His E-mail.
Charles E. Moritzky
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His Bio
The silvery green leaves of the eucalyptus tree, moving in the night breeze, shine against the dark starlit sky. We planted it less than five years ago, when our garden was little more than rows of dead corn stalks, and now it is around twenty feet tall.
At night, when the lights are turned on, the fish pond appears out of the darkness. Three gleaming white ducks cavort on the surfaces, sometimes diving, completely disappearing in its one-meter depth. The small bridge crossing to my office and the rest of the garden is just a plain little bridge with plain handrails. This is my private world. Most everything I do emanates from here.
In the morning, as the sun creeps across the garden, I sit in a white lawn chair and have my first cup of coffee and a cigarette. It is still sweater cool, and the warm morning sun helps one think about getting the day started. The beehive, five or six feet away, begins to show signs of activity. The five water turtles and fifty small fish, more or less, will begin coming to the surface after the surface water has warmed up a bit.
I don't know the names of all the plants in the garden. Chela, my wife, planted most of them. I still can't figure out how she got so many different plants in one relatively small area. Among the trees, there are pear, plum, fig, pomegranate, English walnut, pistachio, coffee, and evergreens that I cannot name. Obviously, most of them are still small and some are still in pots. There are many types of roses, and Chela can tell you where each one of the cuttings came from. Morning Glories twist and twine around the construction steel that someday will become the pillars to the overhang above the back porch. The volcanic rock cascade, which still isn't functioning, is half covered with a creeping green and pale yellow vine. A grapevine, which I have personally nurtured, is making its way up a support to our provisional porch. The ducks have limited our strawberry production. The desert turtles have only made a dent in the proliferation of the cactus. Since I moved the rabbits out, just in time, the rest of the garden is pretty healthy. It is something like a creeping jungle.
When there is thunder and lightning, and rain pounding on the tin roof of my office, I feel the presence of God. This afternoon there was a gentle rain and I extended the hammock in the office and took a peaceful nap.
The walls inside are paneled with the same material as the outside, costeras. Costeras are the product of the sawmill when they are squaring off logs. They still have most of the bark on them. There are sheets of plastic inside the walls to keep out the wind, dust and water. The floor is of free-laid red brick over packed sand. An old muzzle-loading rifle hangs on the wall below a horn used for calling the hounds and next to a sheathed machete. The walls are covered with treasures I have collected over the years. Then there is the coffee maker, my heavy old army desk that I hauled down from Kansas City, an inexpensive but functioning stereo, some of my books and of course, the computer equipment and telephone. Various sizes and shapes of gourds and a small cast iron kettle hang from the beams along with three small brass bells with beautiful tones. The hammock hangs from the wall and can be extended with little effort.
All built with my own hands. But, "What do you do in this little eight foot by twelve foot office?" I write as I am doing now, correspond on a daily basis with people in the States, work crossword puzzles, and plan and work on projects. Then, I make frequent trips to the house, a block away, to check on the family.
Chela brought me some tobacco leaves from a village market that she visited last week-end, and I've had some success at rolling my own cigars. I pretty much immerse myself in my personal interests, and when called upon by the 'outside world', which seems to be quite often, I respond. Anyway, that's the new me, I think.
If I can help you in any way, my E-mail address is:
…or if you just want to pass the time of day.
