That’s right. The pots were never washed. They were never emptied.

I never ate any chili dogs and advised my friends against it as well.

Pat’s parsimony with the chili was also reflected by what he told me about selling the fountain soft drinks. He told me to size up the young children and to give them mostly ice with just enough of the soda to color the water. “They won’t know the difference” said Pat.

My other remembrance from the concession stand was that every two hours, it was my job to check and clean the bathrooms. This was the county fair. Those bathrooms were sometimes abused. Once, a woman came in, looked at me cleaning up and said something about being “behind a door” and used the facilities. That was ok, but when I emerged and went directly to the food counter, she was not happy. I had washed my hands, of course, but no one had given me any other instruction. She reproached me for not wearing gloves and for not having different clothing for cleaning bathrooms versus serving food. Later when I told Pat about this, he merely shrugged. “She’ll get over it,” he said.

The worst job, probably the worst one I ever had, was after the fair. This was a farming community. Lots of farm animals had been shown. That meant lots of manure. I worked with two other people. One, Duane, was mentally deficient. He was pleasant but not much of a worker. He had a penchant for doing things he was not supposed to. An example was using the lawn mower which was electric. Duane would inevitably start mowing and then run over the extension cord.

The other worker, to my teenage eyes, was an ancient, wiry, bad-tempered old man. He let me know he was experienced at this work. “Man, the s__t, I’ve shoveled,” he would remind me. All day, we would shovel. Now and then, Pat would come by and hitch up one of the wagons we were filling and haul it off. It was a long three weeks, enlivened only once—when Duane set fire to a pile of tires and the rolling black smoke led to an emergency call from a nearby resident and the subsequent arrival of the volunteer fire department.

The downside of these jobs was that none of them paid well, and except for 4-5 weeks encompassing the county fair, none were consistent. When I started college, I hoped for something better. So did my mother.

After my freshman year of college, I was awarded an “Undergraduate Research Participation Grant” by the National Science Foundation.  This kept me busy at St Louis University where I was attending. There was little pay, and the professor I worked for was a terrible communicator. My summer was one long series of simple lab experiments. Mix A with B and see what happens. If you don’t like the results, try heating it, then try cooling it. Change the proportions. Try a different reactant. Nothing worked, but I did learn a lot about laboratory techniques and the experience guided my intentions to not be any sort of synthetic chemist once I graduated.  I jokingly called my efforts: “Synthesis of crud in high yield.”

The following summer brought serious problems. I was now attending the University of Illinois which ended its semester in June. It was too late to participate in the farm work—which mostly went to those younger than me anyway. I applied for a lot of jobs and worked at the store Friday night and Saturday, but this left me at home far too much for my mother.

I still believe her constant disapproval was unfair. She was angry to have me about the house. She was particularly unhappy if I stayed out late with friends being sure I would not have done so if I had a job.

She must have complained mightily to her father. He had worked for the State of Illinois repairing roads and signs. Surely, he would have connections. One night he picked me up and took me to someone’s home in the nearby village of Millersburg. This man, I realized was one of Grandpa’s drinking buddies, but he knew the secretary of a local construction union.  The three of us went to this man’s house and explained how I needed work. The man said they hired workers from a pool every morning. I should go and sign-up.

I was to be there every morning by 6:30. By 7, they would know how many men were needed and would call the next ones on the list. Then everyone else would go home. A problem was that the office where the morning assignments were given was 50 miles away. I did not have use of a car.  I no longer recall how it was that a classmate of mine was dragooned into the same morass. He had use of a car and I could pay him to take me along. Dutifully, every morning, we awoke at 5:30, drove the 50 miles, waited, and went home. I think we did this for three weeks. There were a few other men, much older, who waited with us. There were no jobs. I think the older men were there to fulfill requirements to receive unemployment pay. It was a waste of time. My mother, however, was pleased. She told everyone what I was doing, and the fact that I could not sleep late seemed to solve most of her problem with me.

Eventually, my grandfather’s political connections got me a job with the state highway department cutting weeds. I had my own scythe! Day after day, we were dropped off along a state highway to cut locations inaccessible to tractors. This was a lot like making hay. I liked being outside and the pay was better. Nearly all the full-time workers, mostly tractor drivers, were local farmers. I already knew several of them. They worked hard. One of my college-age compatriots had long hair and the farmers were merciless with ribald comments toward him. However, the only real drama that stemmed from this job occurred the following December during my winter holiday from college.

Our part of Illinois was hit with a huge ice storm followed by heavy snowfall. This meant lots of roads to plow. The snowplow drivers, some of the same farmers I had worked with in the summer, had already worked long hours. Another big storm struck. It was about 7:00 in the evening and I was visiting a girlfriend when her phone rang. It was my supervisor from the previous summer. It had been deemed unsafe for the drivers to be out that night alone. They needed riders. Regulations did not permit me to drive. I was assigned to the “efficient” farmer I have described above. He would be good company. Because it was night, I was to be paid double-time. By 8:30, we were rolling.  The storm raged all night. My job, besides keeping Wib awake, was to pull a lever to strew salt on the road at intersections. Conditions were horrific. The snow piled up all night long. There was no way to keep up with it.

We would drive our route, and then return to the shed for more gravel and more salt. Wib had already driven the truck all day. By early the next morning, he and some of the other drivers had worked 27 hours without a break. Sandwiches had been handed into the cab when the trucks were re-loaded at the shed.

The storm broke about 9 that morning. The skies, while not clear, had lifted such that visibility was good. I was already on the clock for more hours than the state had allotted. A radio message went out that all the drivers should take a break. A centrally located cafe at a highway intersection was selected. We all met up and ordered breakfast. It was a beleaguered group.

Perhaps you can guess what happened next. Someone drove by on the still icy and snow-packed roads and spied five state trucks equipped with plows in a cafe parking lot at ten o’clock in the morning. The epithets and curses hurled at the lazy state workers wasting his tax money were as bad as you can imagine. I said that the farmers in my hometown were taciturn. This group was also tired. With a disdainful shake of their heads, they just kept on eating breakfast. Our oppressor took the hint and left. I have thought of that incident a lot. Not all public workers are always lazy. They might even be heroic.

The following year, I hoped again to work for the State. The weed-cutting job was not available and, instead, I was assigned to a road and sign crew. Here, I received more education.

These jobs were mostly patronage, meaning that the party in power, the one that had won the governorship, this time the republicans, did the hiring. Because governors came and went (mostly to jail in Illinois!), no one with a real career wanted these jobs. That is why the weed crew, which operated out of a “shed” near my small hometown, was mostly populated by farmers supplementing their income.

The sign and road crew operated from a shed in East St Louis. This was different. Most of the workers were required to have some skill or experience.

The foreman was a former brewery supervisor. He had the most prodigious beer belly I have ever seen. No shirt could cover the bottom of his stomach. He would walk about, a chewed-up cigar stuffed in the corner of his mouth, pointing that bare belly and navel at everyone he approached. Besides his looks, he was not a nice man.

