A Scorpio Versus Scorpions

The following story was written by Gayle about an unfortunate incident she experienced during her and Ian’s time living at their house in Chapala, Mexico in 2006.

A Scorpio Versus Scorpions          ScorpionVectorImageVP

Scorpio may be my sign of the Zodiac, but that’s really all I ever wanted to have to do with the creatures!

One March evening during our sojourn in Mexico we had just enjoyed a long moonlit soak in the hot tub when about 10 p.m. Ian went inside to refresh our drinks. I took advantage of his absence to get out my foam exercise “noodle” and do my daily aqua sit-ups.

(Little known to me, there must have been a “wee creepy” sleeping in the hollow inside of the noodle, which decided to join me for his or her water exercises!) I had just put the noodle aside when I noticed what I thought was a floating begonia flower that had likely dropped from a planter hanging over the pool. Instead of picking it up with our pool sieve, I stupidly went to scoop it out with my hand and it stung me on the middle finger! Practically blinded by the pain, I slapped my hand down on my thigh and got two more stings before flinging it over the edge of the tub. Then, with terrible burning sensations in both finger and thigh, I (in Ian’s words) “came out of the pool like a tsunami and screaming like a banshee!”

There was no question in our minds that I had encountered a very startled scorpion – and we weren’t about to look for it to verify our suspicions. We quickly dried off, got dressed and within a few minutes were off to the 24-hour Red Cross clinic at the other end of Chapala.

By the time we got there (about 15 minutes later) it felt as if my entire arm and upper leg were on fire, my tongue was feeling “funny” and my lips were numbing, but luckily I had no swelling. I was rushed into a ward, put onto a bed and hooked up to an IV within a few minutes. Then came two huge syringes about 5 inches long and one inch in diameter. The combination of antihistamine and steroids gradually rid me of the mouth-numbing sensations but the excruciating stinging just kept up.

About an hour and a half later I was released and we motored off to the nearby town of Ajijic, which has the only nearby 24-hour pharmacy, to fill a prescription for pain pills (which, incidentally, didn’t seem to me to help much).

It was then midnight. I attempted to sleep but was so miserable and restless I knew Ian would get no sleep if I stayed in bed, so I went upstairs to our den with a window wall overlooking the lake and distant mountains and read through the night as best I could. The pain finally left my thigh (which sported two ugly red welts) by the following evening. The pain in the arm started to abate that first night but the finger itself just kept up that fiery stinging sensation for about 36 hours, although only a slight prick marked the spot. For the next couple of weeks my finger was totally numb; then, very slowly the feeling started coming back.

Two months later, I just had a very slight numbness at the tip of the finger. A doctor friend of ours prescribed a “second generation antihistamine” tablet to keep on hand at all times. He says any subsequent scorpion sting would probably result in an even worse and quicker reaction so it’s important to be prepared and, before heading for a clinic, to take the medication.

We’ve read that the scorpions in our area are only “semi-deadly”, that on a scale of one to four they are only a “two.” Imagine what a number “four” could do! (We’ve also heard of a local woman who died from a scorpion sting because she didn’t get medical help!)

Need I say that, ever since, I’m very careful to check my noodle before doing any exercises? And I steer clear of any scorpion I see, letting Ian zap them on sight. We continue to find the occasional dead one in the house, but Ian’s monthly spraying seems to get the critters before they get very far. Considering this encounter and others we’ve had with “wee critters” in Mexico, we don’t think we were cut out to be “southerners!”

Exercising with my noodle on a non-scorpion evening.

Exercising with my noodle on a non-scorpion evening.

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Our hot tub, garden and surroundings in Chapala, Mexico

 

“Why I Write – My Writing Journey” – AN INVITATION TO VOTE AGAIN FOR IAN MOORE-MORRANS, A FINALIST IN THE AUTHOR’S SHOW CONTEST “50 GREAT WRITERS YOU SHOULD BE READING”

Seal-2013Finalist-300On September 18, 2013 we blogged an invitation to vote for Ian Moore-Morrans as he entered the first phase of The Authors Show 2013-1014 contest “50 Great Writers You Should Be Reading” which ended on November 1st.  We greatly appreciate any and all votes cast. Enough of you did vote for him so that now Ian is a finalist in the second (and final) phase of the contest. This is an invitation to AGAIN VOTE FOR IAN in this final phase.

