The Saggy Remainder Years Challenge

Most days I know what I believe, I think about it quite a bit. On what if days, who knows what will cross my mind?

I can see myself as a fat old lady stuck on a broke island waiting to die, which is true or as the adventurous daredevil traveling to beautiful places alone in her spare time, also true.

In between all these good times, I sure can feel sorry for myself. There’s no getting over you, my darling, even after four years.

God, thanks for the opportunity to have the tribulations that balanced my trials. One’s life should be a wild ride; oh, the shit, you do over the years.

Opting out on children means you don’t get to be grandma. It was my husband I never planned on living without. This majorly sucks and how do I let go of the loss enough to enjoy the saggy remainder years of my life?

That’s exactly the challenge; make the best out of the remainder when every day is bitch or brag and the best may be a pain-free day. Our days no longer hold wide open promise; a day working in the garden means happiness.

Daily, my husband suffered physical pain but managed to love his life and bring joy to others; he was one of those guys. I’ve seen a great spirit live a humble life in torture. I can quit complaining. This is me shutting up, accepting the saggy, remainder challenge.

A Tale of Two Men

Today look to see a young man in a wheelchair, his face contorted with anger ranting at another man speaking to his mom in Spanish in San Juan airport of all places.

The hellfire torture a person feels over the loss of mobility can only be inadequately imagined, my heart felt for this soul, so I watched him rave a second time. Nothing justifies his behavior to people who were minding their own business, but my heart hurts for him none the less.

Only those who have lost a limb or mobility have any idea of how this young man hurts over the life that might have been his or what he could have done. You’re right; it’s no excuse for bad behavior, if you watch it again it’s a cry for help.

Look in the ranting man’s face; do you see rage? You’re speaking Spanish in the airport is getting on my last nerve rage?

Picture the scene that set the rage monster off, a mom chatting with and cooing over her fit and fine young military son in a way Latina women have of adoring their sons. Looking whole and wonderful her son reflected her adoration, and in hellfire, he sat dwelling on his loss; you can say, how sad or man up, but neither change that this man needs help and more compassion than he showed.

The raging man in a wheelchair may be the focus of this story, but on the flip side, we have a young man who I’d like to recognize for his cool and appropriate behavior. Way to go!!

The young man off camera spoke in reasonable tones telling him he too was military; he was talking to his mom who spoke Spanish, hoping for the angry man to empathize. Blessed are the peacemakers. 

Act Three

I am a Plebeian woman in many a marketplace examining the wares. Being of humble means I look much and purchase little. As I go I look into eyes and see the world; many souls look back, sharing their truths in a passing moment. I see hurt, love, and humanity, as well as, shame inflicted, but mostly not deserved.

I am proud of my cast, commonplace people, the salt on our table. During my productive age, I seldom looked directly into eyes; I didn’t trust, nor wanted to learn their secrets, or them to see my shame.

When you begin with little or nothing you have a plan and stay focused to get something. I believed in business old school, which meant doing my best each day, having integrity. I worked hard and managed to live a life that pleased me. I was blessed by opportunity.

Most of us don’t want to rule the world, just let me do something I can be proud of at the end of the day; it doesn’t matter what. My husband was proud to be a truck driver. He held respect within his company and his boss trusted him. As a Teamster in 705, he played his part in life, as I did as his wife.

The curtain rises on my third act: old age alone. Compliments of unscrupulous bankers, one of my least favorite presidents, and bad timing I have nothing, but thanks to Social Security am able to survive.

Ever wonder if walking off into the sunset means we die together? It didn’t; here I am. Does it matter? Why am I still here?

Act three, old and alone, who wants to see that? But wait a minute, each day holds promise, maybe not like my younger years, none the less, I see a beautiful sunrise and feel the arms of God under stars.

On the internet, I read inspired words from poets responding to their call and see what talented artists produce. I live on a tropical island, driving roads canopied with orange, purple, and white flowers in trees with trunks so wide I can but wonder what changes they’ve seen.

Enjoy the day, each day, one day in the not too distant future will be my last; this much I know. Those I loved, the comfort I strove for is gone, but there is so much value in the humble. I’m blessed when the bones don’t ache.

