My Panama Life

Big Daddy's Grill, Boquete

2011-10-28T07:15:00.014-06:00

Boquete's Freshist Fish
Daily Specials
Best Margarita
Fast Service
Organic Salads
Vegetarian Options
Family Friendly
Outdoor Seating
Take Out (507) 6683-3354
PRICES: $1.50 - $8.95
HOURS: Tuesday - Saturday, Noon - 9:00
Sundays, Noon - 8:00
CLOSED MONDAY

Made with "LOVE & BUTTER" from Elizabeth's kitchen

ABOUT OUR FOOD


World Famous FISH TACOS

THE SLAGLES (Sans our Med-School Bound Dylan).

"DOUBLE DOG" HAND-DIPPED CORN DOGS + BY-HAND ONION RINGS

Big Daddy's purchases all it's fish fresh from the boats of Boca Chica, Pedregal, and occasionally from our local fishmonger, Miguel.

Depending on the catch, varieties include: Tuna; Snook; Amber Jack; Swordfish; Dorado; Corvina; Pargo; Shrimp & more.

Fish is served GRILLED or FRIED, as a sandwich, atop a gorgeous salad, or as a platter ... with a choice of delicious sides. We've been told by folks who know that our Grilled Fish Tacos are some of the world's best! Sandwiches (Fish; Chicken Breast; Vegetable) are ample and served on a bakery bun. For someting Very Panamanian, try the Whole Fish "Entero" ...
Our Fried Chicken is juicy and cooked to perfection! Corn Dogs & Onion Rings are hand-dipped. It's been said by many that Big Daddy's Grill has the Best Burger in town, served with a side of Pickles, LTM plus Cole Slaw, Fries or Rice & Beans. Our Grilled & Blackened Tuna Sandwich has become a local favorite. Portions are ample so you never leave hungry!

FOR HEALTHY EATERS
Whether you are Gluten Free, Vegan, Vegetarian or just a Healthy Eater, we have several options for those who don't want to sacrifice taste for freshness! Our large Salad Platters are Organic, Hydroponic & Hand Washed. Dressings are home-made and include Strawberry or Olive-Lime. vegetarians can fill up on Salads, Delcious Vege Tacos or our own Home-Made, Vegan Friendly Burger.

Daily Dessert is prepared by Elizabeth with -- as our son William says -- "love and butter." Now what's better than Love and Butter?

Big Daddy's is known for Boquete's BEST MARGARITA prepared with our ownk Home Made Sour Mix and Premium Liquors!

Dine in the peaceful setting of a Panamanian "Patio" (backyard), in our casual dining room, or, for a busy street side view, out on the front porch.

PHOTO GALLERY

Chocolate Brownie Cake just for Lindsey

Sra. Maria; Belkis; Yorliseth; Odalys Veronica; Ariel; Roddy "Dog"

Chris & Lindsey on her Birthday

THE PATI0

ELIZABETH'S APPLE TART

WHOLE, FRIED CORVINA WITH PATACONES

FAMOUS GRILLED & BLACKENED TUNA SANDWICH

TENDER, FILET MIGNON SANDWICH, SIDE HORSERADISH SAUCE

SNOOK ON SALAD, OLIVE-LIME VINAIGRETTE

CHEESY, FRUITYM VEGETABLE TACOS WITH BLACK BEANS & RICE

TENDER "PINKS" ATOP ORGANIC SALAD, PEACH ICED TEA

BRENDA, MARK AND GUESTS


DRINKS WITH FRIENDS ON THE FRONT PORCH

AT THE BACK BAR WTIH BELKIS

HOT STAFF, ODALYS VERONICA & BELKIS

SPANISH COFFEE

My Panama Porn Dogs

2011-05-04T09:13:00.003-06:00

Yes, dear reader, I said "Porn Dogs." So send the kiddies out for ice cream. This one's for you.

We have a small restaurant in Panama and one of our most popular menu items are our hand-dipped Corn Dogs on a stick. We figured that since Panamanians love "meat on a stick" and also corn meal, Corn Dogs just seemed a natural way to go.

It's fun to watch people eat a Corn Dog for the very first time. It turns out, there is more than one way to down a dog.

Some folks will slide the whole thing off the stick and eat it daintily with a knife and fork, the way they'd tackle, say, a chicken breast. Others cut it up into little bits or chunks. Then there are those who turn it on its side, holding it by the stick, and nibble away, Corn-on-the-Cob style. And the there's the X-rated way of attacking a corn dog.

I have a regular customer who loves our "Double Dog" basket. He's an elegant, older gentleman, but when he's in front of those two puppies, he exclaims, every time and with each bite "Wow! Elizabeth... Tell Larry this is one good corn dog!"

I always sit with him when he come is, partly because he's elderly and alone and I adore him. . But also because I'm afraid he's going to kill himself in the process. Every bite he takes becomes a brain-bleeding, nerve wracking moment because of the way he eats those pups.
.
Rather than practice "safe" eating methods, he holds the thing by the stick and then just descends, plunges actually, straight down on it in what I can only describe as 'deep throating the dog'... or what I now refer to fondly as eating it "Porn Dog" style.

The visuals aside, the bigger problem is that every time he goes down on that dog, he exposes more and more of the stick. But instead of sliding the remaining food upwards, he just continues shoving that dog straight down his gullet, -- stick and all -- until I truly fear he is going to stab himself in the uvula.

One day, sitting at the next table, a gentleman, also with a Double Dog basket, called me over to say he hadn't realized the Corn Dogs had "bread" on them and he was on a low-carb diet, so could I please take them away and cut off the coating for him? Okay people. I do aim to please my customers. But I couldn't help notice that he was closer in age to sixty than to ten, and, wondering for a teensy weensy second if he was next going to ask me to cut up his food in pieces for him, I was tempted, just for a teensy, weensy, split instant, to just deep throat those puppies and yank off that bread with my teeth.

Instead, I smiled, stepped away, and happily, gently, even tenderly removed the corn meal with a knife and fork. Very respectable.

My Panama Life At My Doorstep

2011-04-20T06:23:00.001-06:00

My Panama Life happens right outside my front door.

The Balboa Beer Truck

The Taylors Drive By, Christmas, 2010

A Bird In Hand

Band Practice, Buen Pastor School

Miguel, the Fish Guy

Katy in the Middle

Graduation Day, on to Middle School!

G' Night, Horse.

Braces. My Panama Impulse Purchase.

2011-01-05T16:33:00.004-07:00

Okay, I've never actually gotten plastered on naked, upside-down Margaritas and woken up with a tattoo. But yesterday I'm pretty sure I topped myself on impulse purchases.
I got braces.
Just ... like ... that.

