Some Internet privacy concerns: things I forgot…but the Internet didn’t.
Every so often I do a name search on Google or Yahoo to see where Casa Hamaca stands in their rankings. Today after I ran the Casa search, I ran a search on my name; Denis Larsen.
When I just typed in Denis Larsen the results were (on Google) about 1,470,000. I thought that was too many to look through this afternoon. So I ran the search again with quote marks around the two names, like this “Denis Larsen.” That returned a more manageable number: 329. And I was at the top of the list! Hurray. Makes one feel good to be recognized and known. It turns out that there are a number of other people named Denis Larsen or some variation like Dennis Larsen, Dennis Larson or Denis Larson. There is a General in the US Air Force, a rock musician and a hockey player (I don’t think they are all the same person). I started scanning the results. They were all pretty much related to one of five endeavors of mine that have websites. But then came some surprises.
1. The Casa Hamaca website and various links to the casa including personal posts to other sites letting them know about the casa. The only surprises here were a few comments that I had left on some different blogs or message boards…some of them some time ago. So long ago that I had forgotten I had posted the comments. I don’t think I said anything to offend anyone.http://www.casahamaca.com
2. My massage therapy business, aNeed2Heal, LLC. There were multiple pages from the website itself. And a surprising number of “find a massage therapist” type listings, many of them with addresses a number of years old. There were also some links to some writing about massage that I have had published on other websites (ie: www.mexconnect.com
). No real surprises here either.http://www.aneed2heal.com
3. The volunteer work that I do with Mano Amiga in the north of Mexico as well as in the Yucatan.http://www.manoamiga.net
4. And a goofy site, Dalisllama that I write. It contains some of my travel writing on Peru, Belize, Isla Mujeres and the Yucatan as well as some links that I find funny, interesting or just curious. No real surprises here either.http://www.dalisllama.com
5. Easy Isla…a site about Isla Mujeres that I started almost 7 years ago and just got bored with. Maybe some day I will revive it.http://www.easyisla.com
6. Then the surprises started. I came across my name at xxxxxxxxx.com. I registered with them some years ago for a free listing and stopped using the service as soon as I realized that all they wanted was money and they weren’t shy about asking for it. They list a couple of schools that I attended. But I had forgotten the site even existed.
7. More surprisingly, I came across a number of sites that listed contributions of money or time that I had made to churches, summer camps, and political campaigns and to the Mayan Research Program (reviewed at http://www.Dalisllama.com
). I didn’t realize that these details of my life would ever see the light of day. Nor did I think it anyones business where I donated time or money. But there it is.
8. Then I came across a few real surprises. An article in Spanish published of news of the state of Quintana Roo, about a volunteer project of audiologists on Isla Mujeres that I coordinated. http://www.novenet.com.mx/seccion.php?i ...
] http://www.novenet.com.mx/seccion.php?i ... amp;y=2007
9. A couple of different references to a series of business meetings in late 1971 and early 1972 (way before the internet was born) between the R&D folks at Phillip Morris, the cigarette makers, and myself, my ex-wife and a friend for whom we were pretending to work for. We (my ex and I) were freelancing for him to develop new consumer smoking products. Right after this project, my ex and I agreed never to work again in tobacco products. And neither of us ever did. This stuff got on line, I think, because of suits from consumer interest groups to examine how the tobacco industry seduced people to smoke.http://ltdlimages.library.ucsf.edu/imag ... h78e00.pdfhttp://tobaccodocuments.org/landman/202 ... -7773.html
10. A reference from the Seti (seekers of life on other planets) project. They had a program (maybe still do for all I know) that borrowed your computer when you were not actively using it to analyze signals from outer space. They listed how many total hours of computer time I donated as well as the average length of a computer session. Wow. I really had forgotten about doing that.http://seticlassic.ssl.berkeley.edu/cla ... 51731.html
11. In 1954, when I was 14 years old and living in Urbana, Illinois and attending University High School, I spent the better part of one summer working for a research project for the University of Illinois. It was a study of the thiamine requirement of teenaged boys that finally was presented as a paper a few years later and published in The Journal of Nutrition. They must have put their archives online.http://jn.nutrition.org/cgi/reprint/66/2/173.pdf
Lots of bits and pieces of my life here. So I ran a search on Yahoo to see what happened there. 143 results for “Denis Larsen”, including a Linkin listing that I had also forgotten. http://www.linkedin.com/pub/0/4a4/8a7.
