I started graduate school at the University of Texas in 1994 at age forty-two. The day was exactly twenty years after I had walked onto the UT campus for the first time to get my under graduate degree in 1974.
The famous University of Texas Tower lit up for having won a football game.
I had been a stay-at-home mom, caring for three children and helping our family survive on one income. But events changed and I needed to get back into the world. I needed a job. Computers were relatively new and I was low on confidence and unsure as to how to find my way.
Graduate school seemed like the obvious answer. I did the required prerequisite class in statistics at community college. I was the oldest class member in all situations but I persevered and grew in confidence. My brain worked just fine albeit a bit slower. I had to take the GREs (Graduate Record Examination), a standardized entrance exam in math and English. I hadn’t had algebra since high school. A prep class, a lot of studying, crossed fingers and I passed with a more than adequate score. Success breeds success!
When Lisa and I left Texas for Bacalar in 2013 we had to make a lot of decisions as to what we would keep and what items were sold or given away.
Packed
For some reason, I held onto my old graduate school term papers. Writing them had taught me so much. I learned how to do research, spending hours in library stacks. Today’s students would laugh at how things were done in the “old days”.
Dot matrix printer.My major was Health Education. My focus was adolescents.
These term papers were the beginning of honing my skills as a writer. Best of all were the comments from teachers. Where else does someone of import write “Well done”, appreciating the extraordinary effort of a middle-aged mom returning to academia? I have held onto these papers for almost thirty years. Time to let them go. Today I can look back and pat myself on the back and say “well done”. I no longer need confirmation from out-dated college term papers.
This week, in an almost empty gym, a young woman ambled up and asked me in SPANISH, “have you always exercised?” She had blond hair and a braid down her back the width of my arm. She’s Colombian and has lived in Bacalar four years. I was thrilled by her question.
Nevys
I think many of the locals that work out at the gym think that I don’t speak Spanish, which is barrier number one to conversation. Barrier number two is that I don’t socialize. I’m not chatty, I tend to focus on my work-out, nose to the grindstone. And then there’s the biggest barrier, I’m old.
71 and not getting any younger.
I have worked on overcoming these barriers, except for the old part. There’s nothing much I can do about that. Research clearly shows that a contributing factor to longevity is having close personal relationships, right up there with diet and exercise. In Mexico it is thought rude not to greet everyone with, “buenos días” upon arrival. I make a habit of looking at people and greeting them every morning. There’s been little change in camaraderie however, until this week.
15 months progress. Slow but steady.
I know I’ve talked about this topic before. It is not easy for me but I’m determined. I asked the receptionist her name and now use it when I arrive each day and this week I made a new friend. I will attempt to nourish this seedling. Wish me luck.
She lived across the street from us. Terry was born in South Austin in 1933 and bought her house when she married Bill. They raised two kids there and when we met her she was a widow living alone, her adult children were long grown. Our older tree-lined neighborhood was an Austin treasure with houses built in the early 60’s. It used to be that the only way to buy a house there was when someone died. We got our house because the previous owner moved to a nursing home.
We kept an eye on all the elders in our neighborhood. Terry’s house once flooded. She had a dry creek behind her yard that turned out not to be so dry one spring downpour. Lisa built a French drain to channel the water away from her house. That was the only time she asked for help. She was an independent old coot and we loved her.
My favorite story about Terry was her love for a pink flowering vine called Queen’s Wreath that grew on the side of her house. The butterflies also loved it and gravitated to its sweet nectar. The trouble was, when the butterflies lighted on the flowers, the petals fell off. One day I came upon Terry muttering, “damn butterflies” as she shood them off her beloved flowers.
Queen’s Wreath
A neighbor found Terry unconscious in her carport one day. Her car door was open so she was clearly about to run errands. Her head was bleeding. We never saw her again. Her children whisked her away. We didn’t have a relationship with them and we got complacent. The time for Terry to make her own decisions had run out.
Some time afterward there was a flurry of activity at her place. A couch was carried to the curb. Lisa inquired and was gifted the couch. They were emptying out her house to sell it. Terry was living with her daughter.
We knew the couch was brand new. It took days of airing and scrubbing. Terry also had a big floofy white cat. We still have the couch. As a matter of fact I’m sitting on it right now. Luna gives up her spot now and then.
We left Austin September 2013.
One day I was thinking about Terry and found her obituary. It made me sad yet brought back good memories. And whenever we find ourselves complaining about some inconsequential thing, we remember “damn butterflies” and think of Terry and smile.
We never know exactly when Luna’s birthday is. Friends found her under their car tied in a trash bag. She appeared to be a few months old, covered in fleas and tics. I decided that US Independence Day July 4th was as good a day as any to recognize. Happy Birthday Luna.
Left in a bag on the street covered in ticks and fleas. August 2015She wasn’t much bigger than my sandals. Lanky legs and a puppy belly. Luna loved the hammock now she’s afraid of it 😆 So regal.Don’t mess with a blind pug.
Luna is a very good girl. She has a large deep voice that we didn’t expect. She acts like she’ll take your head off but is a big scaredy-cat. It’s hard to believe she’s eight years old. Happy birthday sweet Luna.