I had accompanied William on his usual once-a-month orthodontia appointment from Dr. Spiegel, one of three in David, but the only Dr. Speigel who visits Boquete. As we were leaving, William mentioned that my front tooth, crooked and jutting out since childhood, was on a new and visible course all it's own.

Yes, I had actually noticed last week in a photo that suddenly it looked like I was growing a fork out of my front lips… or a tiny, pointy weapon.

As if it isn’t bad enough that a quick glance at my elbows reminds me that I look more like my kid’s grandmother than the sassy mom of a twelve year old; Oh boy! Now I get to battle a snaggletooth?

The thing I love about orthodontia in Boquete is the no-pretense, no-frills style. William had initially come in with a $10 X-ray in hand, and not the 3-D Panoramic landscape you get in the states that when they upload and projected it into a state-of-the-art software program, you can hardly capture the landscape of your kid's mouth without using special eyeglasses just to view it. Plus, in the USA, our orthodontist has an office with a special Game Room so the children could be thoroughly entertained instead of having to endure, well... waiting! Plus we got pamphlets and special holiday emails. And long explanations of why with was going to cost $3,000 for Phase One. And another three grand for Phase Two.

Nope. Here in Boquete all we turned up with ws a $10 X-ray. And that's not all.

So the doctor takes the X-ray, snaps a quick photo of the X-ray with his own camera, uploads it onto his laptop and... Voila! William's jutting overbite is there, in all it's two-dimensional glory. A half hour later William emerged with braces. One reasonable down-payment, monthly check-ups at $50 a pop and after only six months, William's extreme overbite and receding chin were so transformed his case was discussed at the latest convention in Acapulco.

So, yesterday, as we were finishing up a regular check-up, William innocently but honestly mentioned, as nicely as he could, that from the my profile view, I was "beginning to look like, well, Mom... Okay, don't take this personally Mom....but you look a little like a rat… but don't worry Mom. It's only from the side. Sorry!”

The orthodontist casually suggested he "take a look," no appointment necessary. So on a whim, or maybe because I really don't want to resemble a Rat!... I said “Okay, but do I need fancy X-rays and stuff?” To this he quickly whipped out his camera and 20 minutes later, no kidding, 20 minutes later, with William pinch hitting as the doctor’s assistant, in Spanish, I walked out with a set of front braces. Purple, of course, because purple goes with my skin tone.

By the time I got home and stared in minor horror as I bared my teeth in the mirror, it dawned on me what I had taken on. And it was a done deal. This must be what it's like to wake up in your twenties, after a wild night during spring break, to discover you have a Yin Yang symbol tattooed on your lower back that maybe you didn’t think all the way through?

Okay. I actually don’t have a tattoo. But on a whim, I do now have braces. Wrinkly elbows, low estrogen, and purple braces. I'll probably be sixty when they come off. Or dead.

There you go!

Another Panama Parade

2011-01-02T14:15:00.002-07:00

I heard that between ten and twenty thousand people came to downtown Boquete for the November 28 independence day parade. When I dropped William off in the park, it was 7:00 a.m..
The parading began at 8:00-ish and lasted close to15 hours -- without a break. Just this endless, flowing and flamboyant, sixteen-hour long caterpillar.

Folks show up by bus loads, on bikes, in cars and on foot. The come early, wedging their cars where they can, changing clothing while crouched behind an open car door, or at the river's edge.

Ngobe people, perched on a hillside by the main road.

Most local schools participate, this being William's class.

I got a "thumbs up!"


One of dozens of parading groups.

Graduation Day, Panama

2010-12-20T20:28:00.002-07:00

At the Instituto Guadalupano, being graduated from Kindergarten and the Sixth Grade are considered important milestones, acknowledged by an elaborate "recognition" ceremony, including gifts and a special mass later in the week. Our little dude is the only "gringo" in the group... alas. Ditto, as far as I could tell, during our 15 hour, non-stop Independence Day Parade, where William marched with his classroom in his ethnic dance costume.

The little ones wore cap and gown. It was a darling celebration.

Maestra Vielsa is practically an institution here,
having taught many of William's friends' parents!

Abram & William in uniform, graduation day.

A Taste of Town; My Panama Apartment

2010-12-09T07:27:00.027-07:00

This One Bedroom Apartment has Wireless internet, Satellite TV & Laundry Service.
Read on for description and photos.

In Panama: (507) 720-1755
USA Phone: (941) 351-0378
E-Mail: ebslagle@hotmail.com

We love our Downtown Boquete neighborhood. Only 3-1/2 blocks from the heart of town, it's just far enough off the beaten track to offer peace, but walking distance to the Language Schools and all the adventures Boquete has to offer: Coffee Tours; Rafting & Kayaking; Horseback Riding; Hiking; Zip Line Tree Trek; Birding; ATV Tours, and more.

Plus, our street is full of real Panama life, inhabited mostly by farmers who have lived on this street for thirty and forty years. Horses pass by on a daily basis along with foot traffic mostly from Ngobe-Bugle people. Our fish vendor, Miguel, comes by once a week in his red truck. It's peaceful and safe, but never dull.

Bedroom (full size bed, closet)
Bath w/Shower (towels provided)
Full Kitchen w/ coffee maker, toaster, stove, oven, fridge, utensils, etc.
Living Area w/ Futon Sleeper,
full size (can handle 1 large or 2 small children. Yes. We like children.)
Satellite TV
Wireless Internet
Laundry & Maid Service

Photos Below:
Entrance to Apartment
Living Area
Full kitchen & Dining Area
Bedroom
Back Yard View
Front Street View

Entrance to the Apartment


Living Area, TV and Wireless Internet, Full-Futon.

Bedroom, full size bed, closet and mirror.

Full Kitchen, bedroom to left.

From the back yard.

View looking out your front door.

Redemption in Panama... Is Oprah The New Jesus?

2010-11-03T09:51:00.005-06:00

It's election day in the USA but here in Panama, it's raining so when the phone rings, I'm nestled snugly into my sofa. It's my brother Nicholas in California, calling to make sure we sent in our absentee ballots on time.

UH oh.
OH Boy.
Ummm . Okay. It seems we kind of screwed that one up this year.
Sorr-reee.

Without actually scolding, my responsible brother gently and firmly lets me know we have committed the unforgivable by giving away our precious votes to the Tea Party. But, practically in the same breath, all is not lost. He brightly explains (as he hits ENTER on his keyboard ) there is still time for me to single-handedly redeem my family from spending eternity in Hades by picking up the phone to make some "Get Out and Vote" calls using, of course, the link that now and already awaits me via his email.

My brother is, of course, is correct. Although I'm an Independent, left on some issues, surprisingly right on others, I am still registered as a Democrat, something I did in order to vote in the primaries -- which of course never counted since I was voting in Florida, where your votes magically disappear like socks in the dryer. I am, after all, a Ballard.