That got me wondering about other aspects of my life that hadn’t shown up on the web. I wrote, edited and published a monthly newsletter on Japanese Woodblock Prints for two years in the early 1980…before desktop publishing or personal computers. I did this every month in my basement on a top-of-the-line IBM Correcting Selectric. And then cut and pasted the entire issue. I also kept a database of some 3,000 individual Japanese prints (ukiyo-e in Japanese) on 3 x 5 cards. I tracked their description, artist’s signature, printer’s signature or seal, sale prices, condition, color, impression, location of sale, etc. After I had done this for a few months, I asked a neighbor who had just purchased a large IBM computer if they could put my database into the computer and maintain it. She answered that her database program could not handle the information. So I continued by hand. And then a few years later came the home computer revolution. A search on “Japanese Woodblock Print Dealer and Collectors Newsletter” on Google returned “no results”…same as Yahoo.
I often use the online name of xxxxxxxxx. A Google search turned up 38 results…everything from YouTube video postings to dumb questions or comments that I had posted all over the net. Yahoo surprised me with 1,760 results. They were mostly the same kind of thing that Google returned along with an at least one online auction bid that I had made a few years ago. There does seem to at least one other person who goes by the name of xxxxxxxxxx, but he is not too active on the net.
Last week, Ancestry.com
announced that they have just put a huge database of US military records on line. I quickly found my uncle and my grandfather, his brother and my great grandfather…but could not find my father since he was in the Navy in WWII. The current records are only for the US Army. I was in ROTC, but never served in the military so my name turned up zip.
The net/net on the net is that there is a lot of information out there on anyone who has any kind of online presence. And some of it just won’t go away. I recently read about services that attempt to clean up your web records and delete embarrassing questions, comments or whatever. Politicians and top business people seem to be the biggest users of these services. I sure don’t.
However, I did go back through the article and changed a few things to make it a little more challenging to do an identity theft. !Vanity thy name is Denis.
That's Denis with one "n". and Larsen, with an "e", not Larson.
What are your experiences with this kind of information about yourself?
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Cipro works for diarrhea? No Sh*t?
Note: this article was recently rejected by the Editors of InTheKnowTraveler
as not fitting the needs of their readership. Maybe their readers all stay at really ritzy hotels all the time and never experience tummy problems...or maybe they never actually even leave their house because everyone I know who travels experiences this problem at one time or another. This article also published today on our sister site: www.dalisllama.comDateline: Valladolid, Yucatan, Mexico
Almost every traveler experiences what is sometimes know as traveler’s tummy, the trots, diarrhea, or, more commonly here in Mexico, as Montezuma’s Revenge. Most of these stomach problems are not life threatening in themselves and will pass within a few days. The most critical problem is dehydration. Small children and the elderly are at most risk for this but it can be a mortal danger to anyone.
According to Where There Is No Doctor, a village health care handbook by Werner, some signs of dehydration are: thirst; little or no urine; dark yellow urine; sudden weight loss; dry mouth; sunken, tearless eyes and loss of elasticity of the skin.
Treat dehydration first. Act quickly before the problem becomes critical. A mixture of 1/2 level teaspoon of common salt plus 8 level teaspoons of sugar with one liter of clean water provides a good dehydration drink. Add in a half-cup of coconut water, fruit juice or mashed ripe banana, if available. These replenish the potassium, which has been lost. Give frequent sips of this to the dehydrated person; 3 liters per day or more for an adult. Continue until urine is normal. If dehydration gets worse, seek medical help. An IV to replenish lost fluids may be necessary.
After the hydration issue is dealt with, there still remain the problems associated with diarrhea. This can range from a minor inconvenience to a severe attack with cramps, high fever, chills, nausea and dizziness. If you are in the middle of a trip, spending a few days in the hotel room (actually the bathroom of the hotel room) is just no fun after the first few times. Pink Pepto BismolÒ to the rescue! Pepto Bismol, or the local equivalent, is sold in most part of the world. It’s basically the same stuff wherever you purchase it (bismuth subsalicylate along with whatever makes it bright pink). Don’t use if allergic to aspirin. Follow the directions for diarrhea on the bottle: 2 Tablespoons or 30 ml every 1/2 to 1 hour as needed until the diarrhea stops. This might take a while. Be patient.