Travel alone I never thought I could, but adventure need not include tachycardia. Planning, budgeting, and learning about a destination give as much pleasure as the trip, well almost. So often I hit the financial wall with no way written all over it; my challenge to take a break, do something else, and come back with fresh eyes relishes the moment when doable pops into view.

Europe in 2018 what a dream I have for my third act; what do you think, a little Spain and, of course, some Italy?

The Trip

A month long trip should return with showers of stories, but I don’t care to reminisce. A storage locker of memorabilia made for melancholy days of remembering what my life once was. 

I was young. I was strong. I was smart. None of which I am any longer. No boo-hoo, to be on the downhill side of life I find is becoming acceptable. The skills I brought to my life mute with each year after bringing me through challenging  productive years. 

Boxes of letters from grateful clients praising how well their dog was doing after sessions with me bring a smile before dumping them in the trash. Stacks of winning dog show ribbons must go; what good are they? I’m on the letting go side of life. 

Kirt’s things give me grief, the man had a tool for everything. A gift of a few to a neighbor man where I stayed made another man happy. He, in turn, supplied us with boiled crab on the weekend. Oh, joy.

Tasty cracklins congealed in the arteries of my brain on the Sunday a  friend and I drove part of the Natchez Trace. Just think, a store dedicated to cracklins; I’m so glad I don’t live in that neighborhood. 

We toured old Southern graveyards with sections dedicated to Confederacy soldiers and others filled with the area’s landed gentry, fenced in crypts with ornate ironwork. Guardian angels open hands and wings to a loved one in the grave and in the middle of it all, sat a huge chunk of marble. The shiny surface with a simple cut edge demanded my attention. Looking up the hill in the afternoon light I shaded my eyes to see the name and dates on the tombstone. The sun ducked behind a cloud, in large letters one word appeared; DICK. My palms got sweaty. My eyes crossed. Good heavens, this is where the Dicks are buried. I’m ever so grateful to not be in the section where the Bitches are buried. 

The French Quarter, the Monteleone Hotel, and the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival deliver the people watching, the conversation eavesdropping I enjoy. Every writer yearns to introduce us to interesting or memorable characters, so there we were facing a crusty on old Southerner dripping with the nuance of place, who told us about the people populating his novels, one of which had won a Pulitzer. The other men wanted to be him, and, well, what woman isn’t enamored by a fine Southern man? Speaking of fine men, the ever charming Dick Cavett captivated the crowd; who with a brain doesn’t love him?

There’s an art to being alone in a crowd happily; moving to the beat of the music during the French Quarter Fest puts a smile on the face that others respond to, so I have thousands of momentary friends. Music, food, and a Chinese massage made my day. I've overdosed on people, most wonderful and charming, just too many, so return to a life with more solitude brings balance. 

Lightning and thunder lace the afternoon showers with special effects. I’m convinced more than ever that we’ve been invaded by an alien being or energy. Saw the signs, but they’re subliminal; how many of us catch the obvious let alone the obscured? This force affects people in odd ways. The stories make us shake our heads uncomprehending. You hear a story, but don’t realize the importance until later which makes putting these odd events together to form some sort of a picture difficult. Who knows; I could just be getting senile.   

  

Post Trip Blues

We were going to weather every storm and enjoy every sunset together. Before that horrid day in July of 2013, I hadn’t thought about life without him more that briefly; I couldn’t contemplate being without my honey. 

So often one person in a relationship cares more than the other. Sometimes people take turns, but when you get it right and you both care it’s beautiful. For the rest of my life I may never have that beauty again; why wouldn’t I be sad?  

I hate being sad, during the last three years I’ve traveled to Costa Rica, Cuba, Trinidad, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans, and Orlando; all were fantastic. Living on a lush tropical island poses no hardship, so why do I think of these last years as miserable? 

Accepting my new reality is another one of those sheer cliffs to be climbed. After three years some would say not a new reality, but to me as yet unacceptable. I have a reputation for being stubborn. 

