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Órale, raza. This is the last episode dedicated to the pinche heavy onda of modern civilized convention regarding the household toilet seat: up or dow—or up. And the word featured word this week is perrada. In modern Spanish is means, pack of or a group of more and one rushing dog. In Caló it means a mobilized pack of beasts, dogs, people and otherwise. When they’re perreando, the individuals that make up the perrada are participating in a mob action. They’re blindly following the lead of the individual in front of them, leading the whole to do what none of its members would have tried on their own. It used to be used to call out a swarm of police, whether in cars or on foot, as in the arrival of a pack of sicced dogs. Today it refers to mob action in general, whether to party, fight or troll a discussion on the internet. What happened that you look all desmadrado, ese? Pos, the perrada came to my chante after bar hours and didn’t leave until sunup.

Órale, for March, we’re gonna touch on one of the central cultural experiences that informs Caló: poverty. Much of the aesthetic of Caló is an adaptation to this experience. That is, what’s thought to be pretty and ugly and good and bad in Caló reflects this experience of poverty. Of course, every language expresses poverty in its own way, not just Caló. In the case of Caló, however, poverty is expressed as hunger and scarcity of the resources needed to survive, like clean water, safety and effective medical care. Things like worn out shoes and coats come in a different order of need. Seeing your family go hungry is poverty, not poor shoes and coats. The Caló word for this episode is féria. It means cash or change, whether bills or coins. To say someone has lots of féria is to say they’re rich.

Drawn by people, dogs or, later, horses, travois were a mainstay of traditional Native American life in the West. Up through the 19th century, nomadic peoples used these sleds – typically fashioned of two long poles lashed together into an A-frame – to transport their belongings.

Órale, the featured Caló word this week is Mexa. It means someone from the interior of Mexico, that is, from south of the border region. As the world of Caló straddles the border, the people there don’t distinguish each other in terms of on what side of the border they were born. Of course, there are many other distinguishing characteristics, like extended family, neighborhood of origin, etc. Otherwise, everybody on the border sees each other as the same people, some of whom circulate primarily on the Mexican side of the border and others who circulate primarily on the US side. But if you’re a Mexa, you’re an outsider. And you see the people from the border as different from yourself. They likewise see you as not one of their own.

Órale, the featured word for this episode of Caló is plegostia. It means someone who, despite your admonitions and pleas to the contrary, follows you into danger or where they should not go. The comparable term in modern Spanish is plegoste, which means a sticky or hardened spot or wrinkle. A different but close term in Caló is tirilongo, which means a hanger-on or groupie. The difference is that plegostia is associated with a conflict, fight or traumatic engagement. And it refers to an innocent at-risk follower, who doesn’t know what they’re getting into or isn’t a party to the conflict they’re headed into. You’re not a plegostia if you’re an informed participant in the conflict.

Mississippi kites are slender and elegant, with 3-foot wingspans and plumage that fades from black to a pale gray-white. They once summered mostly in the Southeast, nesting in deciduous trees. But as people brought those trees to the Texas plains, the kites followed

Pound-for-pound, grasshopper mice are among the fiercest predators in the desert borderlands, and they’re unfazed by venomous prey.

Lubbock Lake is one of several important archeological sites on the West Texas plains that testify to the earliest Americans, the “Paleoindians.”

Órale, raza. This is the last episode on the toilet seat up or down onda. The featured word is patón. It derives from the Spanish word for an animal’s foot. In Spanish, some anatomical parts have one name if it’s attached to a human being and a different name if it’s attached to an animal. It’s considered a pejorative if the term reserved for animals is applied to a human. The word for mouth, for example, is boca for humans and hocico for animals. The word for foot, is pie if on a human, and pata if on an animal. If somebody annoying cuz they’re saying things you don’t like, you might say ‘shut your hocico, ese’. The standard rule for the use of aggrandizing suffixes, like -ón, apply for these terms, as in bocón, hocicón, and patón. But in Caló, the former two mean loudmouth—and disrespectfully, and the latter means big person—and slightly complimentary, not someone with big feet. A big woman or man is a patona or patón, as if the feet are the measure of an individual.

It’s the first discovery of a new plant genus in a national park in decades, and a landmark find. But the identification of Ovicula biradiata, the “wooly devil,” began with a simple walk in the park. The discovery is a reminder that while known for its vast landscapes, Big Bend National Park is also a place of hidden surprises.