If you can’t be patient because, for instance, you need to get on an airplane for an extended time or the last launch up the Napo River is leaving at dawn, you might want to consider Cipro (ciprofloxacin). Some years ago, my MD gave me a prescription for Cipro to take along with me on my journeys in the event of diarrhea. His suggestion was one 500 mg tab per day for 6 or 7 days. That does work if you have the time to wait. Perhaps there will be another launch for the Napo early next week.
An anthropologist, with whom I was spending some time in a small Mayan village where I contracted a severe case of diarrhea, told me the official anthropologists method. And that is three 500mg tabs of Cipro the first day (all at once), two tabs the second day and one tab the third. Since that time, I have used this method a number of times and can attest that it really works! Usually the first day, I am really whipped (no pun intended); but by the morning of the second day am able to jump in the launch or get where I need to be without discomfort or embarrassment. I am not an MD so I cannot suggest that you use this method, but it has worked for me.
As an aside, both Pepto-Bismol and Cipro should be in your travel case wherever you travel. Pepto-Bismol is good for heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, and nausea as well as for diarrhea. Cipro is great for diarrhea as well as lower respiratory infections (pneumonias), urinary tract infections, STDs and is the drug of choice in case of a surprise anthrax attack in the middle of the jungle. Cirpo is available, in Mexico, at most pharmacies without a prescription; in the USA a MD's prescription in necessary.
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The Wrinkles of Fate & Learning to Eat Soup Without A Spoon
I’ve been reading Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and the Yucatan, Vol. II
by John L. Stephens. It was originally published in 1841 and is his account of his journeys, mostly on horseback, through Central America and the Mayan lands of Mexico. Boy, do we have it easy nowadays! As travelers, most of us never really leave the comforts of home. We quickly fly to our destinations, take an air-conditioned taxi or shuttle bus to our hotel (some of us never even leave the hotel grounds while in a foreign land), have plenty to eat and drink, a clean and secure place to sleep, can bathe with clean water, never worry about revolution or volcanoes or fording raging mountain rivers on horseback, etc., etc., etc.
Every morning, I get up early and sit on the veranda drinking a cup of coffee and watching the world come alive. The hummingbirds and butterflies and honeybees visiting the flowers for breakfast. The school kids in their uniforms making their way to the school down the block. The birds greeting the dawn with song. And the roosters joining them, just to make sure everyone and everything is awake. The tiny newspaper truck that speeds around the square delivering the daily paper to the vendor in the park. Once I am satisfied that the world is up and going about its business, I read for a while before starting my workday. Today Stephens wrote about crossing from what is now El Salvador into Guatemala, finessing his way through opposing sides of a bloody revolution and cross-border civil war strife. Throughout his travels, he was able to stop at almost any hacienda and be offered hospitality, even from perfect strangers, with food and drink and a place to sleep. This is quite a concept in our day and age, with the thousands of travelers that make their way even to remote places. Stephens was welcomed at a hacienda near the border and, as he writes “We had a supper at a small table placed between the hammocks and one of the beds, consisting of fried eggs, frigoles (sic) and tortillas, as usual without knife, fork, or spoon.”
As I read that, I flashed back to the beginning of this year on New Years Day. My wife, Nena, had been looking in Valladolid for a church that suited her. She tried a few different ones and was disappointed not to find one that appealed to her. We had started going for drives when we had some downtime, each time in a different direction. We wanted to see and explore and experience what the small villages were all about. On New Years Day, we were passing through Chichimilla, a small village south of Valladolid, going slowly because of the topes
(speed bumps) and with our windows down, when Nena’s ears perked up. She heard her kind of church music! We looked to the left and saw a small group of people near the side of the road having some kind of service. I turned the car around as soon as possible and slowly approached the group of people, intending just to listen to the music for a short time. Before we could come to a complete stop, both of our front windows had people leaning in and inviting us to join them in their service.