Perhaps I’m feeling post trip blues because for a month living in St. Rose, Louisiana I lived more in the moment and thought of Kirt less. 

The artwork collected at auctions with the passion of a zealot lays on the floor waiting to be re-framed. Pray, God, I live long enough to see pretty pictures on my concrete walls.  

My overall mental health can easily be identified by what I’m wearing. Days in my honey’s 1990’s cotton pants mean moody or who gives a shit.Positive days wear a new outfit and makeup. And, Friends, if there ever were an age for makeup I have surely found it. 

Would that I was an old soul with wisdom seeping out my pores, but my soul is young; I make mistakes. 

So much to see, and go, and do beg me to come and play, but a to the bone budget demands frugality. Discipline is difficult in a poor me frame of mind, but if I 

want another adventure, I’d better kiss it hello. 

Speaking of frames I lost the nails and eye hooks; I’d better learn those words in Spanish before shopping. 

Yes, it’s the post trip blues, just selecting a potential next trip has me feeling a tad perkier or maybe it’s fresh air after the rain. Today is a friend’s birthday; happy birthday, Gloria! 

We’re going for decadent chocolate cake before I hit the gym. 

It's a Mystery

These last years, I thought I’d be sipping iced drinks with friends or lounging on a porch; my life’s been interesting, challenging, and fun, but never much of a mystery, so why now?
        Google is gone from my computer; the only way to get back on is through MSN, which won’t let me enter my email account unless I allow them to organize my life. Why do I feel as if someone were trying to control me?
          For a person who took things at face value, I’m suddenly seeing conspiracies and alternate motives. Did I awake from a dream where life was hard but fair into a world where no one can be trusted?

Do I sound paranoid; I feel a tad paranoid today. Yesterday, on the way home from the gym a tree blocked the road forcing me to detour on a new road with colorful flowers gracing the yards of lovely homes, so I was enjoying myself without a worry.

Between the mogotes (steep hills) roads twist and turn so frequently I’m not sure of which way to go with lesser roads seldom marked it’s a crap shoot because signals don’t enter steep ravines, so you’re on your own. Suddenly I’ve gone from la-la-la-la to oh, hell, where am I?  Rock walls so steep I can no longer see the light of day depress me; I don’t want to be here. The road I came in on is blocked by a tree and now I haven’t a clue of where I’ll end up.

Some of the houses on this road are jaw dropping beautiful, so I calm down a bit to look. Flower beds and landscaping I admire so I’m starting to think of this as a happy little island adventure and I’m confident I’ll work my way home before long. A house with a pool and cabana in the yard of my dreams gets a full stop and gawk; I couldn’t help myself, but I see movement in the house and don’t wish to be rude, so I move along.

The setting sun darkens the chasm; I notice to my right a ten-foot chain link fence with razor wire on the top on a road that suddenly feels like it's going nowhere. Times like this I don’t do myself any favors; this fence with razor wire has me thinking about the book set on an island where scientists splice humans and animals together.

Calm down you’re freaking yourself out; take some deep breaths. This f’ing fence seems like it’s going on forever just like the ravine. I know I’m letting my imagination run wild and laugh at myself. I see nothing but vegetation behind the fence; why are my palms sweaty? I poke around for something to eat; maybe, my blood sugar is low.

There’s a clearing on the right; oh, wow, I’ll get to see why the expensive fence in the middle of the last place on earth. I catch a glimpse of a road going through a clearing and then I’m blinded by an unforgiving light. Holy shit, I shield my eyes with my hand and speed up; the intense light disorients me. I almost drive into a ditch, but manage to continue. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here; walls of green on either side of the narrow road turn to black. Good heaven how much farther can it be; I should be getting to the road going out the other side, where I can GPS and route my way home. What in hell was that place with those blinding lights; that’s crazy?

Calle sin salida read the sign at the end of the road. A road without exit  with the sign at the end of the road; no one needed to tell me that now, the wall at the end of the road gave me a clue. My head felt as if it would explode; this long ass road had a no exit sign at the end. F’ing great! The urge to cry quickly overcome by get the hell out of here now spurred my U-turn; how would I get past the entrance to the hidden installation I’d stumbled on to?