The workers in this group, which I now remember were 100% white in an area that was predominantly black, were not industrious farmers. There were exceptions, but most were people who could not get any other job. Several were alcoholics. A few had been retired and no longer capable or interested in any real work. It was mostly a travesty. (It is important for me to note: few who read this will know who I am talking about, but there was an adult worker from my hometown who was a good man and a solid worker. He was an exception.)

The problem was compounded by recent changes in the patronage rules. The foreman was hired originally because he was a democrat. Now, his workers were hired because they were republicans. Several times that summer, he assigned two volatile workers who hated each other to a shared task. He was delighted the time the morning paper had a photo of two state workers (republicans obviously) having a fistfight on the job. On the other hand, the foreman was careful about the political days at the State Fair. The idea was that the crowd on Republican Day must be bigger than Democrat Day and vice versa. One way to do this was to require, surreptitiously, that all state patronage workers attend Republican Day.  Our foreman, although a democrat, had to look out for himself and his own attendance on Democrat Day.  Plus, he did not want to be blamed for blatant absenteeism.  What he did was forbid three reliable drivers from attending the State Fair. I was assigned to one as his rider.  The foreman had interviewed all the workers, learning where they habitually stopped for coffee and lunch.  He made up routes for the non-attendees and we drove the district all day being sure to stop at every known worker hang-out. I ate lunch twice and drank a lot of soft drinks.

Much of that summer, my job was to fix the delimiters, the reflectors on metal posts that line exit ramps and portions of highways. My driver was too old and decrepit to perform the labor, but he was a passable driver.

About once a week, the foreman would have me load some of the metal posts into his state-provided pickup. “In case you need extras someday, you can call me,” he said. We called him once and he angrily told us to “Do your job and bring enough next time.” Later we drove by his son’s used car lot. There were those posts, supporting the wire fence around the lot.

One of the painters was an especially noteworthy alcoholic. A friend of his would go by a tavern each morning and pick him up already drunk. Once, I was assigned to work with this man. I should not have accepted. His hands shook so badly that I feared for my life as he drove. At our job site, he opened his lunch box and inside was a bottle of Ten-high—a cheap whiskey.

One of the tasks of this “shed” was to paint stripes and edges on the highway. The drivers of the primary equipment were not patronage, but full-time workers. Most of them consistently performed their jobs. Once, however, there was an exception. The crew with the edger did not return to the shed. Eventually, the foreman called the State Police. The workers were found in back rooms at a combination roadhouse/whorehouse. At least in that case, they were fired.

Because much of the equipment was relatively unique, the area assigned to the East St Louis shed was large. This meant some of the projects were “stay-outs,” meaning the crew would work longer days, stay at motels during the week, return Thursday evenings, and have Friday off. I did not feel I was paid enough not to go home at night, but there was a week at the end of the summer when it suited me to be home on Friday. I volunteered for that week’s stay-out. My job was easy. I rode in the back of the truck that did the center striping. I had to keep a box of “beads” full to mix with the paint. These “beads” are the small particles that make center and edge stripes reflective. One incident from that week is forever imprinted in my memory.

One night we stayed in a small village in far Southern Illinois. The area was impoverished. There was nowhere to eat. That evening a couple of us had a stale sandwich at a tiny bowling alley. Now it was time for breakfast. There was another college student on the crew, and we went in search of a cafe. The one we found appeared very rundown, but we entered. A woman approached with menus. We gawked. Whatever your picture of a “hag” is, she was it and more. She seemed old, but who could tell? Her hair was comprised of a white and gray mixture of unkempt tufts.  She was missing some front teeth.

We shuddered and shook our heads but prepared to order. The woman began approaching with two glasses of water. Just then, one of the large black German cockroaches famous in that part of the US skittered across the floor. The woman spied it and with a quickness we did not expect, stomped it.  She looked at us and cackled.  Then she proceeded to put the waters on the table and turn back toward the kitchen. The smashed carcass of the big cockroach lay there for inspection, next to our table. Without a word we arose and left. Our breakfast that day consisted of cheap powdered donuts from a gas station. I have traveled many places and eaten at a few I would describe as “sketchy,” but the worst place I ever saw was this one, less than a hundred miles from my hometown.

I think back on that summer now with amazement. Much was about to happen.  In a few days I was to begin my senior year at the University of Illinois. A year later, I could call myself a chemist and would be living in Arizona with a wife I had not yet met.  I never had to perform jobs such as these again, but I will always be grateful for the many lessons I learned.

I recall a first-grade assignment when I was to print a few words about my family. This was back in the day with super thick pencils and paper with an inch or more space between the lines. After I asked my mom what my dad’s job was, I carefully printed SHOEMAN. That seemed ok to my 6-year-old mind. I had a book about firemen.  We had a mailman to deliver the mail. I even remember milk delivered by the milkman and there was an ice plant with an iceman. My dad worked with shoes so naturally he was a shoeman.  Later, I changed my dad’s job title to the more respectable, or so I thought, shoe-retailer.

It was decades later before I knew anyone else had called Dad a shoeman. Here are excerpts from a column that appeared in the area newspaper, approximately 15 years after my dad sold his business. The author said he was prompted to write after taking his son to the mall where a disinterested clerk handed him several boxes of shoes with a “Here, try these on.” The column, describing his childhood experience, appeared in 1997*:
…when I needed shoes, I’d take a couple of steps across the aisle to Korte’s Shoe Store. Mr. Korte himself would greet me and Mom, sit us down in his comfortable trying-on-shoes chairs and begin the royal treatment.
   While asking how Pop and other members of the family were doing, Mr. Korte would nimbly untie the double knot in my dusty high-top tennis shoes. I had put a lot of miles on them since the last time I’d been in. …. Mr. Korte would check my arches, just to make sure I did not develop flat feet like my brother and need extra support. I did not. Size 5D, he would guess. Then he would slide my foot into a metal contraption that would tell him he guessed right.
  Red Ball Jets… he’d say, “high tops, white, right?” Right, Right, Right.
His store was tiny, so he did not have many shoes on display. But the back room must have been about the size of Mascoutah. No matter what you wanted, he had it in the back room.
  “I’ll be right back, “he would say, and he’d disappear into the back room. He would come back carrying four or five boxes of Red Ball Jets, from a 5B to a 6 ½ D.
  Mr. Korte would lace up each new pair all the way to the top and gently ease my foot into the shoe with the help of the shoehorn he kept in his shirt pocket. He always insisted I try on both left and right.
“Now take them for a test drive,” he would say. He did not mean take a step or two. He meant walk around the store, down around the sport coats, past the BVDs, over by the ties and back.  If the coast was clear, he’d even let me take a run down the aisle. “Go ahead and Jump” he’d say. “that’s what you’re going to be doing in them anyway.”
   I’d jump.
“How does that feel? A little tight? He’d push his thumb around my toes. “Yeah, looks like you could use a little more room.” So, he’d try on another pair and another. Until it was just right.
We’d leave the store, I’d have the new Jets on my feet, ready to go. And the old ones would be tucked into the box in the crinkly paper Mr. Korte had tucked around them. The shoehorn that was in his shirt pocket came home with the shoes, too.
   Now that’s a shoe man.