As we got out of the car, other people scurried to bring us rickety, folding wooden chairs to sit on. Others moved to the side to make room for us. The pastor acknowledged us and welcomed us. As I looked around at, perhaps, fifty adults gathered in an open yard, next to a house, I saw mostly women, a few men and lots of children. Many of the women were dressed in huipiles (the traditional Mayan dress). The men wore long pants and short-sleeved shirts along with their straw hats to ward off the sun. Almost all were Mayan, I surmised, by their look and by the mixture of Spanish and Mayan the pastor spoke. A very traditional, typical and conservative Mayan village. Not one necktie to be seen, not one gringo except me…and I was wearing shorts and a tee shirt. The pastor was speaking in front of a small table that was between two enormous loudspeakers, each at least 4 feet high, that looked like they would be more at home at a night club than in a church service.
When the pastor was about to read a passage from the Bible, he asked me if I would like to do the reading for the congregation. I shook my head, “No”, since I don’t read much Spanish. When he asked Nena if she would like to, she jumped at the chance. Someone handed her a worn Bible, and she read aloud the chosen verses. This was repeated at least four more times during the service with Nena stepping to the front of the congregation to read aloud the indicated passages.
As the service ended, the pastor invited us to share a meal with them. The Mexican version of a church supper. After the service ended, others repeated the invitation until we felt they really meant the invitation. So, we decided to join them. As we chatted, we explained that we sometimes did mission work in the Yucatan with Mano Amiga
constructing concrete roofs for the poor and needy. We were told to go to the house next door for our meal. Following the example of the others, we took our chairs with us and entered. A long table filled the entire room. We were directed to sit. A pitcher of horchata
(a cold, sweet beverage made from rice milk) was placed in front of us along with plastic cups. Since the horchata
had ice in it and because the horchata
was made using water, I declined the drink. I get nervous about ice and water whose origins I do not know.
We were each served a bowl filled with a black liquid surrounding islands of chilies and pieces of turkey…Relleno Negro
, a traditional festive dish throughout the Yucatan. It looked delicious; it smelled delicious. I was ready to dig on. But they had not yet brought out the spoons. So I waited, and waited and waited. Until I realized that we were not going to be served spoons. We were supposed to eat the soup using tortillas from one of the stacks of tortillas that had been placed along the table. I watched others to see how this was done and then joined in. I tore off a quarter of the tortilla, formed it into a scoop for the broth or used it to grab a piece of the turkey or a chili and carry it to my mouth without out getting my hands in the soup. It was tricky, but tasty.
I finished my bowl but declined a second serving. As we gathering ourselves to leave, it seemed dozens of people thanked us for joining them and invited us to their regular service at the church. This service had been just a special, open-air service to celebrate the New Year. They gave us directions and times and were so earnest in their invitations that I was touched. A stranger, and a gringo at that, should be made to feel so welcome. It humbled me.
Nena has since found a church in Valladolid in which she feels comfortable and attends on a regular basis. Last night, Nena asked if I would like to join her at a special service they were having to dedicate their new building. It was a blowout occasion. Pastors and their flocks came from a far away as Tizimin, an hour north. Individual pastors came from Merida and Guadalajara (almost at the other end of the country). And the pastor delivering the sermon came from Indiana. It was quite something to listen to the pastor from Indiana preach, one sentence at a time in English, pause while the sentence was translated into Spanish with appropriate gestures and inflections. He was a powerful and dynamic speaker…and his translator (another gringo) followed suit.
It was my first time at this church and I was greeted and welcomed by numerous people. We were seated in the front row, in stacking plastic chairs stenciled with the Pepsi logo. The church was overflowing with people and many had to stand near the back of the building throughout the service, which lasted almost two hours. At the end of the service, we were all invited to take our chairs with us and pass out to the side yard and join them in a meal.
Very different from the other church meal that we were served! First an individual, unopened bottle of cold soda (soda pop) then a tiny paper napkin then a foam plastic plate with four tacos. Some of the tacos were filled with cochinita pibil
(pork rubbed with herbs and spices, wrapped in banana leaves and baked in an earthen pit until moist, tender and flavorful), some with lechon al horno
(roast suckling pig). Both were delicious. I can never decide which I like more. The cochinita
or the lechon
As were making our way through the crowd, out to the street to leave, someone shouted out “Mano Amiga.”We looked and there were a dozen of people from Chichimilla that we had met on the first of the year. They remembered us and remembered Mano Amiga and greeted us like long-lost brothers. And invited us again to join them. Again, I was touched.