Headlights shining on limbs reaching over the road reminded me of a dozen horror movies I’d seen growing up. I prayed not see anyone pop out of the dark. I had to pee as it was. As I approached the entrance to the camp now on my left I covered the window with a clipboard and kept trucking.

My rapid pulse slowed when the fence ended and nice houses appeared again. Extremely nice houses on a dead end road hidden near a fresh water lake on a tropical island, I pondered that when I saw head lights behind me. I had a quarter tank of gas left, so I decided to drive as fast as I could to the most public place I could find and get gas when I ended up where the tree had been across the road. I was on my road home; the saints be praised!

The lights pulled into the gas station behind me. Calm down; it’s nothing until it’s something, I told myself. I grabbed a candy bar while in line to pay for my gas. In walked a fit, attractive older man. His face barely registered any reaction when he took his place in line behind me and I burst into laughter. The scene reminded me of some many stories I had to laugh, the nervous guffaw of one realizing this might not be a romantic comedy, but the terminator.

Quickly, I sped into the night taking the long way around the lake home until I no longer saw a light in my rear view mirror. This morning I greeted the dawn glad to be alive.

Do you see what I mean?

 

People Or

Breezy and partly cloudy, that’s one of my favorite days. Do you find yourself looking out the window to be refreshed by nature? Remember staring out the window in grammar school, thinking about nothing? Any place we are, we can connect with love and peace by looking out the window. I remember in Chicago staring at a gangway between two brick buildings like something would suddenly appear.  Sometimes I’ve found myself needing it so badly I’d trance out.

Human angst, the state we seem to live in is a contaminating energy. I love people; we are wonderful, wise, and witty, willingly or not. All the silly-serious things we do amuse me, for the most part. Haughty people who raise their noses in the air when we happen to make eye contact sometimes make me laugh out loud. I don’t mean to be rude.

Most people are wonderful to meet, a smile and a nod as a brief eye contact is made in passing brightens my day. Is that really weird? I’m going to New Orleans for a people fix. It’s one of those places where you won’t encounter the mundane average woman who looks through you as if you weren’t even there when your eyes meet for a second. I haven’t phased your consciousness, really? In those women, I always feel much pain. I find that can be a contaminating energy; do you feel it that way or do you have better self-protection skills?

Almost four years after Kirt’s death, I am starting to feel the rhythm in my new life. Time at my home in a beautiful valley has been terribly lonely, but with time nature heals.

On a one-to-one basis, we need to start finding the good in each other. We are all one, the same human race.

Crazy energy in January opened a path for aliens, no, not Muslims or Mexicans, aliens from who knows where! Trump supporters ran the streets insane because a tough-talking guy like them would take charge, while liberals went apoplectic about the bomb in his hands, the environment, and a whole bunch of other stuff. America radiated crazy after the blast, so who would notice a few time space shifts?

I can’t say too much, they frighten me. They’re not like us at all. Hopefully, I can sneak a bit into my story and they won’t notice. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know why. Be watchful for the unusual. It’s all there for you to see for yourself.   

Things Break

At the sound of water suddenly rushing from the roof on a sunny day I hit hyper drive going from WTF to panic; grabbed the phone to call my handyman on my way down my steep driveway to turn off the water.

Out of breath from the return trip, I saw that did nothing to stem the tide. Handyman’s outgoing message simply said, “Call again.” I turned off the line to the roof tank; nothing. I stood there with my mouth open calling the handyman again while watching two hundred gallons flow down the sidewalk. The last thing I need before going on a trip is an unexpected expense; this had big bucks written all over it.

I jumped in the car, as I pulled around the house my handyman and his brother-in-law drove up the driveway.

“Water’s really coming out of there,” he said.

Ok, he understands the problem, I thought.

“What happened?” You could find out by going up the ladder, I thought, but instead simply turned my palms up in the universal I don’t freaking know position. When under stress you have a propensity to sarcasm body language tends to be a better choice.