And Ballards vote. Ballards come from a long line of active Democrats -- that's "active" with a capital "A." My internalized parental and grand-parental values were rapidly surfacing, taking on the form of painful contrition. And guilt will kill you.

Also, I'm pretty sure I felt the earth moving under my house as my ancestors began to squirm in their graves.

So, while I definitely wanted to remain in my now form fitting spot on the couch, that wasn't going to happen; the guilt was now gnawing away at my lazy, easy day.

But was it the guilt alone that propelled me out of my comfort zone? Loyalty to my brother and our family ideals? Maybe it was my good old higher power calling me into action -- that faint voice of right and reason that I sometimes refer to as Uncle Jesus' Holy Spirit.

Or, perhaps, just maybe it was the voice of Oprah Winfrey herself!

Let's face it. Haven't most of us over the past 25 years been minding the messages of Oprah? Oprah leading us to meditate, eat /pray/love; dump the dieting; follow the mother ship (whatever that is); dive into the vortex (whatever that is); and oh yeah, above all, Vote!

Maybe it was Oprah herself calling to me all the way from Chicago. Chicago, city of my birth; home of Hull House and the great Jane Addams, alongside whom my grandparents worked and where they became directors after her death. Chicago...place of my parents' alma mater, the then matchless University of Chicago, and home of the progressive Hyde Park area, where my grandparents, and later Barack Obama himself resided, before he moved to the White House.

Whatever it was that pulled me into action, it worked.
I did the good deed.
I dialed. I persuaded. I left creative and cajoling messages, forgoing of course the provided internet Script.
And ... I began to feel better. I felt redeemed.
I had single-handedly brought the future of my children (and their children) away from the arms of hell and closer to heaven's embrace by my earnest campaigning efforts.

All this got me to thinking:
It's probably forgivable to disobey Jesus once in a while because, you know, Jesus is a pretty forgiving guy.
But it's not okay to go against Oprah.
Let's face it. If you cross Oprah, you probably go straight to hell.
So.
Is Oprah the new Jesus?
I don't know.
As of this writing, the ballots haven't been counted.

The "Blob" At My Panama Door

2010-08-31T05:33:00.004-06:00

There are worse surprises than finding a spider on your bed or a snake at your breakfast table.

Yesterday, very early, as I tidied up and swept my front porch, I noticed a pile of what looked like small trails of ... well... dirt? Only thing was, the pile was slowly moving down the path, like a slinking, slithering blob.

As I honed in on the mass of black, I realized that it was a glob of maybe a hundred black caterpillars, squiggling individually, but moving slowly, grotesquely and neatly as one collective and large mass.

I have to say, this spectacle kind of put me off my feed..

Yes, Taoists and Buddhists, I blasted them with my lethal weapon, an economy size can of Raid. No guilt.

And here they are, a little closer to the edge. (And so was I.)

The Water is Wide in Panama

2010-08-23T06:43:00.024-06:00

The water will have it's way... every time.
No matter how much time and money is spent o fortify what used to be a ribbon of river streaming through our town, and what now esembles a fortress, a canal, the river still goes where the river will.

Early this morning, the day after last night's sudden flooding in our valley, I took a drive through the valley to take in the after flow. Literally. Because some of this river is still flowing where it didn't.

This photo is not mine. But it is exactly what I faced at 7:00 this morning as I stood, mouth agape, at the sight of "The Rock" -- a popular riverside dining spot here in Boquete.

Carrying tree trunks, boulders and debris, the river snubbed the newly placed wall of boulders, or perhaps it just changed it's course entirely, and slammed into the side of the restaurant, which sits now on a sea of rock and sand, windows gone.

Where Nairn and I sat serenely six weeks ago, happily enjoying a riverside lunch, there are now only walls, walls without windows, walls nestled in mud, sand and water. As I walked away, a gentleman (perhaps the owner?) commented tongue in cheek "We're temporarily closed for business."

The B&B a hundred yards up from this still had part of the river running through it when I pulled away.

Ditto for the lovely home a few blocks down from our house. The deep, main river that ran along it's side seems to have stayed its course. However, the river that feeds it, and which winds its way through our neighborhood and behind this lovely stone house, overwhelmed the home entirely and last night it had to be evacuated. I heard they had to help the gentleman residing there out with a rope. When we passed, rain still falling, the lights on, door open, mud and water coursing through the causeway. Boots on, a neighbor and I held onto each other, trudged through the little river, and shut the door.

A neighbor and I shut the door once the water level was safe enough to navigate. Another neighbor parked their car in the driveway to stave off thieves. As of this morning, there appears to be water still flowing between the main house and casita.

After more than two and a half years here, after floods and mudslides and more floods, I have learned that you can't mess with a river. Eventually, the river wins. Below is part of the Boquete Gardens Inn which sits at an altitude over 3,000 feet. These photos just don't depict the real life drama Larry and I beheld later this day. The bridge was mostly gone and we heard (unconfirmed) that two cabanas were lost. Damage throughout the valley is intermittent but serious, damage that lies in the wake of a sea of rocks.

About Schooling In Boquete

2010-08-16T06:33:00.004-06:00

Toward the top of this blog, and in the right-hand column, you will find a section called PAGES.
In the same PAGES sections, you will also find a Directory of private schools in this immediate area.

Directory, Boquete Schools

2010-08-15T18:36:00.009-06:00

A the top right of this blog is a PAGE with a Director of Boquete's Private Schools, complete with contact information and pricing.

Our Panama Apartment, Before & After

2010-08-06T08:41:00.006-06:00

Was it really less than one year ago that we were all crammed into the little apartment attached to our downtown digs? Mid-renovation and we settled in to about 300 sq.ft of living space. Larry, me, William, one crazy-ass dog, plus the kitty. And hungry visiting kids. Not to mention a very rainy Rainy Season. Oh the mud. Larry rigged up TV and computer. We had a small bedroom, a tiny bath and I had, of course, a pretty good kitchen. It was pretty much what boat-living might be like. And we were fine.

For a long time after we moved to the main house, we just used the flat as a storage facility and occasional study area. But with my God daughter, Connie, due to arrive from New Zealand, via Mexico and Guatemala, we decided to give her a Panama nest.

Remember this?

Then ... This?

Well, now we have... this!

School Dazed: Educating Expat Kids in Panama

2010-07-03T14:03:00.007-06:00

Mahlin, Pyper & William Tricked Out for a School Performance, 2008

People often write to ask me about schooling choices, and I'm sorry to say I don't have the quick & easy answer to that one. Despite the gated communities that pepper our hillsides, Boquete is essentially a farming town with out-dated a school systems a la rote-style learning, copious copying, mandated military style hair for boys, uniforms for all -- a real throw-back to schools of an earlier era. But it's not all that bad, if you decide you want to stick it out.