When we returned home and fell into hammocks, I reflected on the hospitality of the Mayan people. The openness and friendliness that they demonstrated to us. I was overwhelmed. I imagined a Mexican stranger, dressed differently, speaking a different language and having a different skin color, arriving at almost any gathering in the United States and wondered how he would be received.
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The Sounds of Yucatec Maya
I's not really going to write about this, I'm going to let you hear it and see it at a YouTube video. Yucatec Maya is one of somewhere between 24 and 34 living Mayan languages. Languages, scholars say, and not just dialects. Yucatec Maya is still spoken by about one and one half million people and its geographic range is the largest of the Maya tongues. I believe this is because the Yucatan is so flat with no great barriers to travel and commerce. Other Maya languages are spoken in very tiny regions in Chiapas and the highlands of Guatemala where mountans seperate people enough that distinctive languages develop in various valleys.
The older woman is Paula. Her husband, Felipe, brought Paula to me for a massage since she hurt herself falling out of a hammock (no idea what she was doing in that hammock!) and hurting her shoulder. Felipe is the honey seller that I previously wrote about. Since he also provides massage, I guess that he liked my treatment enough to bring his wife. The massage treatment became almost comical as I attempted to say something to her in Spanish and she just did not understand me. She speaks much less Spanish than I do. Felipe, who speaks some Spanish, attempted to translate for us without much success. So I called in Sofia, our housekeeper, who does speak quite a bit of Spanish to translate. That's Sofia in the obscure frames. In the background, you can see some of the new mural for one of the guest suites. I'm currently using that room for massage therapy since the room I plan to use for massage doesn't yet have all its windows.
In the video you will hear an occasional Spanish work used where there is no Mayan word for the concept. I found out today that there is a Mayan word for grandmother chiich
, but both ladies in this video (from different Mayan villages) used the same Spanish word for grandfather, Señor
. Not abuelo
which is Spanish for grandfather nor nohoch taat
(what the dictionary lists as grandfather in Mayan, nor mam
which is the dictionary translation for aged grandfather. Señor
is a term of respect that may go beyond the other words in both Mayan and Spanish. ¿Quien sabe?
Here's the link to the YouTube video:YouTube
. If that doesn't work for some reason, cut and paste the following URL:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AFSjli4idE
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Building a Swimming Pool.Part I: "Don’t need no stinkin’ permit.”
When I first decided that I needed to put in a swimming pool so that people could get a real YucaTan, I started looking around my property to find a suitable location. Since all of the northern part of the Yucatan is a more or less flat limestone shelf with a thin layer of dirt over it, most of the places that I looked were either exposed bedrock or rock with a little dirt over it. There was no easy way to excavate for a pool. And I did not want an above ground one.
A friend pointed out an interesting location with lots of sun, near the house and at least three feet (91 cm) higher than most of the grounds with a natural slope. I knew that some of the material was fill but needed to know where the bedrock was and how it sloped. I hired a couple of workers to determine how far down was bedrock and the extent of it. I figured that even with a natural bedrock slope, it would work out so that I could have a shallow end and a deep end. One end of the proposed site had a deep pocket of rich topsoil along with the large tree roots that had found this wonderful supply of nutrients. The workers chopped with axes as much as they worked with shovels. There was no way that any machine was going to get to the site to aid excavation, so the workers carried on with pick and shovel and axe.
As they cleared a portion of the bedrock, a vertical hole about 18 inches (45 cm) in diameter was uncovered. That was exciting since the area is honeycombed with caves, caverns and underground cenotes. Maybe this was an entrance! Further digging found the bottom of the hole to be about 4 feet (122 cm) down, but there was at least one side “tunnel” horizontal to the main shaft. It was full of topsoil and more tree roots that had entered some distance away and followed the topsoil. We filled in the hole with small rocks and gravel.
At this point, I had a tentative plan for the pool. A small rectangular pool with three levels: kiddy level, waist high level and a deeper end. I had no interest in a diving area nor did I have the room to make a lap pool. The natural rock slope suggested these three levels. But there was one hitch; the kiddy level was neither level nor was it large enough in area. It had a number of humps and bumps that were just too high. So the workers attempted to level the area (and expand it a bit as well) using hammers and crowbars. It was slow, brutal and tedious work with little result.
