It has been said that home is where the heart is and home is where you hang your hat.
Depending on whether I am in Yucatan or Texas “home” can change under either scenario. I have to confess that home is actually where my wife is.
It seems that no matter where I go, I’m always thinking of her and how she would like, react, or object to where I am or what I’m doing.
For example, when I am in Yucatan, she always says, “Go do some tourist stuff. See the ruins, find a nice restaurant, go to the beach.” Honestly, I’ve tried to do all of those things but if she isn’t with me, it’s just not a lot of fun.
However, what I do enjoy for a while is when I go to our house in Cansahcab, Yucatan, getting up early and having a quiet time before the day starts when everything is really peaceful.

When we first began our work on the house it looked liked this.

As best we can tell, the house is between 200 and 300 years old. It had a corrugated sheet metal roof and open rafters inside. It was just one large room with hamaqueros embedded in the wall to hang hammocks from for sleeping. This is the way it was done and during the past 100 years, dozens of parents, children, cousins and aunts and uncles were born here, slept here and died here.
A walk around the backyard, or patio as it’s called in Yucatan, revealed a number of fruit trees. I immediately fell in love with the yard as I’ve always had land envy and this looked like my chance.
It had been on the market for a few years, locally but no one was interested so when my wife’s father mentioned selling it again, I begged him not to and to leave it Josefina. On their next trip down there together, he did exactly that. So that’s how we got this house.
Today, the house has changed significantly, but not without some pain along the way. Dishonest contractors, incompetent contractors and just the basic learning experience along the way has been a real education.
Today, our home away from home looks like this.

Aside from my physical birth, the single most important event in my life occurred when I was 8 years old and invited Jesus to come into my heart.
We had moved to Houston from a small town in Oklahoma named Sand Springs, just outside of Tulsa in 1953 when I was 5.
I remember clearly that it was a Sunday morning. I was in the living room by myself watching the television.
It was Easter Sunday. As I sat in the floor in our living room watching the tv, one of those Easter programs came on about the crucifixion of Christ.
Now you have to understand that my parents were not at all religious although my mom had gone to church as a young girl growing up, but in 1953, she was only 21 and had hardly grown up, herself.
When we lived in Sand Springs, my grandmother would make sure that on Sunday morning, she would come by and pick up my sister and I and take us to her church, Broadway Baptist church. Of course we went to Sunday School and sometimes I would go in to the worship service and listen to Brother Copeland, the pastor give his message. But by then I really did not have any understanding of much of anything that was being talked about.
When we moved to Houston, i was finally free of going to church because, as I said, neither of my parents were at all religious and that was fine with me.
So here I was sitting there when this program came on about the crucifixion. Of course they started with the trial, and the mocking and the scourging and as I watched I was impressed that He never opened His mouth to protest or vindicate His actions. He never answered His accusers. This impressed me-why I don’t know but it did.
I began to pay closer attention and as they took Him to the cross and nailed Him there, I suddenly felt very sad. I realized that this man did nothing to deserve the punishment that He was receiving.
Finally, as He hung there and as I sat there, He cried out, “My God, My God, why has thou forsaken me?” And then John 3:16 was quoted, “for God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever would believe on Him would not parish but have everlasting life.”
I don’t really remember what else I was thinking but before I new it, I was on my knees confessing that I was a sinner and asking God to forgive me for my sins. I was crying because I was sorry that Jesus had to die for me. And then all of sudden, I was peaceful. I remember the peace and realized that something had happened to me. I didn’t know what, but I knew I was different inside.
From that day on, I was changed. My conscience was so sensitive that any time I did anything wrong I would get sick to my stomach until I told my parents.
But the most peculiar thing was that I felt like I had been marked out and was different, from everyone else.
As I grew up, that feeling of being called, never left me. Even in high school and college I knew.
Over the years, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life but I have never done anything that when I confessed it to the Lord, I felt like He couldn’t forgive me.
Looking back, I suspect that on the tv that morning, they quoted Romans 3:23 which says that all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God, And probably Romans 6:23 which says that the wages of sins is death. Because I knew without a doubt on that morning, that Jesus had died for my sins and that He had paid the price for me.
When I prayed that morning, I opened my heart to Him and He came into my heart. And I know that He will never leave me or forsake me, no matter what I’ve done. Because that’s what you do for someone when you’ve given your life for them.

Rather late in life, I’ve decided to beginning a journal of sorts. I’d like to share my memories, thoughts, impressions and probably a lot of opinions.
I consider my life to be a journey with a a fixed beginning and a fixed end, although I don’t know when that will be.
I’ll share photographs, anecdotes and anything else that I think might be of interest to those who come after me.
I’ll also share some spiritual things. I’ll share my personal testimony. I’ll share some of my mistakes and their consequences, both at the time of and as a result of.
I hope that those who read it will find that some of my experiences will help them enjoy some of the things I’ve enjoyed and avoid some of the mistakes I’ve made.
In the end, I hope that in some way the reader will be entertained and enlightened by seeing the things that have happened to me in my life- along the way.

This is my third trip to Yucatan in a one year period. I always have mixed feelings about being here. Part of it is because I’m here alone, without my wife and I should be “recharging” and enjoying the time.
There is always a lot of work to do or to oversee so it’s hard to do any of the tourist stuff and I guess I’m still a little bit intimidated being here by myself. After all, this isn’t my country, it’s my wife’s.
We’ve worked on the house a lot and we have gotten it to the point where we can actually live here event though we don’t have a kitchen.
Yesterday I went looking for contractor to drill a deep well for us so that we can have potable water. While I did not find the guy, I was able to travel through some small towns, Suma de Hidalgo, Teya, and Tapakan. I stopped in Suma to take photos of an henequen processing plant. While it would seem that they are somewhat rare, there are actually many still scattered around this area. They process the henequen agave which is produces a fiber that has many uses. Up until the discovery of synthetics, particularly nylon, Yucatan was the largest provide of rope of any country in the world. That industry collapsed and many large hacienda/plantations went broke. A large number were owned by Europeans, particularly the French so they just returned to France leaving many in disrepair for decades.
I’ve included some photos that some might enjoy looking at.
I think this is enough for my first post.

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