Deciding how to handle your child's schooling depends much on your her or his learning style, adaptability and personality, as well as on your own goals for your child's education. Our school saga wasn't quick and it was hardly easy --I wouldn't want to do it again for all the licorice in Holland. But now that I can look back with relief, I can say it's ended up pretty well. So far.

When we came to Panama William was half way through the third grade. Frantic about what I was going to do when we arrived, I purchased and packed up an accredited Distance Learning program. It was a pretty great curriculum (Laurel Springs); easy to understand and to implement, in theory. The realities of teaching it to a resistant kid with a strong kinesthetic learning style who was also smack in the throes of adjusting to a new culture and language, not to mention a completely new family structure... well.... not so much a picnic! Dad did the lion's share of school, often finding himself smack into the middle of that personal hell and chaos: The Home School Battle Field.

But the challenges (and I use "challenges" euphemistically) sprang largely from issues around a total realignment of our family structure. Plus, there was that other thing going on.. the fact that we had just changed countries. So the problems had little to do with the program itself. Not everyone who transitions from traditional school to home school faces challenges. Maybe you come from hat one "functional family" we all keep hearing about; that elusive, perfect family the rest of us messy parents continually measure ourselves against, coming up short. If that's the case, you won't have any problems. I say "Go for it!"

Eventually, however, we worked it out and William successfully completed the third grade with dad while at the same time attending local school -- as an auditor -- from 10:00 - 1:00 p.m. At that time he did not speak more than a few words of Spanish but he began to pick it up.

The school system here can be a bear, especially for us the overly involved, controlling, sometimes impatient north American mommy. (Do you know anyone like that?) Communication is definitely challenges, even if you speak Spanish, and the schools don't exactly bend over backwards to make adjustments.

The sixth grade classroom at Instituto Guadalupano

In school, William had to withstand a certain amount of teasing and isolation and, as a mother, that is very hard to take. I'm crazy about my kid and I'm not really joking when I tell you that, at eleven (now), he's lucky I let him feed himself! I've seen many parents pull their children out of the local schools here after only a few months, and there were times when I was close, very close to doing the same.

Still, I would check in with him on this issue, this minimal bullying he was going through, weekly, and he said he wanted to persevere. (The day he told me, rather poignantly, that he had had enough, I immediately switched schools and he became much happier.) So, persevere we did and, through the process, we watched William develop decent coping strategies and also measurably mature.

Eventually I realized that clinging to the great relief provided by regular weekend gatherings of expat families was actually hindering the assimilation process. Our kid's feet just weren't fully or firmly planted in either world; he didn't really belong anywhere. That is why, after our first ten months and during the Panama school break, we pulled him away from the expats and watched him take off like a rocket!.

Spanish began to come steadily, fueled by William's socially driven engine and need to be verbal and make friends (a Ballard through and through). The next school year we continued with the Distance Learning and the part-time auditing until we were able to get matriculate him. I won't pretend this was easy; it was a process so prolonged and frustrating there were times I wanted to tear out my fingernails, one by one. However I proceeded with uncharacteristic patience and smiles -- lots of "Gracias" for nothing... while inside my brain was screeching '"FerGodSake hurry this up it doesn't make any sense I will be past menopause by the time we get this done!". But, testament to the idea that "this too shall pass," William was indeed matriculated. Today, our lives are easier and, I thin,k much richer for the experience.

Social life buzzes with an endless stream of friends, because they come from, well, from here. William is close to his classmates because they move on up to the next grades together, as a group. Play time is mostly free play, soccer, running around the neighborhood and the like. Very little time is spent on Game Boys, computers, and such (its definitely more like the 1960s childhood of my day).

At this year's annual school show, July, 2010

Sometimes I worry that we aren't pushing enough. I struggle, on a daily basis, with questions about whether my kid is getting enough. It's a never-ending internal tug-of-war. Our son is not going to be studying Mandarin or taking advanced placement classes so he can chalk up a his first years of college while at the same time, attending high school. But the anxiety we parents often impose on our children is one of the very reasons we moved away in the first place! The truth is, though, that William is getting the basics in school. (Most surprising is that ten of his classes are given in English, materials included!) And of course we fill in at home by continuing to read with and to William in English.

I try to remember that "children grow where you plant them." I also see that, because of our move to Boquete, Larry and I are very present in all aspects of son's life.

Each little person is different and no one understands the child's needs better than a loving parent. The choices parents make regarding an expat education will be very much directed by the type of child they have. Our choice to stay with a local school was in no small part driven by the active and social nature of our son. I know many families who are finding great success via home school (some accredited, some not, some piece-meal) and home school co-ops. Remember that of the roads you take will lead to a dead end, so, if it's not working out, try another route.

For a Directory of Schools in Boquete and Details on deciding about schooling,
you can refer to the "pages" on the right column of this blog.

Almost Dead: Healthcare in Panama

2010-06-21T07:27:00.001-06:00

One convenience of Panama living is that most medications (excepting opiates and controlled substances) can be purchased over the counter. The ability to self-diagnose and prescribe is a tempting convenience that can empower you. Or, it can kill you, a fact which I discovered in my usual manner ... the hard way.

I’ve suffered from allergy-related asthma nearly all my life. Plus, I'm the Mrs. Smarty-Pants-Know-It-All type who had more important things to do than spend time --and a whopping $30 bucks -- to visit a pulmonologist. Instead, I opted to purchase cheap and easy rescue inhalers and, eventually, antibiotic after antibiotic, huffing and puffing day after day until the days turned into years.

Then, on the morning of March 12th and after weeks of fighting to breathe, I ended up on a gurney at the local social security clinic, truly breaths away from death.

The social security clinic is not exactly what you can call state-of-the art. But it's only blocks away from my house, and I was thinking they’d have oxygen, which is what I figured I needed. Oxygen they had, but not a lung specialist, which, it turns out, is what I needed.

(Meanwhile I was being entertained by a guy on another stretcher, who lay passed out, reeking of alcohol and bleeding from what appeared to be a pretty serious head wound. And oh boy, lucky for me, despite his being unconscious, he was also unconsciously having a party in his pants with both hands, which was completely gross and I'm thinking “Hey...Give me some oxygen and get me the heck out of here.”)

Hours passed; four and a half, to be exact. "Party in-the-pants guy” had been whisked by ambulance to a hospital in the next city, forty minutes away. Several neighbors I recognized had come in with scrapes and other various ailments, been treated, and sent home. I continued to lie quietly, fighting for every single breath, thinking “Gee Wiz. Shouldn't I be in an ambulance too?”

But I didn't insist. Partly, I suppose, because I was denying the seriousness of my situation. I couldn't quite believe things were this bad. But also because, while I talk a good game when I’m feeling sassy, I suffer from that affliction known as "I really don’t want to bother anyone." As my friend Nairn so aptly put it, it's like this: What if I make them use their fancy ambulance on me ... and then I have the nerve not to die?