Here is the information from Danielle Hampson, Executive Producer of The Authors Show:

The final phase of our contest is now open for voting through December 1, 2013. The top fifty authors with the most votes will be included in the 4th edition of  “50 Great Writers You Should Be Reading” to be published in January 2014.  A special prize will also be awarded to the top winner in each book genre: Fiction, Nonfiction, Children and Christian.  To view the names of all the finalists and to vote for your favorite author in our final phase, go to: 

http://www.wnbnetworkwest.com/WnbAuthorsShow50Writers2013-Contest-Finalists.html.”

Thanks in advance to those of you who will cast a vote for Ian. We are including a copy of Ian’s entry into the contest which asked for him to write about his journey as a writer. We hope you will enjoy it.

Best wishes,

Ian and Gayle Moore-Morrans

Why I Write – My Writing Journey

by  Ian Moore-Morrans

Author of From Poverty to Poverty: A Scotsman Encounters Canada

Folks remark that I have a gift for gab and storytelling. However, whatever free time I had was taken up by music-making. Important as it was to me, writing took a back seat to making music.

Though growing up in abject poverty in Scotland during the Great Depression, I was fortunate to attend school until I was 14. I liked learning and tried my best to do well in my class work. My English teacher had remarked about the quality of my essays and compositions. When she mentioned that I should become a journalist after I finished school, I found it an intriguing but totally impossible suggestion. I could only conclude, ‘What a picture that would be—me sitting at a desk with holes in my shoes and no underwear!’

When schooling was over, I had to find a job. Working as an apprentice to a local blacksmith, I had neither time nor energy to write, though I earned some money and built up muscle. My free time was spent learning to sing and play an instrument as part of the Salvation Army. Music-making became my passion.

Four years later I joined the Royal Air Force. Finally I had decent food, clothing and living conditions plus an opportunity to learn a trade—Flight Mechanic Engines—and to continue to play in a band. I served in England, Wales, Scotland and the Suez Canal Zone in Egypt. Being far away, I enjoyed writing letters home and hearing remarks about how exciting I made my life sound and how much folk learned from reading what I wrote. I was to benefit most by corresponding with my pen-pal. Mary and I kept up a steady correspondence and then met in Glasgow just after I returned to Britain. We were soon married.

Whenever I had a chance at work or leisure, I told stories when I wasn’t singing songs or playing my trumpet. I fancied myself an entertainer but never thought of trying to earn a living at it. After five years’ service, I left the RAF. Not only did I have a wife to support; we were soon blessed with two daughters. I found work as a machine fitter in the steel industry around Glasgow. After awhile I applied for a clerk’s job in a big steel company. When interviewed, the supervisor mentioned that one of the biggest problems in the job was reading what someone had written. He asked me to write the numbers from 1 to 10 and also spell each one out in longhand and then print the words in capital letters. “Very good” he said, “at least we’ll have one person whose writing is legible. When can you start?” I couldn’t believe that was the test! Soon, my “penmanship” earned me a better job as a shift scheduler.

Having been misled by the inflated promises of an unscrupulous Ontario official, we got “itchy feet” and headed for Canada. Arriving in 1965, we soon found that my promised machining job was not available, nor were we in a financial position to buy a house as we had been led to believe. After five years of misadventures finding and keeping jobs and suitable homes, we finally reached the level of prosperity we had had in Scotland.
My family and I continued to live and work in Canada, moving almost every year to a different house, town or province (and different band) as jobs came and disappeared. I never seemed to have time to write down my stories, though I told plenty of them, both true and made-up. Finally, in 1995 at age 63, I decided if I didn’t start writing, I’d never do it.

In longhand over three evenings, I wrote “My Friend Jimmy,” a children’s story about a budgie that had no wings. Then I bought a simple, used computer and studied a learn-to-type book. I rewrote my children’s story and sent it away to a publisher, thinking full well that he would deem it the very best children’s story he had ever read! Soon I could just about paper the wall with rejections. ‘Never mind,’ I thought, ‘where there’s life, there’s hope.’ I went on to write others, thinking that I’d give “My Friend Jimmy” a try again at a later date. (Now, 17 years later, my wife/editor is starting the layout for “Jake, Little Jimmy and Big Louie,” a highbred of the original story!)