My foreman suggested we bring in the bombero…the guy who uses dynamite to level, to excavate and to break up rock. With some trepidation, I said, “Bring him in”. He and his helper showed up on a Saturday while I was feeding about 20 people on the veranda. This was to be the day’s entertainment. The bombero and his assistant used the same type of crowbars to make vertical holes in the rock. The holes were less than 2 inches (5 cm) in diameter and were up to 12 inches (30 cm) deep. They bored five or six holes in a matter of minutes. They had obviously done this before. While the boss went to purchase blasting powder, his assistant rolled in a number of large truck tires as well as a few normal sized automobile tires along with a long length of heavy-duty rope.
The bombero came back with a little plastic bag; I had expected a wooden box of sticks of dynamite along with a plunger to set off the dynamite. Not so! He had a small coil of fuse, a small bag of granular material that looked like fertilizer to and a second, smaller bag of blasting caps.
The bombero cleaned out the bottom of the first hole with a small stick that he found lying around. He poured in some of the granular material, measuring by eye and experience and then gently tamped it down with the stick. He uncoiled the fuse and cut off a length, again measuring by eye and experience. This is when he scared the hell out of me. He cramped the blasting cap onto one end of the fuse with his teeth. I have some experience with cap-lock firearms and know that the stability of these kinds of caps is even less than those paper rolls of caps that we used to shoot as kids. It does not take a lot to make them go bang. If he had bitten down incorrectly, he would have lost at least some teeth and part of his jaw, if not his entire head. He seemed unconcerned and after cramping the cap on the fuse, wiggled it into the granular powder, filled the hole with dirt and gently tamped it down as well.
Then he and his assistant started piling the heavy truck-tires over the hole, stacked one on top of the other, looping the stout rope through tires as they went. When they were stacked about four high, the smaller automobile tires were jammed perpendicularly into the larger tire opening. These tires were then lashed to the heavier ones. The end of the rope was tied to one of the natural stone columns that supported the veranda of Casa Hamaca
. At this point I asked what the tires and the rope were for. The tires were to help contain the blast and the rock shards that shot out. The tires were tied to the house so that they would remain in my yard and not be blown over into my neighbors. Okayyyy.
Without any prior warning, the bombero struck a match, lit the fuse and started casually walking away, saying in an almost conversational voice “Bomba. Bomba”. This was the warning the explosion was about to go off. In the USA, we might have heard “Fire in the hole” along with sirens and other early warnings. But not here. After what seemed like a long wait with nothing happening, there was a puff of smoke followed by a mighty explosion that shook the entire house. The tires flew up in the air to the length of their tether and slammed back to earth. The bombero and his assistant, calmly strolled back to the site, untied the tires and proceeded to fill the next hole with the granular blasting powder. Watch the BANG on YouTube
No neighbor looked over the wall to see what was happening, no alarms were raised, no one seemed to care that we were blasting in the middle of town. Before we started, I had asked the bombero if we needed a permit. His reply was, more or less, “We don’t need no stinkin’ permit.” In the days after this experience, I could hear explosions, coming from all directions, almost every day, as other people blasted rock for footings, foundations, wells, pools and septic tanks. Everybody seemed to do it. I was told that a permit was necessary near downtown where there were heavier concentrations of people and the buildings were closer together. There are so many fireworks in Valladolid on so many different occasions, that maybe no one notices a few more explosions.
The bombero and his assistant shot about ten holes that afternoon providing entertainment for the lunch crowd. The bombero was precise with his measuring, adding just enough powder to level a particular area. His costs were minimal; $100 New Pesos (or less than US$10.00) per shot.
I thought this would be it for the excavation for the pool. Other costs and needs came up and the pool construction was put off for a few weeks. And when we started again, clearing down to bedrock for the rock wall, we uncovered another vertical hole, this one about 6 feet (183 cm) in diameter. The depth was not great enough to lead to a cave, cavern or cenote; but was great enough to stop construction while we worked out the plans to incorporate the hole into the overall design and transform it into a whirlpool or spa. And that is where we are now. By this time next week, we should be leveling the pool bottom with sand, adding the plumbing, laying steel rebar and getting ready to pour the pool floor and walls in a single pour. I’ll let you know how it goes.
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