On top of this, I happen to have faulty internal yardstick. I am never quite certain that what I am experiencing in my world is what is really happening from the perspective of, well ... of everyone else. The internal monologue is “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not this bad? Maybe I'm not dying. Maybe I should check with someone else.”

So there I lay, waiting for I don't know what and, at the same time, having the quiet realization that there is a good chance I am actually going to croak right here on this gurney, and soon. (I've had my share of death fantasies and believe me when I say that this scenario never made the cut.)

I address this by giving Larry serious instructions about what to do if I expire. (“Do NOT let our snoopy son dig through all the journals and photographs from my ‘old life.’ My practice life. My life before Us. Swear it on my grave Larry!”)

I can’t tell whether Larry is taking me seriously and anyway, I can hardly talk, which right there should have been a pretty big clue that something was definitely not kosher because I'm a notorious twenty-four-seven chatter.

My lungs feel as thought they’re crammed to the hilt with soft, dry sponge, like a child’s stuffy toy. No matter how hard I fight and gasp to for every ... single ... breath, hardly any air goes in. I actually felt very afraid.

And, although I didn’t know what to call it at the time, I had developed a condition known as “silent chest.” (Looking back, I’d been this way before during the past year, at home, at night, somehow getting through it, but this time was much worse.) Silent chest is what happens when the lungs become so inflamed that almost no air can pass through. Talking becomes very difficult. Rescue medicine has no effect. Wheezing finally just stops, a symptom which doctors often, and mistakenly, as a sign of improvement, rather than what it is: a signal that you are on the brink of complete respiratory failure.

So there I am. Gasp and wait. Gasp and wait.

Finally, after a shot of steroids that proved ineffective, the doctor hands me a scrap of paper with the name of a lung specialist scrawled on it and tells me I need to see this guy because there is nothing here that can be done for me.

We thank everyone and leave, get in the car and head to the city of David, a forty minute ride (if traffic is flowing) on a two lane country road. William’s school is on the way and we pull over and grab him, take-out style. (I didn’t actually want him to come with us, but I wasn't exactly in a position to argue.) I can see his alarm when he gets a look at me. “Mom… Look at your face.” But I don’t look in the mirror. I’m afraid to look. So I stay calm and tell him I’m pale because I’m sick but it will be okay because we will be at the doctor’s soon.

Larry is completely focused on driving ... a true and quiet champion on the road. Now we are about thirty minutes away, if luck is on our side. William is silent. I’m quietly wondering if I will make it there before passing out.

Somehow, I managed to get through to the doctor's office and, not only was the doctor In, but he would wait. Anyone who has spent time in 'other world'' countries understands this is very lucky news. (Over here, even a confirmed appointment doesn’t guarantee that the doctor will be in.)

Soon after we arrive, they slap on the mask with the magic medicine and I can breath and I become giddy with relief.

The doctor then informed us that my lips and fingers had begun to turn blue and that I had been on the brink of total respiratory failure. Blue lips and fingers --no lollipop. He said I had been lucky ... very lucky ... and then of course he dressed me up and down in front of my family.

When you begin breathing again after having spent a good year struggling for air, it feels amazingly fresh and wonderful and a little miraculous. Still, it took me a good ten days to recover my strength from the ordeal.

Every clear breath I take now feels like a gift. I am reminded of something I once heard in a Rob Bell video that I watched at my friend Jenni's house. The video is called "Breath" and in it he talks about how the first thing we do when we are born is to take a breath, and the last action we take before we die is, again, to take our last breath. His suggestion is that perhaps the very action and sound of our breathing is the unpronounceable name of God. From where you sit this might seem melodramatic. But I like to think that with each clear breath I take, I'm filling up on the inside with God.

The Big Reveal

2010-05-28T06:45:00.003-06:00

It's the Before & After of it all.

Food is Love: Some Panama Kitchens

2010-03-25T07:31:00.002-06:00

In the Philippines I learned that food equals love. Go ahead and refuse a Philippina hostess' hospitality by turning down her food, and you'll soon discover that you may as well have spat right there on her floor. While the Panamanians don't take the Food = Love equation quite so personally, cooking here is big, ongoing and somewhat communal.

In our little Barrio, we women are endlessly sharing the fruits of our kitchens and gardens. It's common to see one of us girls shuttling down the street to a neighbor's with a covered platter or, more commonly, a recycled plastic food container. Yesterday, my neighbor, Rumelia, turned up with a styrafoam plate arranged with cut fruits -- and with it a used jar filled "Plantain Flour" her husband had ground from a bunch of plantains I'd given them. I used the flour to make a hot drink for William's breakfast, adding milk, honey and vanilla. Another neighbors keeps me in a dozen freshly laid eggs every week so I return the favor by sending over hot, baked cakes.

For me, there's nothing more comforting that a busy kitchen spilling over with pots and pans and food and love and life. Nothing. The kitchen is where I want to be and where I want everyone I love to gather. Nothing pleases me more than being able to offer William's friends, or someone just stopping by, a bowl of home-made soup or a slice of fresh banana cake.

Below are two of my favorite kitchens here in Boquete.

The first belongs to Elba Landau but is mostly run by her sister, Tia Chichita, who makes excellent soup. Elba is from one of the oldest families here in Boquete and she used to teach piano in New Orleans. Tia Chichita, does the lion's share of the cooking and keeps a wood fire burning most of the day.

You will notice that the kitchen is not walled off, but opens out at the back to the yard. There is, way at the back, an open, wood burning oven. Also, there truly is no end to what one might find in Tia Chichita's kitchen, which is more reminiscent of a hobby shop than a cookery.

William & Elba Landau outside her front door.

Tia Chichita in Elba's Kitchen

Grandma Gloria's Kitchen

When William is not eating at home, he has his meals around the corner in "Grandma Gloria's" kitchen. Gloria (I call her by her given name, Gloriella) is the grandmother of William's schoolmate, Abraham, and one of my closest friends here. Gloriella is a Boquetena, born and raised in this pueblo, and she feeds a lot of people.

In addition to renting room and board to several locals, Gloriella has most of her children living with her: Abraham and his mother (also Gloria); Aunt Marquelda and Aunt Elizabeth (Ellie), who is also my "tocaya" since we share a name; Elizabeth's baby, little Victor; and Uncle Victor, whom we call Tito, and who helps the boys with their homework.

William loves to eat at Grandma Gloria's and Abraham loves to eat at your house. So they show up interchangeably at either house, as if we were all related. William especially loves Gloriella's Arroz con Guandu (Guandu looks like kind of pea, can be green or purple, and is a perfect protein), Carimanollas (stuffed mashed Yucca) and any meat she's prepared, including cow tonghe.