Next, I tackled my life’s story. Several times I’ve encountered people who heard my Scottish “burr” and then told me of Scottish ancestors. After inquiring, I would hear they had died and the family didn’t even know where in Scotland they had originated. Finally, I vowed to write my life story to avoid that state. Thus began the long process of remembering and writing into the wee hours of the night over the course of several years. I ended up with two volumes called “From Poverty to Poverty” and “Came to Canada, Eh?” Again, I submitted manuscripts which were politely rejected.

In 1984, I taught an adult class for men who had metal-cutting lathes and wanted to learn how to better use them. I loved this first and only experience of formal teaching. Later, I wrote a “how-to” book about machining steel, written for the type of people I had been teaching. Completed in 1998, I called it “Metal Machining Made Easy.” I did all of the 60-odd illustrations by hand. This was published in 2002 through Writers Exchange in Australia.

Shortly thereafter, my wife Mary died. I vowed to go on with life, continue to write but also to socialize and enjoy what time I had left. Then came the most significant encounter of my life. I started a conversation with an attractive widow about the eclectic assortment of stories I had begun writing after retirement. When I learned that Gayle was working as a magazine editor, I began to envision a future of our living and working together. We married in 2003 and, after she took an early retirement, we bought a motor home and set out to explore Mexico. While basking along Mexico’s Pacific coast, Gayle started editing my stories while I sat at the laptop and did re-writes, as well as writing a story of revenge called “Legal Hit Man.” Later moving inland to the mountainous north shore of Lake Chapala, we became residents of the world’s largest community of English-speaking expatriates. We joined the local writers’ group and met some wonderful writers from around the world. Soon my short story, “The Moonlit Meeting,” was published in a local magazine.

We returned to Canada in 2007 and now live in British Columbia. We have since published two books with a Scottish flair—a novel of adventure and time-travel, “Beyond the Phantom Battle: Mystery at Loch Ashie” and my memoir “From Poverty to Poverty: A Scotsman Encounters Canada.”

Age has caught up with me. When I first started seriously writing, I sketched out a few notes and went to work with everything flowing fairly smoothly. I kept going at all hours and wherever I was. At present, after over five years of illness, it’s becoming harder to find the energy to write. Luckily, I have a number of manuscripts waiting for Gayle to work on. Then I read through edits, give my approval or comments, and let her do the rest. Aren’t I fortunate?

Happy Hogmanay! Happy New Year!

For those who don’t know what “Hogmanay” means, it is the Scottish name for New Year’s Eve. To celebrate this Hogmanay 2012 and tomorrow’s New Year’s Day 2013, we want to interrupt our posting of the next installment of our children’s book, “Jake, Little Jimmy and Big Louie” to post an excerpt from our emails sent to friends in which we related the latest happenings during our extended stay in Mexico November 2004 to March 2007. (Who knows – maybe we’ll even find time some day to publish our Mexican accounts in book form.) This account is from early January 2005 when we were still living in our motorhome at a wonderful water park near Villa Corona, about an hour’s drive east of Guadalajara.  My remarks are in plain type, Gayle’s are in italics.( Our emails were usually a joint effort.)

“We were thrilled to be invited to a New Year’s Eve party at Bill and Eva’s home in Ajijic (just hiccup while you say it and you’ll probably get the pronunciation right). To recap: Bill and Eva are the lovely couple I met on the Internet before we left Winnipeg. We met them in person shortly after our arrival in the area. On our second visit to the “hiccup town”, we popped in again to see them. When we were leaving they told us they were having a New Year’s Eve (Hogmanay, to us Scots) party and that if we wished to attend we’d be very welcome.