Being members of the over the hill crowd, we rarely venture out at night, by which I mean the afternoon.
A rare sighting.The new large palapa with the laguna in the distance provides event space for the community.
Friday night, my lovely and I ventured into Bacalar for a date night. We had already postponed it once and were determined to get out of the house, besides trips to the gym and doctors’ appointments. There was a health fair happening in the newly renovated Centro palapa. We put a comb through hair and dug out clean shirts and off we went.
My Sweetie.
There are so many new restaurants in Bacalar but I chose the tried and true Italian on the square. We ate our vegan pizza so fast, it was all but gone before I remembered to take a picture.
Vegan pizza. Artichoke, spinach, and mushroom.
The health fair included free massages which we never pass up. Lisa can take her clothes off faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. The tiny young woman who gave my muscles a squeeze was pretty good. As we were exchanging contact information I discovered that she is the daughter of our new jardinero (gardener)! Even with all the growth, Bacalar is still a small town.
Our Mayan massage therapist Karla.
We joined the Zumba class for a few wiggles.
Gotta love Zumba.
And while ambling back toward the car, we ran into Bacalar’s very own Pride Parade!
Small but fierce.
You have to love Mexican spontaneity. If this little fanfare was planned, nothing was posted, which is the norm. We don’t usually find out about goings ons until they’ve already happened. Not this time!
All in all we had a really good time. Perhaps we’ll venture out a bit more frequently. Once the sun drops to a certain level, the breeze off the Laguna is actually pleasant. And who knows who or what we might run into?
DOS TORTAS
This year more than ever we need all the Pride we can muster.
It’s been a hot one in the jungle of Bacalar, Mexico. We’ve also had rain which has been lovely. Rain cools us off for about five minutes.
Last Saturday was the annual open water swim across Laguna Bacalar. It ended up being more fun than I expected. The sun peaked in and out of the clouds which kept the sunburn to a minimum. I came in fifth in my age group and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I would maybe swim again next year. Don’t hold me to it!
Newly emerged from the water.My friend Maria from Mexico City.
On Monday we took Lisa’s mom to the doctor. She’d been having diarrhea that we couldn’t get under control. In the doctor’s office, Alice had a seizure. Wheels moved quickly and an appointment was made to travel to Merida on Tuesday to insert a pacemaker.
She is such a trooper. ❤️
There is a family history of heart issues and Covid only made things worse. We were aware that a pacemaker would likely be an eventuality. Alice’s success at the gym had made us hopeful that she could avoid the surgery. Unfortunately it wasn’t to be.
Alice and I pulled out of Dodge at five a.m. for the four hour drive. Lisa’s back could not take the long drive and someone had to stay with the dogs. I volunteered to take her. The procedure required one night in the hospital in Merida and another four hour drive home. Life certainly does surprise.
Heading home.
Alice is recovering as am I. The swim plus hours of driving, dealing with the doctors and the hospital really took it out of me. No spring chickens here.
Whether or not you celebrate Easter, Passover or Solstice as a spiritual practice, it’s a good time to take a break. Semana Santa or Holy Week is a widely celebrated national holiday in Mexico. Everyone gets a week off work, banks and businesses are closed and Bacalar is a vacation destination for many. Surprisingly the past week has been relatively quiet in our neck of the jungle, much to the chagrin I’m sure, of the million and one new hotels that have been popping up in anticipation of the Mayan Train.
Rooftop Easter sunrise.
I thought I’d share some of my latest artwork. Procreate is a drawing application that allows me to play with color, line and form on my iPad mini. I am totally a novice and use very few of the features it offers.
Let’s DanceFind The Ice Cream ConeBacalar SunriseHacienda Best Friends
The remote places of Mexico were easier to find in 1973. Three students, of which I was one, traveled down a beach road to a time forgotten. We spent a week with a family who was eeking out a living on the Pacific coast south of Acapulco.
This odd “parking space” was for drying coconuts! Taken on my old film camera.
Probably the most memorable activity of the week was drinking cold rum and coke. There were glass bottles of coca cola stacked against the house. One day, the fishermen were taking a run into town for supplies and asked if we wanted anything. Thinking we would provide a little fun for everyone, one of my fellow students gave them some pesos for a bottle of rum. When the rum arrived, we discovered to our surprise that none of the guys wanted any.
We bought our coke from Maria and proceeded to pour ourselves a drink. It was then that one of the fishermen casually asked us the most amazing question … “Quieres hielo?”
Old cases of coke,
It doesn’t take much Spanish language skill to know that hielo means ice. ICE? With no electricity and no running water, how could he be asking us if we wanted ice? My brain imploded with confusion.
Then this fellow proceeded to walk over to a large pile of wood chips that I hadn’t even noticed. And there, buried deep underneath was a block of ice. He pulled out an pick and hacked us off enough to fill our glasses. Voila! Cold rum and cokes. Talk about having to pinch yourself!