About once a month, Gloriella has neighborhood women gather at her house to work on a batch of Panamanian Tamales, quite different from what I ate in Mexico. Photos below.

Gloria's pots and pans.

Above is the smooth "river rock" used to smash open garlic or to pound and tenderize meats.

I have my own river rock t home.

This chicken will be cooked on an open fire out back and then added to the Tamales.

Below, Larry and William enjoy hot Tamales sent over at the end of the day. (Photos taken in November when we were living next door in the attached apartment.)

Mudslide Anyone? Another Natural Distaster Hits Panama

2010-02-21T07:19:00.001-07:00

Nothing stops a Panama parade. Not even a mudslide.

After last year's devastating floods, near hurricane winds that left us barricaded by felled trees, and the whopping 6.2 earthquake that shook us out of our sleep, I was thinking "Hey. What could possibly happen next?"

Oh, yeah. Mudslides. That's what.

November is a patriotic, parade-filled month in Panama. The collective anticipation building up to the festivities beats out on steady drums all during October, when every single school sends their marching bands out into the streets for practice, seemingly at random.

It's not uncommon to run smack into a marching band heading straight for your car as you head home from the market. This is when you immediately change course and grab your cell to alert your friends -- "Heads up! Marching band heading west at the hardware store." Otherwise, you'll be stuck.

The first parade, on November 3, celebrates Panama's liberation from Columbia, and is followed by three more parades during the month. This November 3rd was also the day a force that later became Hurricane Ida came to visit Boquete.

By the night before a parade, our little pueblo was bursting with all the bustle and excitement a small town can muster.

By mid morning the day of, the village is spilling over with vendors and banners, flags and ribbons. People arrives in droves, four deep on the sidewalks. Alleyways become curb-to-curb cars. When cars get blocked in, folks just set up grills on the backs of their pick-ups and cook.

The children are decked out in extravagant costumes and uniforms, which will inevitably end up drenched because November is still rainy season. But they march on, dripping, soaked to the bone, cold and shivering.

Early in the morning of the parade, William and three neighboring boys prepared themselves for the long day ahead. I dropped them off by the firehouse at 7:00 a.m. where they waited, bored, hungry until their drums began to beat until about 10:00. It's grueling, carrying those drums in the rain for hours and hour. It was drizzling and I crossed my fingers, trying to will the hard rain to hold off until after 1:00. No such luck.

Naturally the clouds broke earlier than usual that day. I had stayed for the entire parade so I could give the boys, now drenched past their skin, a ride home and a hot meal. Practically every single citizen, including all our officials, was downtown for the parade and probably unaware of the havoc that was about to break loose on us all.

At that time, we were living in the modest apartment attached to the main house, still under renovation. The other boys had stopped home to change, but as the rains grew heavier, I knew they wouldn't make it back for lunch, even though they live only a few houses away.

Rain on a metal roof is loud. But this rain was so hard I commented to Larry that it sounded almost scary. I decided to take a look outside to check and see if it was coming into our porch. "Aw Don't worry about it" protested Larry. But I did worry, because our house sits at the low point of an steep, unpaved mountain road frequented by farmers and native Ngobe-Bugle.

The noise was overpowering as I poked my head out to take a look-see. Our so-called road had become a flowing river of muddy water, a the river that flowed to my gate and ended at the front door to the main house. About two or three gallons of rain water had already made their way into our newly finished living room, so I ran to the front gate and tried, frantically (and a little ridiculously) to shore up the flow with a shovel, or a broom, or my hands. I can't quite recall.

I do, however, recall Larry's glancing at my pitiful efforts with near disgust. "Aw Quit it!" he shouted. "I have it covered!" and off he ran, returning shortly with some cement blocks that he quickly implemented to successfully re-direct the flow of water in his adept, manly fashion.

Of course at times like these, we Slagles go from happy threesome to the dysfunctional Jerry Springer Show family in three seconds flat. Larry began shouting at me to get out of his way; William started grabbing at brooms and shovels, underfoot. I started yelling at William "You're not helping!". William was yelling back "I am too helping!". Then Larry yelled at me to "stop yelling at William."

Meanwhile, the Panamanian families up the road are working quietly to re-direct the small river up the road.

When we get our house squared away, we look up and realize that a piece of the mountain is missing. Where there once was green lush mountainside, the re is now a wide strip of bare land, looking like a big BandAid slapped against the mountain side.

All around us, slices of our valley's mountain walls have let loose and hurled down onto homes, driveways, and roads, carrying with them rocks, banana trees, water, mud and more rocks. The popular gated community of Valle Escondido was a mess and later evacuated. The damage to roads and homes was extensive.

As the next day dawned and the rains continued, our town held it's collective breath waiting to see if more of it's valley would collapse.

"Well" I thought to myself. "At least these poor tired kids won't have to march in the Flag Day Parade today."

And how wrong I was. The parade was on, the children marched, the people watched,and the hills continued to crumble.

Panama loves a parade.

A Clear & Difficult Choice

2010-01-22T14:02:00.001-07:00

Our poor Petey, so happy in this recent Christmas photo. Sadly, he was quietly, painlessly put to sleep last week after a shocking and frightening event.

It is startling to process what happened. Hard to understand that our funny pup, hyper as a hot wire, who, when he ran, looked like a deer on a trampoline, had a dangerous streak so hidden and unpredictable that he attacked a guest at my house. Not nipped at a guest... attacked.

I had asked a new friend over for lunch, a woman I'd been emailing over the past year, another Elizabeth from Connecticut, a friend of a friend. Finally she crossed boarders and I invited her to lunch. Petey was scratching at the kitchen slider throughout our visit, tail wagging, wanting in. But over the past few months, only since our move, we had noticed he barked increasingly and aggressively at passersby and visitors. So, when he wasn't cuddling with us or playing with Larry, we relegated him to the back yard.

Petey was so eager to come in that day I thought I'd allow it. And as he wagged and panted at us, so happy to be in, and as Elizabeth reached down to pet him, he attacked her, faster as lightning, biting her arm and hand maybe three or four times, her clothing at least twice. I couldn't pull him off her. He was in another state.. Finally Elizabeth tossed a glass of water in his face, and I virtually kicked him out the door.

I looked down and noticed the drops of blood on the floor. "Oh my God!" I said, horrified. "Let me see your arm!" Elizabeth had been bitten to the veins. She was bruised and bleeding. Talk about shock and horror. So, off we hurried to the doctor to dress wounds, get boosters, bandages, antibiotics, and ointments. It was horrible. Thank God he didn't get her face, or go deeper into a vein.

This attack was vicious and unprovoked. It was terrifying. And risking another, with children around, with all the left-open doors and gates and coming and going was simply not an optioin. Neither was leashing this beautiful creature to a fence all day, especially since we ourselves were now afraid of him. And giving him to someone to use as a guard dog where he was likely be tied to a fence and abused was also not something we were willing to do.