Despite a few exaggerations (Dad would not have needed to bring out such a range of sizes.), the column accurately conveys my dad’s work ethic. Dad taught me that to be successful, be scrupulously honest and work hard.

Dad always reminded me with kids’ shoes, frequently, those Red Ball Jets, “always fit them a half-size too big so they can grow into them. We want them to last all year.” Even if there was slight slippage in the heel, dad would tell the parent, “After he wears them a bit, the heel will conform to the foot as he grows. They’ll be fine.” No wonder we often had people tell us our shoes “wore longer.” We fit them that way.

Moreover, Dad’s mark-up was low. We would marvel at how much the same shoes cost in nearby St Louis. There were reasons for that. Dad’s overhead was low. He never had full-time help. Most of his part-time help was Mom or me. He did not even own the area that contained his store, which he called Korte’s Shoe Department because it was rented space in what was mostly a clothing store.

The columnist marveled at how much stock my Dad had saying there must have been a “back room the size of Mascoutah.” [Mascoutah is a nearby small town.]. Little did he know. Dad rented a ramshackle little building down the alley and across the street. He also kept shoes at our home in the garage. It might be 10 degrees in January, or raining, but after determining what our customer might need, we often would run out the back door, down the alley, across the street and into the “other building” as we called it—unless we had to jump in the car and race home.

At one point, another shoe store opened. It was part of a chain. That worried us because they carried the same brands. Would those brands keep selling to us? With only one store, our volume could not match a chain. I remember one of our suppliers telling me after the other store folded, “I told them they were up against a hard-working man.”

Dad was from a large farming family. They were not well-off. In comparison, working at his store six-days and one evening a week was easy. There were no animals to care for. No outside chores on frigid days. He even had an entire day off.  It did not seem to matter that he never had a vacation. The only time he had two days off in succession was when national holidays such as Christmas fell on Saturday or Monday.

Dad’s early life must have been hard. He seldom spoke of it. I remember him saying once that he didn’t know if they (meaning his parents) “knew he was around most of the time or not.” He was in the middle of nine children and his father had a problem with alcohol. It would be easy to “get lost” as he put it. When pressed for stories, I did not receive many. I recall him telling me one Christmas there were no presents and he cried, but then his mother gave him part of a pencil she broke in half and sharpened.

Another time he talked of his dad “renting some ground,” (a piece of land was always referred to as “ground”) in Shoal Creek bottom, and how he had to take a wagon over there and cut weeds out of the corn and sleep and eat there for a few days. I have been to insect-laden locations from the tropics to Alaska and I am not sure anywhere is as bad as Shoal Creek bottom in the summer. It must have been miserable.

In addition, Dad was drafted to fight in World War II early in 1943 when he turned eighteen. Dad never wanted to talk about the War, only referring to it as a “big waste.” The only time I saw him animated when talking about military service was when I suggested there be a rule that only those older than fifty had to fight. “That’s a great idea,” he said.   “That would stop it!” We eventually gleaned that Dad had seen stacks of bodies on the beach at Normandy, that he’d been adjacent to a man shot by a sniper in a mess line, and that he’d been pressed into service as a medic during the Battle of the Bulge because so many had been killed.

Later in life, he seemed nonplussed at the attention veterans received. He had the experience of being included in an “Honor Flight,” where surviving veterans were feted with a trip to Washington DC. He marveled at all the young people “thanking him for his service.” “I did what I was told,” was his response.

I am sure he did. Our Mom deserves credit for this as well, but my siblings and I grew up instilled with a sense of responsibility, integrity, and an expectation that one does a job correctly or not at all.

In looking back, I also learned a great lesson from Dad’s approach to sports—or any contest.  Dad and I could compete in golf, pool, or ping-pong and try as hard as if it were the World Series but winning did not seem that important. It was the fun of trying hard and competing. It was a good lesson for me, because it seemed as if every team, I was part of lost most of its games.

Friendly competition was a primary family trait.  It was strange for me to learn later that in most families, holiday get-togethers consisted of sitting around and talking. That was not something Dad enjoyed. He would stand up and suggest shooting pool, playing cards, or a board game.

He particularly enjoyed learning the intricacies of bridge.  Often on Fridays, he would receive a ride from his Assisted Living Complex to a local community center where he would play bridge. In our hometown, few contests existed without money on the line. It would not be much, but it was part of the fun. The last time I talked to him it was a Monday morning.  I asked if he had played bridge the Friday previous. “I did,” he said. “And I won. I brought home a couple of bucks.” At lunch that day he aspirated some food into his lungs.  He succumbed to the resulting pneumonia later that week.**

As for non-competitive outdoor activities, a suggestion of a walk for the sake of walking often received the comment, “I got enough exercise in service!”  Dad enjoyed seeing ducks on his pond and birds at his feeders but never cared to learn about them. On the golf course, we would frequently see Killdeers, and no matter how often I named them, the next time, he would again say, “There goes a snipe!” Driving past swamplands on the way to St Louis, Dad would spy the herons and egrets and, no matter how often I had reminded him, he would remark about all the cranes.

At his bird feeder, to him there were three species: Cardinals, sparrows, and not-sparrows. When I was in Illinois to visit, I would point out the difference between the non-native House Sparrows on the feeder, and the native White-throated Sparrows feeding underneath. He would nod appreciatively but would have forgotten by my next visit.

How could this man have taught me to watch birds?

My hometown of Highland, population four thousand at the time, housed a few commuters to St Louis, but was essentially a Southern Illinois farming community. For most of my growing-up-years, Dad had the only shoe store. Like most of my peers, I wanted to go hunting whenever I could. I was gifted a 12-gauge shotgun for Christmas during my eighth-grade year. My favorite hunting partner was my dad, but he had almost no opportunity to go. My mom and two younger siblings also deserved his time. Sunday morning was for weekly mass leaving little or no time for Dad to go hunting with me. (Saturday evening mass as a substitute for Sunday morning, did not begin until I had left home.)

We did manage an occasional hunt for rabbits after church on Sunday morning. Unfortunately, my favorite hunting was for squirrels which is best if you are in position pre-dawn. Not only are squirrels more active at that time, but most days become breezy about 8:30 or 9 when seeing a squirrel moving in the trees becomes more difficult. Between church on Sunday and the store opening at 8 or 8:30 AM every other day, squirrel hunting the way I wanted to do it, was not possible for Dad.

We went squirrel hunting once. It was an August morning before I left for my second or third year of college. I do not recall if Dad opened late that day or, more likely, Mom opened the store and my brother watched our sister for a couple of hours.

I had often hunted squirrels with friends, and a couple of times with one of Dad’s younger brothers. I was going to show Dad that I really knew what I was doing. Even if he had hunted squirrels growing up, it had been more than 20 years by now.

There were no patches of forest or woodlots near my hometown.  Instead, any place with trees was a “timber.” We went to a location within the “Grantfork timber” that I knew well—or thought I did.

With squirrel hunting, usually you hunt separately, as we did. I carefully described the woods to Dad, telling him where he ought to try. We entered the woods and I suggested we meet back at the same place at a pre-determined time, probably about 9:00.

