It’s not surprising that reports of mental health issues are on the rise in this time of Covid. When my youngest brother died of brain cancer in 2000, I sat on the couch every night for a year, it was as close to depression as I’ve gotten.
Michael on the left. His hair was growing back after his first brain surgery,
One of the things that pulled me out of the dark was swimming. Last night I found an old diary where I wrote about loving to exercise, specifically swim.
Training for the Bacalar open water competition several years ago.
I moved to Bacalar to be able to swim. I have the answer to the blahs in my back yard, cold water and exercise. I just have to do it. My goal this week is to get up earlier and swim before the wind picks up causing the waves that make it more difficult. The motivation of even ten years ago is more difficult to find these days.
My triathlon days.
Fingers crossed it works. Seems I cross my fingers a lot these days.
I found my first gray hair at 17. Today at 69, my hair is almost completely white. I have never dyed it, unless you count the time I tried henna and my hair turned orange. I have gotten compliments on the color and even inspired friends to grow out theirdyed locks.
33 years old
I’ve worn my hair short and spikey for many years. Last January I decided to grow it out. I’ve always judged long white hair to be “old looking”, something to be avoided. Well, guess what, I am and there’s no avoiding it.
2017 self portrait
My last haircut was in March 2020. I was planning a trip to Atlanta for my uncle’s 100 birthday. Covid and the quarantine happened shutting down my plans and those of the entire world. As the months rolled by I cared less and less about my appearance.
Eye glasses also changed with time.
I’m not sure I would have made it this long if not for Covid. I can now pull my hair back in a rubber band, or braid it in kindergarten style. I continue to look in the mirror and wonder who this strange face is looking back at me.
Braids to keep my wild hair under control.
Life is a hoot and this is aging. It’s certainly not how I thought it would look. I can’t imagine what my life would be like today if I hadn’t exercised, eaten well and generally been happy. Who knows it might be exactly the same, but I doubt it.
I had a pen pal in fifth grade. I wish I could say that we still write to each other. I would have a story worthy of the evening news. Truth be told, I don’t remember much of our penship, not even where she lived or how long we corresponded.
Letter to my father.
When attending college in Mexico in the seventies, I wrote a letter to my father. I found it among his things when he died. A keepsake for sure. He had written a letter to me that I responded to. I wish I still had it.
Do we even know how to write?
For awhile I lived in Okinawa, Japan. It was the eighties, before smart phones, computers and instant communication. I hand wrote letters on blue, tri-fold airmail paper. They took awhile to arrive stateside but the fifteen hour time difference made phone calls challenging.
In the time of Covid I have nurtured a few pen pal relationships. One is with a guy I met on our cruise to the Panama Canal a year ago. He and his wife hung out with us on board and we knew they would be good travel companions. Dan likes to write. He sends missives that are entertaining and detailed. He is a good storyteller and together we exchange our lives in lockdown.
Panama City
Someday they will come to Mexico. Perhaps when we are all vaccinated, when Covid cases are manageable and when we can hug each other and go out. Won’t that be grand?
This week was my birthday. We went out to dinner Friday night to one of the new little restaurants popping up in Bacalar. Per a recommendation by our local residential list serve, we heard they had vegan options and good prices,. We dandied up a bit and headed the three miles into town.
A Xolo is a hairless Mexican dog which dates back to the Aztecs.
I am a person who would almost always choose to eat at home, but Lisa needed a break, and Alice insisted on paying, so off we went.
Happy birthday to me.
When I asked the waiter, in Spanish, what was in the vegan tacos, he replied, “cauliflower, it’s like broccoli only white “. I thought I would fall off my chair laughing. He clearly doesn’t have a lot of experience with vegetables! The tacos were delicious with their hecho a mano, handmade blue corn tortillas. I would definitely go back. The music wasn’t too loud. The food was tasty and I’m still laughing.
I’ve always been a word person. In seventh grade Mr. Oldfield taught us to diagram sentences…verbs, nouns, adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, gerunds. The more complicated the sentence, the more I liked it.
Eighth grade and high school graduation.
When registering for high school classes, the counselor signed me up for a semester of Latin. I had no idea why. I was so lost in that class. I passed the course by copying test answers from the girl next to me. It took me a long time to understand that taking Latin was one of the best things I ever did and that I actually learned a lot. Not only is Latin the basis for English but made learning Spanish that much easier. I don’t think schools offer Latin anymore.
Even though I loved words, I never understood how to write a term paper. Classes at the University of Texas had a strong writing component. The teaching assistant would return my scribbling with suggestions for improvement marked in red. I made corrections and returned the paper as many times as it took to have an acceptably finished product. I was learning.
Graduate school and a job as a grant writer further developed my abilities. The final outcome was a love of writing. I do my best to hone my craft and produce a blog that tells a story. I am a work in progress.
Masters in Education 1996 University of Texas, Austin
So that’s the written word. What about spoken? My poor wife frequently looks at me in confusion. She is more of a statistical, black and white thinker. All my finely crafted communications leave her befuddled and give her a headache. It’s a wonder we’ve made it twenty-five years.
Last night I had a dream. An ethereal woman appeared to me and stated clearly, “it’s not about the words, it’s about the feelings.” The message shone through. People don’t feel loved, understood, and accepted by my well diagrammed sentences. I use words to protect myself and distance myself from people. They also make me feel smart. I guess it’s time for less thinking and more heart, a skill I’m willing to develop.
Last week, I was hugging the toilet and not after a night of debauchery in Cancun. Truthfully I’ve never been a debauchery kind of gal, but back in my youthful days, when guys in Mexico would keep the drinks coming, I learned about alcohol the hard way.