For me, this is new territory. I'm still processing the shock of having someone over for a meal and a mauling. Not an event I can easily wrap my head around. I guess I'm going to have to pass up that "Hostess of the Year" award. Second, I've never had to put to sleep a young and healthy dog. I've put dogs down before, but it's not quite the same as your very old dog -- covered-in-warts-and-bumps kind of old, barks-after-the-stranger-leaves old dog -- has a stroke and is spinning and vomiting on your little sister's bedroom floor, unable to focus or function. Okay. That's a euthanasia no-brainer.

It's different when it's a young and healthy, loving family pet in his prime, a nap-mate, a walking companion. That's a different ball game. (The professionals I spoke with said there was no way to get that kind of aggression out of a dog's brain.) And there was no way I could sentence Petey to a lesser life than the one he had with us, the life he had before he snapped and went bonkers.

So as we come up on two years, we add one more loss to our list of losses. A lovely but ailing hen, our funny, fat rooster, all those spiders, and now our goofy, nutty, un-fixable but beautiful dog.

Farewell Petey. We loved you.
Get well, Elizabeth, brave woman, trooper girl, kind lady.

Spider, Spider... Pants on Fire!

2010-01-02T11:09:00.001-07:00

(This shot is of a light-weight I found outside our house in November.)

Household 2009 Death Toll
By my calculations, and I’m being conservative, the household death toll for 2009 is as follows: 90 Tarantulas; five pairs of shoes; three handbags; a $22 dollar bottle of eye drops; one snake; a pair of trousers; and one small yapping dog...almost.

During the two month stay in our attached apartment, I killed, on average, one to two Tarantulas a day. Every… single… day. But it wasn’t so bad, because, with the exception of one juicy and hirsute whopper I stumbled across in the garden (not shown, but about the size of my hand to my first set of knuckles), most of the spiders were smallish in size, between the size of a quarter and a silver dollar.

But, after last night, I’m ready to pack up and move to Maine.

As Larry and I settled on the sofa in the semi-dark, quietly watching TV, Penny-the-Cat suddenly chased a super-high-speed Tarantula — the size of Rhode Island — right up Larry’s arm.

It happened at lightning speed. (Contrary to popular belief, Tarantulas, when peeved, are not sluggish)

Frantically, Larry flicked the thing hard off his body and up into the air it was flung. Even in the dim light it looked like a low flying bat. Then … it disappeared, somewhere, in my house.

Oh, God. “Okay. That’s IT!” I huffed with exasperated determination. “We’re not going to bed with that thing alive in our house!” No argument from Larry as we started pushing away furniture.

Eureka! There it was, on the floor, between 5 and 6 inches in diameter (yes, run and take a gander at your ruler.) I quickly handed Larry the cover of one of our I Love Lucy DVDs and WHAM! Dead as a Doornail...just the way I like my Tarantulas.

Ok. Killing Ginormous spiders definitely brings instant relief. But, it's also an enormously anticlimactic experience because, once squashed, the thing that looked like it belonged in your old Godzilla movie suddenly shrivels to a pitiful fraction of it’s original freakish size, leaving you not only feeling entirely unsatisfied, but with no one really understanding what all the fuss was about.

Milder Carnage
The shoes, handbags and eye drops were courtesy of Petey, our family pet-turned vicious Killer Watchdog who, when not attacking small children (no kiding, and not always the children you wish he would go after), happily chews anything in his path.

(The snake, which appeared one afternoon on the street and which was rapidly heading to my neighbor Olga's yard, was swiftly dispatched with the machete our fish guy, Miguel, keeps in his truck. What kid of snake was it? Was it a savage and deadly Fer-de-Lance? A Bushmaster? I don't know... but Who CARES? This is Panama, for heaven's sake! My half hearted apologies to the purest "Creature-loving-hippie-Buddhist-Taoist-Meditating Vegan" who wants to capture it in a cup and release it in the wild. God love you, but I'm not taking any chances, my Karhma be damned.

So this leaves us with one pair of pants and the matter of that small dog I mentioned.

The Pants
I'm feel fairly secure that after suffering another year in the goofy and frustrating Panamanian school system (where all boys take a hit, no matter what), I can't go straight to hell for allowing my kid to set afire a pair of old uniform trousers... a happy and sacrificial graduation ceremony.

Still, the flames of Hades stretch to lick up to snatch me to my eternal damnation. Because, there remains the small matter of one teensy dog ...(story to be featured in the next post. Also coming soon, if I dare!)

More Critters, Close Quarters & One Castration

2009-10-18T07:20:00.001-06:00

Eighteen days ago we moved into the small, unfurnished, unpainted and somewhat unfinished apartment attached to what will soon be our new home.
So far, so good.
Sort of.

I don't know what it is that attracts the critters to a new abode, but as of this writing the death toll is as follows: two enormous, hairy, well fed, juicy Tarantulas; two teen-aged Tarantulas; one poisonous caterpillar; no children (so far), and a snake that got away from my shovel.

Quarters are cramped and damp, not unlike boat living, and everything is covered in a fine dust generated from the many workers sanding ceiling wood, cutting tile, mixing cement. Until we got the cement poured, we were surrounded by a moat of mud that turned slurry with the afternoon rains.

The ear shattering sanding, filing, pounding, hammering and sawing begins at 7:00 a.m. and grinds on till around dinner time. Larry, who of course works right along side the crew, has developed his own charming and slightly boisterous style of speaking Spanish to them. He can be heard for at least a block exclaiming "Bueno! Bueno!" in approval.

I spend my days dusting and tidying, endlessly washing the floor, or gathering up outdoor rubble. But mostly, and oddly, I'm happy and handling it. This is not to say that I don't have an occasional meltdown. But I know that we'll have more room soon and it's really up to me to maintain a happy flow for the family. If I'm not happy, I'll make everyone around me suffer, and I just don't want to do that.

William is, of course, in heaven. He took one look at the small and shabby apartment and exclaimed "Oh Mom. This is a beautiful house!" What more can an 11 year old want than a street chock full of kids, dogs, horses, chickens, passing Ngobe natives and trucks loaded up fat with onions and other farm goods. Our neighbor sells home made strawberry icy's and there is a perpetual leaky pipe on the street that makes for more fun with water.

In the midst of the semi-controlled chaos, it became clear that our dog Petey had to be fixed. And no, it couldn't wait. Petey had gone from loving our kitty in a respectable and brotherly fashion, to practically licking and humping her to death.

It turns out that having your pet fixed in Panama is almost as easy as running to the store for a quart of milk. I'm not exaggerating. I tossed the dog into the car for the four minute car ride up a bumpy road to the house/office of Chely the vet.