Here is what I remember: I was excited to be hunting with my Dad and determined to be successful. Squirrel hunting requires stealth with little movement. I knew that, but I had a tough time sitting because after a few minutes of seeing nothing, I would begin to believe that the clump of hickory nut trees fifty yards away was better. I would move. I would see no squirrels and begin to think that the oaks over the hill were better, and I would move again.

I kept in mind the locations I had told Dad to hunt so I did not move toward him. After a while I heard a shot. I only have one good ear so I cannot tell direction of distant sounds. I assumed it was a hunter on an adjacent property.

I kept moving from place-to-place. I never saw a squirrel. Eventually, I heard another shot. The idea that Dad might have taken these shots did not occur to me. My conviction was that on this morning, in these woods, the squirrels were not moving, or they had been hunted too hard and thinned out or were too wary.

I was frustrated and anxious and a little late to our meeting location. I walked there and looked for Dad. I saw him sitting—just where we had split up. I said, “Sorry, have you been waiting long?” He said, “No, I’ve just been sitting here.” “Lousy hunting, wasn’t it?” I said. To my amazement, he picked up two squirrels.

How could this be? I was the mighty hunter who knew these woods. I quizzed him, “Where?” “How?” He said, “Right here.” “Here?” I said in disbelief. It did not look a good place to me. I had told him where to find the Oaks and Hickories where the squirrels feed. There were mature trees all around, but no nut trees. Dad replied, “Well, this was a nice place to sit, and a nice morning, I liked just sitting and looking around. After a while, I saw a squirrel move. It came close enough.  I shot it. I was comfortable, so I sat back down and after a while, another squirrel came into view.  I shot that one too.”

I had worn myself out trying every “great” place in the woods and had found only frustration. I had not had a particularly enjoyable time. Dad clearly did not care if he saw or bagged a squirrel. Free time in the woods on a beautiful morning was a rare thing for him, and his priority was to enjoy being there. I have never forgotten the lesson of that hunt. Sometimes when I am watching or looking for birds, I become anxious, thinking the day may be a failure, or that I should be somewhere else. Often, I think of Dad and that squirrel hunt. I realize, I need to slow down. Sit down. Maybe this is not the best location but sit down anyway. Something might happen. I have had some of my best bird and wildlife encounters that way. Thanks Dad!

*Excerpts from “Its comforting to be solemates with a shoe man,” Patrick Kuhl, Belleville News Democrat, June 6, 1997. 

**Dad died October 28, 2015. He was 91.

Mary cried all Wednesday–the day before our first trip to the interior of Mexico’s Yucatán peninsula.  Upon arrival at the colonial city of Mérida and finding our small hotel, we walked to Santa Ana Square, planning to eat dinner. We quickly learned Thursday is fiesta night.

There were street vendors, live music, and dancing. The restaurant we had chosen was packed. We were relieved to find two inside seats next to a noisy bar at an adjacent establishment.

The waiter took our order, began to turn, shook his head, leaned back toward us and in perfect English, said, “Why?” “I have to ask. Why?” He had recognized we were from the US. This was the Thursday after Donald Trump had been elected President.

A year later, at the small ruin of Becán near the village of Xujpil, a man sweeping some ancient steps, tested our Spanish by asking if we were from the US. When we responded affirmatively, he humbly asked if we thought people in Mexico were bad. He wanted to know if all Americans thought the way our President did. What about us? How did we find the people we were encountering? Did we believe what our president said about Mexicans? We assured him we were ashamed and embarrassed as were many North Americans.  Indeed, we were proud to tell him this was our second trip in 13 months to small villages and ruins in the Yucatán, and everyone we met had been “muy amable.”

In truth, before the first trip, we had trepidation. Mexico’s reputation for corruption and violence worried us. I tracked down an ex-pat—a birder who had lived for a decade in Progreso on Yucatán’s northern coast. I called her. We spoke at length. Two comments from her stood out. She said the only murder she could remember in 10 years was between two Canadians. Second, she advised that when driving in rural areas while birding, “if you see a side road you want to try, go ahead and do it. It will be safe.”

Sadly, violence has spread to the eastern coast of the Yucatán. There are too many people and too much money flowing through Cancun and the Riviera Maya not to attract the drug cartels. We had no intention of going near that area. We knew it from trips to Isla Cozumel in the 1980s. To those familiar with the area today: imagine—my 1984 journal entry describes arriving at Playa del Carman on a small ferry and noting only one person, “a nearly naked girl,” sunbathing on the beach. Now there are numerous hotels, even casinos, and people everywhere.

We also visited Tulum in the early 1980s. There were no hotels. There was no entrance fee. No restaurants. There were a couple of local vendors selling handicrafts and a handful of tourists. A quick internet search now yields dozens of hotels. The area is also known for gourmet dining.

We snorkeled at Xel Há. We were the only visitors. The pool was at the end of a potholed, unpaved road. Now, it is part of a major resort with a daily entry fee exceeding $100. The same was true of Akumal. Then, a couple of small palapas served a simple lunch of fish, vegetables, and a beer. Now, besides massive hotels, there is a major residential development with high rises and time shares. Fortunately, as my ex-pat contact had informed me, the interior of the Yucatán has not yet succumbed to the tourism juggernaut.

We rented a car from a local garage in Mérida. They did not require any paperwork beyond what we had provided by email. A man met us at the airport, handed us keys and told us to call when we needed the car picked up. He was walking away. I asked, “Don’t you need to be paid?” “Pay me when you return,” he said over his shoulder. The thought that we had been handed a stolen car did cross our minds, but this business had great reviews. Two years later, we confidently rented from them again.

That first night we arrived hungry, several hours after dark. Our small hotel in Mérida was 5 or 6 blocks from Santa Ana square. “Can you call a taxi; we asked the proprietor?” “It is faster if you walk,” he said. “It is safe.” That was the first of many nighttime walks on those streets during our two visits to Mérida. The streetlights are dim, the buildings tall and mostly dark. Occasionally, some locals would pass us, but mostly there was no one else. Were we lucky? Were we naive? In many US cities, I would have felt less secure. The next year we stayed in Campeche City, on the west coast of the peninsula, and had the same experience.

It is risky to generalize because Mérida shares the same problems with any large city. Nonetheless, it was notable when, two years later, at a small cafe, we talked to the owner-chefs who had recently moved after more than a decade of living in Miami. He was French. She was originally from Mexico City. They had two teenaged sons. They related how they had visited Mérida and decided it was a much better place to raise their sons than in the US.

Our comfort with the people and the countryside only increased as we traveled. On that first trip, we spent most of a day with two young men who had a three-wheeled scooter with which they could carry two passengers in the back. We hired them from a street corner in the village of Homún to take us to some cenotes. They enjoyed it as much as we did, bouncing down the dirt roads, then swimming, telling jokes, all with much laughter.

Some cenotes have concrete steps, some have steel ladders. These boys took us to one with a rickety ladder fashioned from tree limbs. Though shaky, it seemed stout enough. Mary and I gingerly began our descent. One of the young men, impatient with our slow progress, scooted out on a large vine and flipped into the water. We had each of these locations to ourselves.  We had agreed on a price but had not discussed how many cenotes we would visit. After swimming in three, it was late; we had to leave.  Both of our hosts were visibly disappointed. They had planned to take us to one more.