With sweaty palms, I motioned them up the ladder saying, “Tu digame.” You tell me. In the last few years, I’ve had a couple of trips screwed up by unexpected expenses. This always seems to come just before or after budgeting out a trip. I live frugally eating simple meals at home and don’t shop for sport. Going to the gym costs less than a dollar a day; gas gobbles up more of my budget than I’d like, but there’s nothing like an emergency to decimate the purse.

Lifelong neighbors, brothers-in-law worked in tandem beautifully, almost like a dance. Before long I enjoyed watching the precision teamwork; my anxiety lessened somewhat. The flow slowed gradually to a halt.

Excluding next month’s water bill, the minimal damage was done this time. Seniors barely get by and now with inflation increasing and income decreasing; has anyone seen the movie, Soylent Green? The great character actor, Edward G. Robinson died shortly after this performance with a shocking ending.

Anyway, my pulse slowly returned to normal and I’m calming down. See you in the movies.

Healthy Routine or Good Times

Been a goodish girl for days and this arthritis still beating my butt; how long does it take for inflammation to exit the body?

During exercise I felt the endorphin rush; I’m such a fool to discontinue what allows me to hurt less. DUH!!

How quickly I let my healthy routine slide surprises me. For those few days I wanted to indulge in dark chocolate and fun, to be a bad girl. I can picture my mother saying, “See what happens.”

I remember my husband tossing his healthy routine for more good food than he should have been eating. He lost a toe over it.

Exercising through arthritis pain hurts, so I seldom get carried away exercising like a mad woman. The last three days are an exception because it felt so good to be back.

Spoke with my mom who is going to be ninety-four on Friday, the thirteenth. I wished her happy birthday and thanked her for the genes. That I’d be pleased to take after her amused both of us which made an ironic moment we appreciated, damn few of those in a lifetime.

It’s time to go get a replacement part for my rooftop water tank or go to the gym. Perhaps, I shouldn’t exercise four days in a row after being off two weeks, but I need an endorphin rush and dark chocolate cake is out of the question. Mmmm, I shouldn’t think about that too long.

Enjoy your day.

Sugar Rush

Sugar, so sweet and delectable steered my holiday awry. Sugar, so tasty on the tip of the tongue carried mouths through foul odiferous words laying waste to friendship’s fleeting greeting.

Holiday ranking Happy Halloween at the top with sweet rewards based on the number of doors knocked would spawn a lifetime overachiever; who knew?

Change coasting on sedentary years informs senior bodies of the future. Take heed; don’t be stupid, but alas it’s inevitable.

My sugar tooth fairy flew in on Delta. Where’s the desert menu? Got to run; let’s go! Where’s the bakery? I haven’t seen any bakeries. Oh, would you look at that! It’s time for coffee and.

Let’s go; let’s go.

Here I am dark and rich; you know you want me. Dribbles on my lips gave me away; what could I say?

Dark chocolate led me down the path to pain and suffering.

Dark chocolate cake, please! I’d like a brownie.

And on the third day like a lump I laid unable to move complements of pain in ankles, knees, hips, and back. A new, never before discovered pain in my right shoulder stabbed the center of the joint as I heard the words Merry Christmas. WTF, what have I done to myself? My middle finger knuckle hurts.

New Year’s resolution: self-control. Is sixty-eight too late?

Not Home Alone for Christmas

Christmas, the time of family caring and sharing comes crashing down on those of us left alone. My fourth Christmas without my husband won’t be home alone.  A flurry of activity in San Juan with a friend I met in Santo Domingo last year should occupy this holiday.

My lament when Kirt lived was we didn’t have a big family to share the holiday. His people died, mine moved away or brought the woe in woe is me. On our holidays at Starved Rock Lodge, we lounged before a roaring fire in a huge stone fireplace decorated with animal heads and garland, photographed bald eagles, and swam in an indoor pool. I loved the person I was with and now I’m alone with an acquaintance.

It sucks, right? That’s always going to suck. Being positive is a conscious choice; noticing every slight, anger at every wrong, and in general keenly observant of what is wrong is my heritage. On which side of the family I’m not going to tell you.

Work to mend the shreds of my heart continues. I choose not be melancholy; I choose to be happy. Somebody, please tell me; how do I do this? I’ve been sad so long that it feels like carrying a brick in my backpack.

