Peter Morse Moir aka “Pedro Loco” – June2010

The Raw Data

Born: Sometime in September 1945,

somewhere near Halifax, Nova Scotia. 

Graduate: Dalhousie Law School

Home Town: Vancouver, B.C.

Marriage: First wife, Patricia. Second wife, Patricia II.

Children: One. Grandchildren: Two.

Nickname: Ripped

Years in Mexico: Eight

Religion: Spiritualist.

Favorite Food: Huevos Rancheros

Favorite Book: “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly”
(by Jean-Dominique Bauby)

Favorite Authors: Mark Twain and William Shakespeare.

Favorite Quotes: “Does there have to be a reason for everything?”

“Everyone has a right to build a castle in the air.”

The Real Story

Pedro Loco—A Sobriquet

When down the stony streets I stroll
Through Ajijic each sunny day,
Two things I know will fill my soul,
And one has earned a sobriquet.

That’s not to slight the other one:
That gentle breeze from off the lake
That mitigates a blazing sun,
The way that wine a thirst will slake.

Ah, here comes Pedro’s flowered hat,
It’s Pedro the Magnificat!
(He’s really Peter Morse Moir,
Whose surname rhymes, of course, with lawyer).

Look, Pete’s sombrero—flower-crowned!
A haberdasher’s droll delight.
And feathers also may be found
Adorning this Vancouverite.

With walking stick in either hand,
He steps with care down Colon Street,
Resplendent in his costume and
Expression that’s so sunny sweet.

Again I note his long white beard,
Again I think of Santa Claus.
I know that some folks think him weird,
But most of us would mourn his loss.

His Gnostic cross and Christ-like robes
Announce a spiritual soul,
Impatient with all homophobes,
So quick these days to pigeonhole.

He’s photographed much more than most.
They all admire his saintly smile,
And Mexicans are proud to host
This Gringo of such subtle style.

“Hola Pedro! Como estas?”

“Que bueno. Que bueno. Paz . Paz”.

His burro, Vino Blanco, is
As white and bright as Chardonnay,
Although with hooves of cherry fizz
And eyebrows red as Beaujolais.

Is that his rig I see? Aha!
A beatific burro cart,
A surrey fringed in peau de soie,
Conveyance for a happy heart.

She pulls her master down the street,
As patiently as burro can,
Awaits tortillas as her treat
And brays approval of the man.

Both she and Margarita range,
Alive today because of him.
No malnutrition, pox or mange
Or even age has turned them grim.

But grim may be the human scourge
Of our Remembrance of Things Past:
Alzheimer’s path and Pedro’s merge,
And he well knows the die is cast.

Not one to dwell on Fortune’s lapse,
Don Pedro summons sunny smiles.
An inner reservoir he taps,
And looks ahead to many miles.

“It’s good at times when memory’s done,”
Says Pedro to his burro pet;
“Those arseholes in my life, for one,
I’ve long forgot without regret.

“I hide my Easter eggs myself,
A single book is all I need;
Once read, forgotten on my shelf,
Brand new again when I reread.”

Next time you need a drink or two,
Go find Tequila’s fine Republic.
Demand a Pedro Loco, do—
Their drink to quench a thirsting public.

Not being loco, Pedro knows,
It’s just a friendly sobriquet.
Affection here in Mexico
Will carry one a long, long way.

So hail to Pedro, once called Moir!
And isn’t it ironic
That Ajijic’s own expat lawyer
Has now become iconic?

By Mark Sconce