Celebrating my 21 birthday in Mexico. Heading out for a night on the town with my best girl.
Now, after living a sedate retired life in Mexico for seven years, I’ve never been this sick. And I’m still not sure what caused the intestinal upset, fever, etc. A course of antibiotics seems to be doing the trick and upping our hygienic game is in the cards. We buy all our produce in a small town mercado. It was probably only a matter of time, although outbreaks of things I can’t pronounce occur in the US food chain all the time.
A lovely small town market in Bacalar.
Wednesday I left for the much postponed trip to the US Consulate in Playa del Carmen, to renew my expired passport. The bus ride was quiet and socially distant. The required masks contributed to the tranquility and I curled up and slept most of the four hour trip.
First trip out in a pandemic.
The little boutique hotel that I had booked turned out to be a real gem. The room was $45US and included a full-on off the menu breakfast. My stomach was finally starting to accept food and I enjoyed it immensely.
House of the Flowers Seafood soup for dinner. Very typical Mexican food.
Playa del Carmen was hopping and the little I got to see hobbling around on my still painful ankle was mostly mask-less. Turning my paperwork in at the consulate was the easiest and least painful part of the trip. I’m now sitting in the bus station waiting for the return trip to Bacalar. If I had postponed yet again, I probably would have been able to enjoy myself more. And against the voices in my head, the consulate wouldn’t have cared a bit. Oh well, live and learn.
Last summer, to occupy the time of quarantine, I mailed art-cards to friends and family. I painted post card sized pictures and mailed them in Bacalar. It’s a fun way to connect and let my grandchildren and others know that I’m thinking about them.
Nights in the 50s have been a delight.
This past week I began to hear from card receivers, my brother, niece, a cousin. Frankly I had mailed the cards and forgotten about them.
I knew that mail from Mexico took its own sweet time, but eight months!
Every few weeks, I routinely stop by our tiny post office and check our mailbox #16. This week, I casually mentioned to the post master, who is quite familiar with my mailing habits, that the cards I mailed in May had just arrived in the US. He gave me a Mona Lisa smile and shrugged. I laughed and went on my way. The trouble is, you can’t have it both ways. That shrug can be both maddening and charming, depending on the job you need to complete, or the deadline you must make.
This week I registered myself and my mother-in-law for a Covid vaccine. The over 60 crowd is up right after medical first responders. Hopefully the appointments will arrive sooner than my postcards. Fingers crossed.
Making garlic soup is about as close to comfort food as it gets for me. I have always used it for medicinal purposes as well as a very yummy meal. Just add crusty bread and you have heaven.
Oaxacan sculptor Josefina Aguilera.
I love soup’s versatility and lack of fussiness. There really isn’t a recipe. Sometimes it’s an “empty out the refrigerator” soup before going Sunday shopping. Of course that means you have to have a supply of vegetables needing to be eaten. Carrots are a staple.
Crimini mushrooms in Bacalar, a rare find.
For medicinal purposes, I use an entire bulb of garlic. Anywhere between a clove and a fist-full will work. The soup can be made on the stove, in a slow cooker or, my favorite, the Instant pot. However you choose, the intense aroma will fill your house and possibly the entire neighborhood.
I tend toward Italian herbs, but follow your preference.
The soup base can be made from liquid from having steamed vegetables, canned tomatoes, a purchased vegetable cube, or meat if you prefer. Chicken soup is a time honored cure for what ails you. I prefer a vegetable soup.
I love white beans.
If you don’t mind the heat, add an inch of pealed chopped ginger and/or a piece of fresh pepper. I leave the pepper whole so it can be scooped out and not surprise anyone with a mouthful of fire. Living in Mexico, the shop owners laugh when we buy one Serrano pepper. Compared to the locals, we are wusses when it comes to our heat tolerance.
I don’t guarantee that garlic soup can cure Covid, but it sure couldn’t hurt. There has been quite a bit of research to prove its benefit in fighting colds, lowering blood pressure, improving high cholesterol and a myriad of other health challenges. Have fun and do report back your experience.
The year nineteen-seventy (1970) began a shiny new decade. It was the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius, which was also the theme for my high school prom and the year I graduated. We would have had our fiftieth reunion this past year if not for Covid.
Year book graduation picture 1970The Dawning of the Age of AquariusMy mother bought the gloves. I never wore them again.
The Vietnam War was in full swing. Nightly news was full of student sit-ins, protest marches, women’s liberation, Stonewall (1969) and Kent State (1970). As a budding adult, I never participated in anything that turned violent.
March on Washington 1967
The large march I did attend in New York City (1971) involved chanting anti-war slogans and passing around a bottle of Snaups. I felt very grown up. Richard Nixon was president.
Anthem for a troubled time. John Lennon 1971
I know that not all protests at that time were peaceful and I’m sure some folks wanted to overthrow the government. For the most part it was the PEACE movement, identified by rainbow colors, long hair, pot smoking and lots of sex.
Our senior class trip to Washington DC. North Hunterdon Regional High School Class of 1970
These and many more are the memories that have been swirling around my head as I have been glued to the evening news, appalled at the images of armed rioters storming the halls of our nation’s capitol. If I avert my eyes, it feels like they’ll get away with it, which I know is not true. My first step in extricating myself from the drama is to quit talking about it. I will pass on all the salacious details of arrests that only raise my blood pressure. It’s time to join John Lennon and “Imagine” living life in peace. If only the crazies would stay home!
the adventures of dos tortas 
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