“On the way home, after making a reservation for lodging that night at a local bed and breakfast, (We didn’t want to dodge cows, burros and various and sundry drunks whom we might meet on the dark country roads on New Year’s Eve.) Gayle and I talked about the invitation and I decided that, since it was Hogmanay, the biggest Scottish holiday except for perhaps Robbie Burns’ Day, I would wear my kilt, sporran, Argyll jacket and the whole kit and caboodle. Gayle had her tartan cape and formal kilt skirt along so decided to wear hers also.

“So, we got there around seven, started meeting the few that had arrived and then I met Greta! Greta is really a lovely lady but, when she met ‘your’s truly’, she couldn’t believe it. I THINK SHE WANTED TO TAKE ME HOME! I’m sure she’d never before seen a Scotsman in full Highland dress or heard first hand the Scottish burr.  ‘Does he REALLY talk like this all the time?’ she wanted to know. ‘What a wonderful accent,’ and ‘Oh, you’re so cute,’ she cooed. Then, kiss, kiss, kiss!

“(Obviously, Ian thought it was wonderful; I had a hard time keeping my cool!) I don’t know if it was Greta’s husband’s doing (a very nice guy) but they soon left as they were heading for another two parties.

“Then there was another interesting (?) couple – his name was Dan and his name was Tom! Tom was also interested in ‘your’s truly’. Specifically, he said, he was very interested in what I had under my kilt!!!!! (Actually I get this question from someone every time I wear it!) Gayle said later that I should have told him that I have a bumper sticker on the front of our motorhome that reads, ‘Happiness is under my kilt!’ – although I wouldn’t be the least bit interested in proving it to him! He was also interested in the ‘furry thing’ in front. I had to tell him it was my sporran and that he definitely was not getting it!!!!!

“It was a great evening where we were able to meet quite a few gringo friends of Bill and Eva’s, either snowbirds or permanent residents, who we know we’ll want to see more of in days to come. Eva had a wonderful spread of food and we enjoyed Bill’s bartending, the fire in their outdoor fireplace and the great evening air of around 60 (15C) degrees. Just before midnight we walked upstairs to their rooftop terrace perched halfway up the mountain and watched the fireworks being set off down in the town along the lakeside. Of course, we also participated in a good rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”

“When the party was finally over in the wee hours of the morning, we left Bill and Eva’s to return to the Bed’n’Breakfast we’d booked into. The street was packed and we had to park about two blocks away. Almost next door to the B n’ B we encountered a full-blown Mexican street party. There must have been around two hundred souls, adults and kids all in an elongated circle, taking up the whole street and sidewalks on either side. A big bonfire was going just to the side a little bit and a rope was suspended over the street to hoist piñatas,  hollow containers made of paper maché or clay. Some looked like horses, some like stars and various other shapes. All, of course, were filled with candies for the kids.

“Gayle and I were winding our way through the party to get ‘home’, when I noticed a vacant chair off to the side. Calling Gayle, who was just ahead of me, I motioned  to her to come back and sit. She did, and immediately a chair was provided for me also. The folks were really having a good time and soon the Mexicans accepted us as visitors, everyone smiling and waving to us. We were each offered a glass of hot ‘Ponch’ and then a man with a tequila bottle came by and offered to top up the Ponch. And it was very welcome, I must admit, (not as good as Scotch, but not bad, to tell the truth – well, it was free! Anything alcoholic and free isn’t that bad, is it?) So, I’m thoroughly enjoying the tequila and watching the kids whacking at the piñata. After all the kids had had a turn, many of the adults volunteered or were coerced into taking a whack. Then, silly me, always ready for a “carry-on”, volunteered to try to whack the evasive piñata! This ‘thing’ was on a rope, raised and lowered indiscriminately, making it difficult for a (get this) blindfolded person to hit it.

“Okay, I’m there, Casey at the bat. I had volunteered to beat the piñata to death. It must have been the first time in history (well, in this century) that a Scot, in full Highland dress, was blindfolded and was attempting to destroy the candy container that was swinging from a rope. He did manage to glance a blow off it, but not good enough to break it. After a few minutes I gave up. The crowd then gave me a cheer (more in compassion, I think, than for his competence at being able to hit the target) and I went back to my seat and a wee drop more tequila. Not much later, Gayle and I went to our abode. This was in the wee hours of the morning of the first day of the year.  HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

copyright © 2005