Another time, at the small ruin of Xlapak, where afternoon birding had been enticing, I asked the guard if it was possible to enter at 6AM, two hours before opening. The gate could easily be stepped over and I promised to pay him as I left. “I’ll meet you,” he said.  And he was there at 6AM. Later, the Canadian woman who owned the cabin where we were staying said, “I hope you gave him a big tip!”  She enjoyed the local people, she said. Her workers were invariably dependable and honest. As for the guard at the ruin, she said, “They are not paid nearly enough for what they do.” This was true. We had observed how clean and well-kept were these minor ruins. I suppose the guards had little else to do. We usually had to sign a register. Sometimes it had been a week since the previous visitor. Nonetheless, the jungle grows aggressively. Leaves fall throughout the year. There would always be maintenance to perform, besides ensuring that no looting or vandalism occurred.

In the beginning, our exploration of ruins had been the usual. The first one we visited from Mérida was Chichén Itzá. It is magnificent. I had wanted to visit because of its history and a sense of sex and mystery I remembered from an old movie: Against All Odds.

Wary of the expected crowds (~two million annually, pre-covid), we arrived before opening and were through the gate before most tourist buses unloaded. We were able to spend a peaceful half-hour at the famous cenote as I endeavored to listen for the difference in the vocalizations of the nearly identical Tropical and Couch’s Kingbirds.

Vendors were everywhere. There were hundreds. We marveled at how many there were and how so many sold the same wares. How did any of them earn a useful amount of money? As bus after bus unloaded, some portions of the ruins became packed shoulder to shoulder. We were happy to have visited, but also ready to leave.

Next, we visited Uxmal, nearly as famous as Chichén Itzá and deservedly known as the major ruin with the most intricate decoration.   Believed to be completed near the zenith of Mayan civilization, the buildings such as The House of Turtles and the House of the Magician have ornate friezes and carvings.  The setting, because there are some hills, allows one to comprehend the totality of the site, something inhibited at Chichén Itzá because climbing on pyramids at these sites is now prohibited.

During our trips, we visited several large ruins. For example, Edzna, near Campeche City and Ek Balam near Vallodolid are major ruins even if visitation is sparse.  At the latter, a guard at the entrance asked if we were from the US. He said, “no one ever comes here from the US.” In fact, after each of these trips, Mary and I questioned whether we had heard any English spoken so long as we were at a location not frequented by tour buses from the Riviera Maya.

We discovered minor ruins by accident. We had an unexpected free afternoon during our initial visit to Mérida. We were already on the Northwest side of the city having visited a wetland to look for birds. I noted a ruin on our map, Sihunchen, that was only a few miles outside the city. Our gps unit recognized a hamlet, San Antonio Chel, close by the ruin, so we decided to see what we could find.

Once out of Mérida, we found ourselves off pavement driving through tropical dry forest. Road conditions required slow driving and we were rewarded with a perfect view of a Lesser Roadrunner.  It obligingly stopped for inspection and a photo before darting into the bush.

Arriving at San Antonio Chel, we saw a small church on a public square but no one on the street. A road from the square seemed to head in the correct direction so we continued, hoping there would be a sign at the ruin. After a few miles, we saw a sign for rental cabins, but otherwise only more dry jungle.

A few minutes later, we chanced upon some men repairing a bridge. We were able to communicate sufficiently to understand that the location with the cabins was our destination. Upon return, we found the gate locked. I was bold enough to climb over the fence. Almost immediately, I spied a workman raking leaves. He waved me back, gesturing that he would open the gate for us.

Once inside, the man pointed at a small interpretive sign and returned to his work. We had a wonderful afternoon. There were a few cabins that appeared in good condition. Possibly these were used at other times of the year or maybe reserved for groups.

Now, however, we had encountered Sihunchen as our first minor ruin available for solo exploration. The trails among the small building sites were clear. There were helpful interpretive signs that we could read with our basic Spanish.

There was limited restoration.  We climbed one small pyramid that only had enough vegetation removed for a single path to the top. How amazing to have this place to ourselves.

Unsurprisingly, there was a lot of wildlife. I was excited to see my first flock of Ocellated Turkeys. Considering their riotous colors, this bird may be the Americas closest contender to peacocks. We saw hummingbirds, mixed flocks with up to seven species of neotropical warblers, and many flycatchers including, appropriately, the endemic Yucatán Flycatcher.

It is no longer easy to have such a sense of discovery when traveling. The visit to Sihunchen was a rare example—climbing a fence, having a gate unlocked, and a ruin to ourselves. On a later trip, although entrance to the site was open, the guard opened the fabulous stucco frieze at Balamku.  The frieze, depicting Mayan rulers and a sacred mountain is 16.8 m (55 ft) long and 1.75 m (5.7 ft) high.

Our interest in the Mayans had begun with those early trips to Cozumel in the 1980s. I had read John L. Stephens’ famous books (Incidents of Travel in Yucatán, Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatán) describing his explorations with illustrator Frederick Catherwood in the 1840s.  I had acquired and read translations of books written near the time of the Conquest and several by more recent explorers.

Recent decades have been rich with new discoveries. Mary and I read articles and watched documentaries as they appeared. Indeed, between our early visits in the 1980s and our recent trips, a young researcher proved that the glyphs on Mayan stellae (large rock slabs) and on buildings were language, a history, not simply names and dates as had been assumed.

It was remarkable to learn that the young researcher who had deciphered these writings was spurned until the old guard of Mayan researchers passed away. I have always believed we should listen more to younger voices; here was another example.

All this explains why, on our third trip, we were descending into Aktun Usil with Lourdes. We had met Lourdes at Oxkintok—a small ruin southwest of Mérida. We were fortunate to have good directions. The road was an obscure track. The small sign for the ruin, unattached on one side and hanging sideways from the other, was not visible from the highway.

As with most small Mayan ruins, Oxkintok had a small guard house where a fee was collected. Then, we were free to explore.

For a ruin such as Oxkintok, archaeologists and anthropologists had, of course, been there before us. Thus, from the internet, we could find maps and explanations. From our studies, we understood the differences in the various Mayan periods and could compare architectural styles from site to site.  Often some stabilization and restoration had been accomplished, but unlike the highly-publicized and well-known locations such as Chichén Itzá , at minor ruins such as Oxkintok, we could climb the small pyramids and enter most of the buildings.

Most of the locations were safe enough.

Becán has larger pyramids than most of the small ruins but they are so steep that thick ropes are suspended to use for safety. Climbing those was exhilarating. From the top, in the far distance, the great pyramids at Calakmul were visible.

The only time I was fearful was at the ruins of Xpujil.  I climbed interior steps to the top of one of the structures.  The steps were of such great age and use that they were worn into a downward slant.   They were also thick with dust. The ascent was not too bad, but coming down, the fine dust filled my eyes in the already dim stairway. The slippery and thick layer of dust combined with the angle of the steps was precarious.  The tunnel was just wide enough that I could not brace myself against the sides. There were no handholds.  I was unnerved.  If I had slipped, I would have tumbled all the way to the bottom. I was relieved to emerge safely. It was fascinating to wander these sites on our own, giving us both a sense of discovery as well as wonder at the sophistication in construction exhibited by the Maya. 