On my fourth Christmas without my beloved, I’ll soak in the beauty of San Juan, while listening to the life story of a new friend. I won’t be alone. Be well.

What DID I Do This Year

Last Christmas strolling El Conde in the Colonial Zone of Santo Domingo, while peering in shop windows a tall dark-haired woman approached my companion and me. “You’re American; I heard you speaking English. I want to talk to someone who speaks English,” a woman blurted out in a moderately thick Serbian accent.

Seriously, I looked around for Alan Funt Jr. and the Candid Camera crew. We went for coffee, no joke, and then went to the caves, and shopped in the Mercado; the trip ended with a new friend, Olivera from Michigan.

Christmas in the Caribbean, my new holiday tradition will take us to the San Juan this year. Most months I listen to live jazz in Old San Juan, so I seldom get lost anymore. Olivera will dash through the snow at Detroit AirPort to join me for a balmy Christmas. With arthritis, I don’t ever want to see a white Christmas again or I never, ever want to see a white Christmas again; which is more emphatic?

If someone asked what happened this year, I couldn’t tell them without evidence, so I went through my pictures. 

Start the year in the Dominican Republic, in spring the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival

and the French Quarter Fest in New Orleans, and back to the Dominican in November.

It disappoints me so; that I’ve bitched my way through what by looking at the photos was a great year. All year I’ve listened to quality live music for little or nothing; I’m very pleased about that.

Driving the gulf coast of Florida on the way to Orlando, the sand whipped across the road reminding me of white outs in winter snows. The best oysters I’ve had all year came there; during that meal, I started thinking how I could live in Florida if I didn’t go back to New Orleans.

A week from today is Christmas; I’ll be doing as much freebie stuff as possible since I already spent this month’s allowance on my first outing in 2017. 

Culture Divergence

Culture or what my mind refers to as things other people do differently than what I do. Culturally differences can be as domestic as Catholic bingo versus Baptist picnics.

I’ve only understood culture on the broadest most superficial level. For me, it was one of those things I could see, but not truly identify, like an ethereal spirit.

Finally, I had an aha moment explaining why understanding came so slowly and uncomfortably; I thought of culture as what others do. What did I bring to the table? Some days people love me and other days I feel friction. What is it about me on those days?

In today’s climate, it’s all too easy to chalk it off to so and so just doesn’t like Americans or white people. And while I see a difference lately, I prefer to change what I can to minimize stress points.

In the Caribbean cultures I’ve met so far, one common thing is greeting ritual. “Good day, how are you?” Question and reply come before what you want. On a good day, I enjoy that, which is generally on my popular days.

On a bad day, I have no patience for all these good day rituals, I want to get in, get it over, and get out; that’s my American culture, which I won’t diminish by saying, or lack thereof. We may be brash, but we’ve always been good-hearted.

Putting on a good face helps, but many operate on the energetic level where they’re reacting to energy output. When you blast someone with hurry-hurry energy, push back occurs.

And sometimes I get so excited about a new experience, and then I see in some faces that their culture is more restrained. Write this down, no happy dancing after sixty-five.

Spanish Jazz Intro

Sunday in Old San Juan sounds like a title to a song about a woman alone, who on seeing a rainbow over the park where she’s heading knows it’s a signal for joy.

The comfort of together is lost to her; those she loved left this life to continue their sacred journey. Left alone to learn to honor her existence, she wanders steep walkways. What do I want to do? My knees hurt; how far do I want to walk? No pain, no gain, so she heads to the top of the hill where a Turkish restaurant serves quality food.

Doormen try to entice her into their restaurants.

“Genuine Puerto Rican food, you will love it,” he said with almost a leer on his face.

“Yo vivo aqui. I get that all the time. I’m looking for something different,” her eyebrows seemed to leap a couple of times before her mouth and eyes settled into a lascivious smile. She walked on aching knees; where the hell is that place?

