This is my 10th winter in Mexico and though it is far preferable to winters in the frozen wastelands north of the border, I still suffer from the cold.
Becoming so well acclimated to the summer in the tropics has rendered me a shivering wreck when the winter temperatures drop below 75. In my old life, 60 degrees would be t-shirt weather and 80 would be sweltering.
Five years ago, our household suffered more than a little derision from snowbird friends when they discovered we had imported a small electric heater from the states. My Captured Tourist Woman, who comes from a large warm country in the Southern Hemisphere, would defend our acquisition by displaying her layers of clothing, including her thermal underwear.
However, as our winter temperatures plummeted into the mid-50s F (mid-13s C) and our item of mockery was deployed, we could always emerge from a lusciously hot shower into a sumptuously warm bathroom. During the dark days of January we would even pre-warm the bedroom with our well used electrical appliance, but that was before our first winter utility bill arrived.
When we realized our power consumption approached a level similar to that of a baseball stadium on game night, we reevaluated our resource allotment priorities. The CFE bill was seriously impacting our lavish lifestyle.
So it was during the depths of winter several years ago, as I washed windshields in an intersection just to pay the power bill, I vowed to do everything in my capacity to hasten the approaching summer cocoon of heat and humidity. With this in mind, I began my extensive research of ancient weather rituals.
Since it was the Mexican weather gods I needed to please, I delved into the ceremonies used by the Mayans and Aztecs so many centuries ago. I quickly discovered the majority of these pagan practices required blood and body parts from living things.
Since I was not about to sacrifice any of my friends or neighbors, and sacrificing the occasional narco could be a bit dicey, the yappy pack of Chihuahuas down the street was a very appealing alternative.
However, when I discussed my scheme with several friends they told me my cold-weather gear must be restricting the blood flow to my brain. At this point I relented and directed my research into rituals which did not require the use of a meat cleaver.
The Greeks had gods for both the weather as well as summer, but how bad could Mediterranean weather be? The Druids seemed to be the next group to look into; I mean really, the weather in the British Isles has to be some of the dreariest on the planet.
After further research, my first priority was to construct the appropriate altar, precisely aligned to the magnetic field of the earth. Since I was attempting to conjure warmth from cold, the altar would require a central fire pit which would necessitate an outdoor location. Also, the fire would defray the cold in the immediate area and warm me nicely as I attempted to beckon the gods of weather.
I knew that it would be impossible for a single short session to produce enough metaphysical dynamism to affect weather patterns, so I devoted several hours a day to my droning incantations while dancing circles around my fiery shrine.
It was amazing! Soon the weather began to warm as February rolled into March. And then it warmed significantly by the middle of April; it became obvious that my rituals were having the desired effect.
So now every winter when I feel chilled to the bone I light the fire at the center of my altar and then dance about with dung smeared in esoteric patterns on my naked body while muttering in tongues.
I am not bothered by the fact that the neighbors shun me and no longer allow their children or pets to traverse the street in front of our house. I know my efforts have been rewarded as the spring warms into summer and the humidity swaddles me in its balmy embrace.
In fact, the rituals have worked so well I am considering an offering of gratitude to the Mexican weather gods at the peak of the summer solstice; maybe just a couple of yappy dogs and a few pigeons would suffice.
Bodie Kellogg describes himself as a very middle-aged man who lives full-time in Mazatlán with a captured tourist woman and the ghost of a half wild dog. If you wish to give him cold beer, large sacks of money or a piece of your mind, he can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.