Lourdes, a young lady with strongly Mayan features, had been at Oxkintok’s entry displaying photos of paintings. We believed she was offering to guide us through Oxkintok, so we declined. However, on departure, we realized we had seen nothing like her photos. She was talking to the guard, so we approached and asked where the paintings were. How had we missed them? Finally, we understood they were at a nearby site, in a cave actually. Showing that site was her guiding gig. “Why not?” We thought.

Lourdes had a bicycle but gestured that she needed to board our car. We cleared space for her, and she directed us back down the road about a mile and onto a little-used dirt track. Plants and brush were rubbing against the undercarriage and then we emerged onto a limestone slab.  I looked quizzically at Mary, not wanting to blow a tire on the sharp rock and wondering how far we had to go.

Abruptly, Lourdes told us to stop. We followed her through the brush toward a small hill below which was an opening to a cavern.

Ultimately, we learned the site, Aktun Usil, had been featured in an article in National Geographic. With a strong flashlight, we could see carvings and paintings on the ceiling and walls. It became apparent, and as explained to us by Lourdes, this cavern, now dry, had once been a cenote and water source. As we wandered the cave, Lourdes showed us small carved shrines and recent offerings because the cave was still sacred to some of the locals. Certainly, others have seen Aktun Usil, but our unexpected, private tour was a treat.

As we returned Lourdes to her bicycle, we told her we were going to Chacmultun the following day after spending the night in Santa Elena. She suggested we not return to the highway but continue on the road past Oxkintok. We could bisect an area of jungle we would otherwise have had to circumnavigate.

The map on our gps showed no road but depicted the little dot representing our car as passing through a green expanse. A few times, vegetation scraped both sides of our car. Meeting another vehicle would have been problematic. Luckily, we encountered no one and emerged onto the highway, saving considerable driving time.

Chacmultun, in contrast to Oxkintok, was not a collection of buildings on a plain, but several groups of structures including one upon a rare steep hill. Having more natural relief here, building on the heights yielded the advantage of a pyramid without the need to construct one. We spent most of a day exploring and climbing on the buildings. Birding here was excellent and we saw no one else.

Our favorite large ruin was Calakmul. Current studies are revealing both how large the site is and that Calakmul was likely more important than Chichén Itzá, Uxmal and the other more well-known locations.  Calakmul is also a Biosphere Reserve; the largest intact forest in the Americas besides what remains of the Amazon. Located on the border with Belize and Guatemala, the site is two hours from a main road and 1 1/2 hours from a hotel.  Thus, there are no souvenir vendors nor many visitors.  Because so much is unexcavated and unrestored, combined with its remote location, Calakmul combines the sense of discovery of the minor sites with feelings of mystery and magnificence because of its size and complexity.
 
The tallest pyramid at Calakmul is an impressive 55m, nearly twice as tall as the Pyramid of Kukulkan (30m) at Chichén Itzá.  And this pyramid could be climbed. The views were magnificent: a vast expanse of dark, green jungle broken by an occasional mound—signifying another ancient site.

Wildlife was abundant: Ocellated Turkeys, Great Curassows, deer, foxes, agoutis, spider and howler monkeys. I also enjoyed an excellent view of a Black-throated Blue Warbler—a species which nests mostly along the US-Canadian border.

Visiting such a variety of sites allowed us to observe how the architecture became more intricate and then declined in conjunction with the progress and decline of the Mayan civilization. The so-called pre-Classic period began about 250CE. Their civilization reached its zenith about 900CE and then declined precipitously. The collapse occurred before the Conquest resulting in much scholarship to understand why. Overpopulation, overexploitation of the shallow soil and drought have all been blamed and collectively these provide a lesson for hubristic societies today.

Besides the quantity and richness of the lesser-known ruins, we had under-appreciated the Yucatán’s wildlife and birding. Near the small town of Chuburná, we visited wetlands replete with a variety of herons, shorebirds, and large flocks of American Flamingoes. South of Campeche, we found a tiny beach area where, while swimming, we saw an endangered West Indian Manatee.

Jungle birding was excellent. I realized virtually any species found in Belize, a popular destination for birders, is found in this area of Mexico.  Examples are near endemic rarities such as Rose-throated Tanager and the poorly named Gray-throated Chat (It has a bright red belly).  I found the latter by recognizing the correct habitat off of a side-road near the ruin of Dzibilchaltún. 

This area is also the primary wintering grounds for many neotropical migrants such as Magnolia Warblers and Least Flycatchers which were abundant.  Besides these, there are also several endemics—species found nowhere else. Many have names beginning, appropriately enough with Yucatán: Yucatán Flycatcher, Yucatán Jay, Yucatán Nightjar and more.

Our most extraordinary wildlife experience, however, was the “bat volcano,” located 1 ½ hours east of Escarcega, almost to the village of Xpujil.  More than three million bats emerge each evening.  The bats reside in caverns at the base of a steep cylindrical sinkhole approximately 50m deep and an equal distance in diameter. Near dusk, bats pour out of the fissures that surround the bottom of the deep hole. There are so many bats the breeze caused by their wings is felt on the bodies of on-lookers and rustles the leaves in the trees.

As usual, however, it was birding, the elusive Rose-throated Tanager, which led to our memorable visit to the small village of Xocen.   Via Facebook, I messaged the “Yucatán Jay Birders Club.” I had noted interesting birds listed by the club posted on eBird.   The “Club” was born when some young men from the village recognized there were unusual birds on their lands. They realized birders like me would pay for access and for help finding the birds. The young men from the village were all busy but fortunately, Joel, a young guide from Mérida, worked with the group and was available.

Once Joel and I had agreed upon dates and fees, I asked whether there would be anything of interest to occupy Mary while I was birding.  Entertaining non-birders was part of the plan, it seemed. Joel said Mary should certainly come along.

We arrived at the village early one morning and followed Joel to a small traditional hut. As with elsewhere in the Yucatán, traditional Mayan villages are disappearing. Modern buildings already had a significant presence and had lined the entrance road. The little compound we were led to had several traditional huts made of sticks packed with mud and thatched with palm fronds. Mary was introduced to a couple of ladies in traditional Mayan clothing. Joel and I went birding.

The birding was everything I hoped for. We quickly found a female Rose-throated Tanager. I was excited to see the rare bird, even though females are a dull yellow brown. We found many other species, mostly wintering neotropical migrants such as Hooded and Worm-eating Warblers. As noon approached, I was beginning to think that was all we would find.  Fortunately, in quick succession we found a male Rose-throated Tanager and my other major target, Gray-collared Becard. I was elated!

As we returned for lunch, I wondered how Mary’s morning had been. She was happy but said she had felt awkward.  The ladies showed her crafts and she had bought a few, but mostly, she observed as they performed their normal routines.  She learned how the village ladies had pooled scarce finances and purchased their own grinder for corn. Corn tortillas are the dietary staple and each morning, a bag of previously par-boiled corn is ground into masa for use in tortillas. Mary also observed the slaughtering and cleaning of the chicken that went into a pot for our lunch.  Mary said she felt warmly welcomed, but that it was embarrassing to have a part in turning an ordinary day of a fading culture into a “show.”    In fact, the corn-to-tortillas process was something we were privileged to observe. Although these tasks are performed throughout Central and South America, and have been for centuries, they are disappearing.