Two hours and twenty-five bucks later, Senor Petey was a Senorita. My only instructions were to keep him quiet and make sure he takes it easy. Okay I thought to myself. This is a joke.

Petey, who initially appeared to be undaunted by the surgical removal of most of his genitalia, continued to springboard happily around the backyard, bouncing like a reindeer on a trampoline, ferociously tearing his head from side to side as he tried to rip apart the stuffy bear clamped in his jaws. And he did this for three days, until his wound was bleeding and swollen.

When I couldn't keep him calm and couldn't stand the suffering any longer, I did the only logical thing any Ballard girl would do. (No, I didn't give him a cocktail.) I did what my Dad taught me to do. I gave him a pill.

Okay, big oops. Turns out you're not supposed to give IBU Profin to a puppy.
(Of course, I didn't go on the internet till after I had shoved it down his gullet.)

The Yahoo reports weren't encouraging. Apparently I had done the unthinkable and by midnight we could expect Petey to be in full renal failure.

I went into a Lizzy tizzy and frantically called my good friend Nairn, who, according to her husband, is saving the world one dog at a time by rescuing them. Nairn had actually saved Petey from a life of dog drudgery, leter entrusting his life to me, the idiot chick from Connecticut who gave him people painkillers. Nairn knows from dogs. I apparently don't know from Adam.

Big "Phew" sigh of relief. According to Nairn's research, the dose was very small and Petey would survive. Nevertheless, I spent the entire night pinching Petey awake every half hour.
So, this morning? I'm beat.

And what of Petey? He woke up at 6:00, tended as best he could to the remains of his private parts, downed an enormous breakfast, charged out the back door, sprang three feet into the air and began to lick the cat silly.

Riding The Bus With Jesus

2009-08-19T06:19:00.001-06:00

When heading out of the country, most people cab it to the Panama City airport. A cab ride costs something around $40, depending, and takes you on a 30 minute highway tour. Boring.

So, with more than a four hour layover and more idle time ahead, plus a fidgety kid and luggage too, we decided to kill some time and travel the slow bus through town.

The buses here are tricked out beyond the stretches of kistch, and clearly, Uncle Jesus is taking the wheel!

With Hey-Seus being so prominently displayed, including a full center fold type spread on the cieling (see left), I wondered if this might not be Panama's cheaper and improved answer to Allstate.

As the rest of traffic whizzed by at a fair clip, our driver traveled at a trickle, stopping frequently not only to let new riders board, but to allow vendors step on briefly to sell candies, sodas and the like.

Unlike the more glamorous view of Panama City's white and distant skyline, the scenes from a local bus reveal a seedier, dirtier and truer side of the city.'

After about 90 minutes, we were deposited at a stop, a quick walk to the airport, luggage in tow. Hooray for wheels, right? Total cost of our trip for the three of us? About $2.00!
Additional photos of our tour are posted at left.

Baby Bites Dust; Honey Bun Feeds Masses.

2009-07-17T07:20:00.002-06:00

By now you know of I developed a deep affection for Baby, an obese, asthmatic & slightly drooling Watch Rooster who would bravely choke out something like half a crow around 5:30 a.m.

I raised him from a tiny chick like a good mother hen.

Then, I think I fed him to death.

He was on a diet, I promise. But, one morning, a few hours after I'd fed him a tiny treat of left over stew drippings, (which he lapped up eagerly), Larry came inside with the urgent report "Something's wrong with your rooster."

Out I fled to the back yard only to find Baby dead as a doornail. What a terrible surprise. Really, I was quite teary and devastated.

As Larry & William dug a wide berth for his grave, I lugged his nearly 20 pound limp carcass over for our burial ceremony.

There was nothing for it. The only way we could fit his girth into the grave was in the undignified Feet Up position. Poor Baby.

I prefer to think he's just being praiseful , but it's a stretch, I know.

Of course he received full honors... family prayer, home made cross and grave stones.

Honey Bun, my perfect and perfectly ladylike laying hen, was faithful to the end. Here she is standing vigil at Baby's grave site.

But more bad luck was heading our way... Several weeks after we lost Baby, Honey Bun was snatchedby nearby workers and probably turned to stew.

Alas... We do mourn.

Our Little Human Mud Pies: Shane & William

We just hose 'em off and stick 'em in the tub.Yes... our drains do suffer.

Slappin' On The Tool Belt

2009-06-21T06:12:00.001-06:00

It happens to be Father's Day and guess what we didn't get for Larry? A tie.

Wrapping up a crowbar; a hammer; goggles; and a thingy for pulling up ugly tile and ugly paneling has it's challenges.

So here it is ... our new home, so far.

For those of you who might have an idea that I'm a spoiled Greenwich girl, think again. We have two things going for us: Larry loves a challenge and I have one excellent quality; I am a truly adaptable chick. (This means I can pretty much host a party for one, in a closet, providing I have some bright paint and good music. Will somebody please tell Larry just how lucky he is?)

Being born a Ballard means I have a dominant feeding gene. I like a big, inviting and cozy kitchen. Looking at this, I'd opt for a can of beans heated over a garbage can fire in a back alley.

Luckily, we do have three months, (minus a planned two week holiday to visit family in the states), to get this heap in some kind of living order!

Truth be told, I'm excited about the challenge, but I am holding my breath just a little.

Down... Down... Down-Sizing.

2009-05-13T08:57:00.002-06:00

Our Palace

The beautiful "Jacaranda House" which Larry built ... mostly from Sarasota! By August, we will have had the pleasure of enjoying this luxury for a year and a half. It was nice while it lasted.

Well,nothing stays the same and anyway, I need to be knocked down a rung or two on the ladder of life. Besides, Larry and I both need a new challenge...

And here it is!

Yeah, yeah. The bigger the problem, the greater the opportunity.

Thankfully, I know Larry can fix anything. And we got some fixin' to do!

Yes. I fondly call this my own little dump, or "the crack house downtown." But the truth is this little house is well located near the heart of town and in an all-Panamanian neighborhood... plus, it sits on a dead-end street. One neighbor sells "Duros" or strawberry Icys from her home, so we know where William will be spending his pennies. All the neighbors seem lovely, and there is even a grazing horse nearby.

By September we hope to have an "After" to show, but Larry has his work cut out. He'll have to gut most of the house. The area to the right is a separate apartment and in the back is a narrow but long lot where we will have a garden, patio with fireplace, a covered area for William's skating ramp, and of course a place for Baby, my goofy, obese, asthmatic rooster and his little hen, Honey Bun.

If you put on your cheaters and look way down the road to the left, there is a horse grazing in front of the yellow roof.

That's our untucked William in the photo. Being a social guy, he'll do just great in the hub of activity downtown life presents. He can be my errand boy!

Truth be told, I am truly excited about what lies ahead.