Cuba libre
I sat with my companions and watched the sunset, feet in the Pacific, miles from anywhere drinking cold rum and coke. We later realized that the ice was used to keep the fish cold for its trip to market in Acapulco. Wood chips provide adequate insulation. Who knew.
The boss showed up to haul the week’s catch to Acapulco. He is weighing the fish.
We three students from California, Connecticut and myself from New Jersey would never be the same. I think this is the first time I really talked about the experience in detail. The three of us went our separate ways after our adventure and never hung out again. For me, having met people with so few possessions who appeared so happy changed me. I realize that I was only there a week. I don’t want to glorify poverty as I’m sure they had their own problems. In the repaired van we said our goodbyes to return to classes having to force money on them to cover our stay. And like the 1954 musical Brigadoon, the veil closed and we went back to our student lives. Forever changed.
DOS TORTAS
A Gene Kelly taps with men in kilts from the magical village of Brigadoon.
In 2000 my youngest brother died of brain cancer. Lisa and I flew from Austin to Philadelphia for the surgery that we hoped would give him more time. We were sitting in his hospital room saying our goodbyes when a request to meet with the doctor caused us to extend our stay. The trouble was, hotels were booked all over the city due to something or other and we had already checked out of ours.
Michael was sharing a hospital room with a crotchety old man named Charlie who had recently had back surgery. His wife Esther showed up every day on her bicycle with a mouth watering picnic basket because he refused to eat hospital food. Lisa, who loves old people had befriended him. She even assisted him onto the bedside commode.
As a result, when I inquired as to whether they had a spare bedroom that we could use for a few days, we were handed the keys to another one of those life-altering experiences.
We lugged our suitcases the dozen blocks from the hospital to their brownstone, hopefully following Esther’s directions correctly. On the outside of the house there was a plaque stating that the building had once been the original French Embassy dating back to the American Revolution. OMG, what had we gotten ourselves into?
We climbed the stairs and entered into what felt more like a museum than a home. We couldn’t have known that Charlie was a foremost collector of Americana. Walking from room to room we cried over and over, “look at this!”. I so wish that I had a camera, but this was a time before cell phones in every pocket. The house was dark to protect the art from sunlight. This five story structure, equipped with an original elevator, was out of this world, floor to ceiling.
We had unknowingly made friends with Charlie and Esther McManus. Charlie was from old money. Not only would he not eat hospital food, he only carried crisp new $100 bills that Esther went to the bank to pick up. We later traveled to Philadelphia several times to visit them.
Esther was Israelí and an award winning chef. She once made croissants on TV with Julia Child! There was a spread in the New York Times Food Section (How To Give A Dinner Party) framed on their kitchen wall. Once when we visited she hosted a dinner party in our honor. You haven’t lived until a world class chef recognized for her dinner parties has one just for you. It was exquisite.
The complete video is on YouTube.
One time we went to lunch with Charlie (Esther worked and he had a little bistro nearby where he walked daily.) During a conversation he said something about PLUs or people like us. Lisa and I just looked at each other. WE were NOT people like Charlie and Esther but it did us no good to protest.
Queen of Le Bus culinary college, Philadelphia.
With Charlie’s health failing, they began to liquidate the art collection. Lisa took time from her construction company to fly to Philadelphia to help out. One day a representative from Sotheby’s Auction House made a dismissive comment to Lisa who was up on a ladder working to remove a chandelier. Charlie overheard and came up out of his chair to her defense. “Do you know who you’re talking to?! That’s my daughter.” The man’s eyes got big as Charlie proceeded to evict him from the premises.” Many apologies later, all was smoothed over. But Charlie left it completely up to Lisa if the man stayed or went.
Needless to say we were way out of our league here. We lost touch and found Charlie’s obituary years later. It is amazing how four people who unknowingly met in a hospital room could become friends and touch each other so deeply. I will return to the story of Acapulco next week. But for now I hope you enjoyed my little sidestep.
I’m so grateful that I got the X-ray and pain meds from my doctor. I guess two weeks with the inability to cough, laugh, sneeze, and turn over in bed, not to mention the screaming in pain, finally overcame my stubbornness. I suppose that the management of pain never crossed my mind as “something that can be done”.
Sometimes I’m just plain stupid.
It’s amazing how we use our upper body and arms for so many things, like standing from a seated position. I found myself scooting forward and using my legs to stand. All those squats came in handy. Do try it.
A full moon week.
There will be no bicep curls, bench presses or push ups for awhile. I can’t even carry a pitcher of water from the refrigerator to the counter. I am feeling better and this week we’ll begin cutting back on the meds. I hope it will clear my fuzzy brain a bit,
Sunday sunrise on Lake Bacalar.
Google says six to eight weeks. Today is three. I must admit to looking longingly at my gym clothes while selecting pajamas and sweatpants for daily attire. Sigh.
A little vid of our home and property.
I will continue to rest and stay drugged as needed. I am supremely grateful to my wife for taking such good care of me, and Dr. Oscar for the pain management. Life is good. So for another week, be well and don’t trip over any air mattresses.
the adventures of dos tortas 
Share Your Thoughts