There was a small griddle set at an angle over a wood fire. Here is where the grandmother sat on a small stool most of the day.  She would grab some of the coarse masa dough and deftly form a golf ball sized piece and pat it down with her fingertips to form a flat thin disk from the center out. The tortilla was then tossed on the griddle as she reached for another handful of masa. With timing learned over generations, she would reach for the tortilla at just the right time and flip it to cook the other side as she prepared the next. When finished, she removed the tortilla from the griddle and tossed it on a pile.

We ate first and were provided with forks. I noticed the family simply used their tortillas as both food and utensil. Although still common throughout Mexico and Central America, it was exciting to participate in the real thing, sitting with the family, watching the tortillas made and eating a stewed chicken as they had done for generations.

How long will these practices persist? How long until it becomes solely a reenactment performed for tourists? Already, one of the younger generation in this family had constructed a separate dwelling—out of concrete blocks and including electric lights.

Others had left for school or for jobs that morning on their motorcycles. What will happen when the grandmother passes away? Will the younger generation simply buy mass-produced tortillas at the local OXXO store that we had passed on the entrance road? Will they buy their chicken there too?

I had seen their milpas, patches of corn, while birding. Among the housing and cooking structures, were herbs and food plants in small pots. But, we also saw encroachment of modernity. Traditionally, bones and inedible trash are thrown in the jungle. Native creatures soon made this human detritus vanish. Unfortunately, now that products wrapped in plastic and foil have found their way into the village, these now fluttered from nearby bushes. While birding, I had observed unsightly piles of garbage dumped randomly. Will the younger generation realize in time how much such practices threaten their future?

That afternoon, Joel took us to meet the head of the village, an elderly man. I should note here that I asked Joel if a tip was expected and he replied, “No, we are just visiting.” As we toured the village, we never saw a hint of anything but pride in their culture and pleasure that we had come for a visit.

The village elder and his family had a compound separate from the rest of the village and town. There were several traditional thatched huts and covered outside basins for doing laundry and cooking. There were a few animals inside of fences constructed of the same native wood as the huts.  It was important to our host that we see the cemetery where his ancestors were buried. The “Day of the Dead,” would arrive in a couple of weeks, and here the family would decorate these graves and spend the night celebrating their deceased family members. 

The beekeeping was also fascinating. The native bees (Melipona beecheii) are not as productive as are our non-native bees. They reside in a log with small holes.  They are endangered, probably because of loss of habitat and changes in flora in the jungle. We may have seen one of the last people obtaining honey in this manner.

What is most important about Xocen, however, is the belief that it is the Center of the World—a conviction honored by The Church of the Three Crosses.  The three crosses are central to the cult of the Speaking Cross. The Speaking Cross cult developed during the Caste War* when the Mayans attempted to evict their Spanish opressors. Early in the war, the Mayans might have successfully driven out the Spanish, but they ceased engagement when it was time to return home to do their planting.

Skirmishes continued for more than 50 years (1847 into the early 1900s). Near what is now Filipe Carrillo Puerto, a Maya man found a cross at the base of a tree next to a cenote. The cross spoke to him, giving him instructions on how to battle the Spanish. Over the years, people gave offerings to the cross and eventually a religion grew from it.

Joel introduced us to the priest whose demeaner was grave and respectful. We were welcomed into the small church with only the admonition that photography was prohibited. On the altar, were three crosses–one of stone, one wood, and one painted green. All three were covered with traditional Mayan dresses. and adornments. The altar was filled with disparate objects: plants, clothing, even toys such as a doll. These must have been offerings. On tables in front were lighted candles, apparently serving the same purpose as they do in Christian churches

Afterwards, in front of the church, we bowed our heads as the priest blessed us with fronds of a sacred plant that had been dipped in the nearby spring. We felt solemn and blessed ourselves. After all, we were at Xocen, the “Center of the World.”

*The Caste War was a major conflict.  That its occurrence is unknown throughout most of the Americas is unconscionable.  Overall, it is a story of native people rebelling against colonialism. Sadly, US business interests played a significant role in the death and destruction.  The best single history is: The Caste War of Yucatan, by Neslon Reed, Stanford University Press.

With me along some Strip of Herbage strown

That just divides the desert from the sown,

Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,

And pity Sultán Máhmúd on his Throne.

[Verse X from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (E. Fitzgerald, translator)]

I think of “Sultán Máhmúd” while I spit another watermelon seed at the scurrying hermit crabs.  They whisk the seeds away to eat later. 

Melon juice drips on my bare chest.  I am sitting on the edge of the wooden porch.  I do not want a sticky surface to walk on.  A sticky body?  No worries.  The ocean is a mere 30 meters away.   In a few moments, as the waves cleanse my body, I’ll watch Magnificent Frigatebirds sail gracefully overhead. They will likely be joined by Black and Turkey Vultures and Brown Pelicans. 

The hot sun will soon assert itself.  I will leave the ocean, rinse off the salt water at the outdoor shower, return to the porch and resume reading. My book is interesting.  Nevertheless, reading for long periods eventually makes me drowsy.  But, after a snack, a swim and a cooling shower, reading will, again, be peaceful and natural. 

Poor “Sultán Máhmúd”! 

The world is full of Sultán Máhmúds.  Always wanting more money or more power or a bigger house.  They are a mystery to me.  In much of business, and particularly in politics, they vie for the various thrones even though they could “buy and sell” me many times over.  I do not understand why. 

I have seen them on vacation. They fly into the airport in Liberia and are whisked by a driver to the Hilton or the Hyatt or a clone of such. A bracelet is put on their arms. A wave, and waiters race to do their bidding.  Evenings require a decision of which theme restaurant to attend. 

I worked for a man once who drove a Porsche, stayed only at the finest places, and ate at the best restaurants.  He loved passing a $50 bill to the maître-d to ensure we were treated royally.  He was always thinking about work. His marriage failed.  He would have hated this place.  

Here, on occasion, dinner consists of bean tostadas.  Other days, we knock on a door to let the cook at a local restaurant know there are clients for dinner.  On go the lights.  We take one of the three or four tables and order. 

We bring our own coffee and other staples purchased on the long drive from San Jose.  Two days a week, the fruit and vegetable truck arrives. We buy a papaya, a few more mangoes and a melon.

There really is so much wrong here.  After all, the name of this beach is Zancudo—the word for mosquito in Spanish.  How did it get that name?  We sleep under a mosquito net.

Larger creatures can enter too. Once, I had to catch a bat and put it back outside.  Another time I shared the shower with a small bird.

The cabin is a single room with a small bathroom/shower. The kitchen is a hot plate next to the sink.  The village’s only road, unpaved, is next to our cabin. Most mornings a motorcycle or two rattles by at 4 or 4:30, and then a truck loudly rumbles along bouncing through the potholes.

