I was raised in rural New Jersey. For the most people, the Garden State evokes images of spaghetti bowl freeways, Atlantic City and miles upon miles of town after town. It’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins. (Rocks In My Head)
Our three hundred year old farmhouse. My mother wanted it because it had three fireplaces. It burned to the ground shortly after my father died and she had sold it.
When I was in fifth grade we moved “out in the country”. The road was paved from our little town of a thousand people to my family’s driveway. From there a dirt road continued a mile or so to a working dairy farm. Today those small farms are long gone and housing developments take their place.
Fourth and fifth grade in the same classroom.
It was a common occurrence, on a balmy summer’s evening for my father to stand and declare, “Go for a walk?”. It wasn’t really a question. The TV was turned off and five kids, dogs and even the cat ambled across the lawn and up the road. The best times were when there were fat juicy wild blackberries ready for picking along the way.
The trout stream that flowed behind our property.
The view from the bridge on the corner of our property the last time I visited.
These sweet memories came flooding in as the dogs and I stepped out of our gate this week and walked along our jungle road. Five years ago when we first arrived in Bacalar, there was no road. Now there are two houses that we pass on our daily jaunt. Land is being cleared all around for god knows what. The only thing we can really count on is change. Our hearts break to see the jungle cut down and the animals disappear.
Out the front gate.
We leave in the morning for California. Off to care for my daughter and her family which includes newborn twins Sara and Ana. Another summer in Bacalar will be gone when Lisa and I return. I won’t miss the mosquitoes but I do love it here.
The babies are thriving.
the adventures of dos tortas 
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