Finally, the Turkish doorman leads her to a table for one in the corner. She gathers the spirits of her dearly departed. Isn’t this charming, she asks. She’s not alone when she invokes the spirits who love her. Imagining herself surrounded with love she looks across the room; there’s no man handsome or otherwise to smile at her, just a few young couples very much into themselves, but she sees the pity in young women’s eyes.

Pity, the place where she’s lived for three years, draws her into the dark energy. She feels diminished; lentil soup and yogurt revive her. She heads back to the Bahia Urbana for an evening of jazz, topped by Jorge Pardo from Spain.

A credible group of students opens; her head begins to bob with the beat. These kids are good musicians and a couple of the talented girl singers. She smiles at the stage, enjoying the display of promise.

The second group was individually wonderful musicians, but she didn’t connect with them when they played together. This for some reason made her sad. She thought about leaving, but she had never seen jazz musicians from Spain before.

If she didn’t know they were from Spain, would they stand out as different the local band? She thought about the roots of jazz in the states, while group number two rocked some fabulous individual riffs.  She happily remembered when Caribbean Jazz became part of her world.

Would Spanish Jazz imprint strongly or be a wisp? Her back ached, so before the last set, she stood to stretch. You know the look folks get when they’re trying to look, but don’t want to be seen looking? Some seemed friendly, some held pity, kind of an awe you’re alone face and some were simply; what the fuck level of surprise is she doing here, but she never felt malice.

The walk to sustenance led to back and knees screaming above the music, but she’d come too far to leave without being exposed to some Spaniards playing instruments.

Generally, flutes fail to hold her attention, so when the thin longhaired man began to play she was thinking that maybe this wasn’t going to be worth the wait. A couple hundred miles round trip drive, gas, tolls, and parking for just getting there meant she wanted the trip to be worth expenses. A little seasoning and you go all critical, she laughed. His playing seemed rather pleasant.

Jorge Pardo stood like a toreador waving his wand; that looks and sounds pretty good. With a quick right to left movement his flute left notes, she followed in admiration. “He’s so Spanish,” she chuckled, having seen a fair number of flute playing people over her lifetime.

The stage backlit by well designed, colorful commercials showcased the performers in silhouette. A second man, holding a guitar stepped into the light and both had the most amazingly erect posture. A Spanish guitar speaks about the culture, the vibrancy of the people; the young man playing fluently carried himself with the same manly elegance as Pardo, who next played sax.

The drummer who could play in anyone’s band supported and blended very well. A clever fellow with an enormous base pleased her when more of the same would have been too much.

Flamenco goes so well with jazz; sound, presentation excellent, so she wanted to dance, but nobody was dancing. She packed up and danced her way out of the park. Young women signaling her thumbs up gave her a helping hand down a slippery slope. They seemed happy to see her. She felt a lovely group synergy; the trek to the car didn’t seem quite so far.

Problems, self-pity she left at the door the night she learned about Spanish Jazz.

All That Jazzed

What’s on your list of favorite things? On my list you’ll find jazz. A goal to fill life with my favorite things in 2014 became my 2016 goal to attend as many jazz festivals as possible.

The Heinekens Ventana de Jazz in the tropical splendor of Condado on the last Sunday of the month provided my jazz staple this year. The San Juan Jazz Fest in the Tito Puntes Stadium and the French Quarter Fest in New Orleans spiked spring with quality music. In June the monthly Heinekens Ventana de Jazz moved to Old San Juan, another beautiful spot by the ocean.

90.3 fm, el capital de jazz, my favorite jazz radio station en el Caribbe hosted a festival in Rincon, the island surfing capital. If you want to hang in a hip tropical isle town, Rincon will get the how cool is that juices flowing.

Brenda Hopkins Jazz Band held me captive in Rincon. For a woman to lead a band full of men, I find unusual; don’t you?

How does a woman, the key board player, lead a half a dozen young buck musicians? Heart and soul, she out plays, while honoring her teammates’ talent; the girl’s got class. Meeting women like that is truly one of my favorite things.

Ta-dum, drum roll, please, the oldest, the biggest, the best jazz fest in the Caribbean happens in November, the Dominican Jazz Fest, Nov 8^th-12^th and I’m going with a friend.