The beach is rarely cleaned. At the margin of high tide, there is every sort of plastic trash.  It is unsightly unless one finds beauty in the bright blue of a discarded flip-flop or the day-glo green of an old bleach bottle.  If barefoot, one steps carefully through the plastic and other flotsam, mostly coconut shells, to enter the ocean. 

There’s no beachcombing here either.  Shells are almost absent because the beach has such a long, slight slope.  The plastic mess, however, can be convenient.  One time we needed plastic utensils and found them easily after only a few moments of searching. 

There are no rules for the beach so randomly a 4-wheeler or a motorbike noisily passes by.

And the sand! Its brown, not brilliant white.  The water isn’t Caribbean or Hawaiian Blue either.  Not that its roily or dirty, but the soft sandy bottom, despite the gentle wave action, prevents the clarity loved by divers and snorkelers.  Waves and surfing can be found an hour or so farther down the coast at Pavones.

I am a birder.  That must explain why I am here.  The bird list as of February 2022 is 242 species–poor by Costa Rican standards.  Less than two hours to the northwest is Esquinas Rainforest lodge with a list of 398 – or drive northeast for a similar distance, up the hill to San Vito, and there is the Las Cruces Biological station run by the Organization for Tropical Studies.  The list at Las Cruces is 460.

I do go birding here.  There’s an old dock which allows access to the midst of some mangroves.  To find it, I look for the mound where the village piles its garbage and turn toward the river/estuary.  The old dock is broken.  In the middle, I hang on to a rusty railing to keep from sliding off the broken concrete and lower myself to the shattered pieces lying in the mud—if the water isn’t too high to preclude passage.  Then, I pull myself up the slanted slab on the other side and continue.

Behind our cabin and across the road are more mangroves.  This area seems to be the alternate dump site for the village inhabitants. There are crabs scurrying about consuming the detritus.  The mud slurps at my shoes, but I can work my way inside for about 3 meters and see what birds might be present.

As I write, my next visit to this place, the 13^th, is already planned.  If I come here so often, it must be because it is inexpensive.  

Indeed, I would like to claim that adherence to one of my favorite quotes from Thoreau, “my greatest skill has been to want but little,” explains why I am here.  I have been fortunate to care little what someone else has.    I retired earlier than many of my contemporaries.  I felt like the overarching goal of my career was to obtain time, not money. This is one of my favorite places to spend that time.

I am here because I like it.

Clearly, I need to start again.  Yes, Zancudo means mosquito. I suspect the name may deter more visitors than do the insects.  They are no worse here than anywhere else in the lowland tropics.  Something I like, however, is that this is a beach where you can’t buy a t-shirt with its name on it. 

The cabin, while small, is spotless.  Everything works.  The time for walking to the beach is measured in seconds. 

The people are friendly.  The little restaurants serve excellent food. 

We avoid holidays. The rest of the time the beach is nearly deserted.  We have many photos taken first to the north and then to the south, showing 200m or more of the beach, and there are no other people.  If others are present, it is usually one or two and not close by. 

Those early morning noisy vehicles? There are only two or three.  We always arise about 5 anyway.  That way I can be in the water and watch the Brown Pelicans as they travel from the west end of the beach, where they spend the night, to the east where the foraging must be better.

The pelicans sail along the crest of the near-shore waves employing “wave-slope soaring.”  They take advantage of the lift provided by “localized updrafts caused by traveling ocean surface gravity waves”–an explanation, taken from a scientific paper, that makes it sound like Quantum Mechanics. 

I keep only enough of my head above water to breathe. I want the pelicans to think I am a floating coconut so they will pass overhead.  They are not fooled.  They move over a meter or two, but I still hear the whoosh of air from their wings.  

I watch the sun as it rises through the beachside palm trees, eventually shining brightly on me and the water.  Soon enough it will be time for coffee and fresh fruit on the shady porch. 

While it is necessary to step over trash on the way to the water, when the tide is out there might be 30-40 meters of soft, clean sand to cross before meeting the placid surf.  Then you might walk another 30 or 40 meters, only sloshed slightly by gentle waves, until the water reaches your chin.  It can be a warm, calm swimming pool. 

After dark, preferably on a moonless night, the bioluminescence of phytoplankton brightens your swim.   Then, when you exit the ocean, if the tide is out, the entire night sky, star-by-star, may be reflected on the beach. 

 A small motorbike or 4-wheeler may go flying by at any time—but there probably won’t be another for an hour or two.

That dirt road with the noisy motorcyles is all that separates the cabin from the mangroves. The trash is unpleasant, but most of the creatures one expects in that habitat are present.  Consequently, within 10-20 meters of the cabin, I have seen Cocoa Woodcreepers and Common Black Hawks.  Most days, a Bright-rumped Attila reminds us to eat it-eat it- eat it nooww.  Often there is a Black-hooded Antshrike, whose call has been described as an “accelerating chuckle.”   

Red-lored Parrots and Orange-chinned Parakeets regularly perch in the taller trees.  Even better, the obligate dwellers of the mangroves are also present: Mangrove Yellow Warbler, Boat-billed Heron, Panama Flycatcher and the endemic Mangrove Hummingbird.  

And the bird I shared the shower with? It was a Northern Waterthrush.  Where I live in Western Colorado, a Northern Waterthrush sighting is much sought-after.  Here, in the right season, one is often underfoot anytime we walk to the beach.  Sitting on the porch, we see them scurrying about under the shrubs like mice.

Because we only visit annually, it is difficult to assess the abundance of mammals, but we have seen Squirrel Monkeys, White-faced Monkeys and Mantled Howler Monkeys from the cabin.   The latter sometimes join the occasional motorcycle as our alarm clock. 

On my last visit, near the broken-down dock, I spied a local teenage girl. She waved determinedly at me. At first, I wondered if I was being admonished for trespassing.  Instead, she pointed upwards to show me a Brown-throated Sloth.   Her name was Katia.  In return for her favor, I showed her some birds. 

When I tire of the mangroves and the beach, I drive ten minutes to adjacent rice fields. I decry recent ditching and draining that have eliminated the final vestiges of what were once large wetlands.  But, when the rice fields are being plowed and many insects are exposed, the bird life is dramatic. Black and Turkey vultures are the most visible and common, but Swainson’s and Common Black Hawks also soar over the fields.   Wood storks and a variety of other waders are present: Great, Snowy and Cattle Egrets, Great Blue, Green, and Little Blue Herons, and Bare-throated Tiger Herons. 

Although Zancudo’s bird list is not stunning, there are Costa Rican rarities.  My only sightings of Sapphire-throated Hummingbird and Veraguan Mango are here.  Other Panamanian species that might be seen include Savannah and Gray-lined Hawks, Pearl Kite and Red-breasted Meadowlark.

My only meaningful complaints are the coming changes.  Quiet locations such as this are vanishing. Since we have been coming a one-lane bridge has replaced a ferry.  Much of the road has been paved. The last 40 kilometers formerly required two hours.  Now, we complete the drive in half the time.   The owner of the last sizable forest tract has divided it into lots. None have sold–yet.  Don’t buy one!