South Florida Sojourn

On a virtually cloudless Sunday morning,

I traversed the state of Florida

On a tollway known as Alligator Alley.

Dewy spiderwebs sparkled

On sturdy cyclone and barbed wire.

Behind this cypress, palms, and pines

Gave way to amazingly vast expanse,

God terrie’d in swamp grass

Long enough to dump a wetland

Called the Everglades.

Down the fence lined lane,

Feeling like a penal colony guest,

I drove more than an hour before

Welcomed by a rest area.

In the shade of a gazebo

I chopped a tomato and

Smashed an avocado,

I quickly drowned in buttermilk.

Blinding sun rose towards zenith.

Riders rallied round the restroom,

Strolled the grounds,

Finding respite from the road.

Savoring my salad,

Dreading the final miles,

Under the pavilion I sat.

A fine family of foreigners,

Speaking a language,

I don’t know

Joined me under my canopy.

Without looking my way or

Acknowledging my presence,

All five lit cigarettes

Apparently with no regrets.

Having been flatulent all day,

I couldn’t think of a better way

To say so long than to go up wind,

To huff and puff and hold my breath,

To pass gas that smelled like death.

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.

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?

How About It

When things don’t make sense, when behavior seems too insane to contemplate, we must look outside the box. I know you don’t want to hear this on a day elected officials run amok in the halls of Congress, a school teacher rips off the head scarf of an eight -year-old student, a vacationing family is assaulted on the beach in front of their hotel by a man beating his chest like an ape shouting the Trump will stop this, or a woman shooting a man in the act of raping an animal. Yeah, I see where the last one could be tempting, but, honestly, a miss would have scared the stuffing out of him.

Tell me your life has gone to hell since the Great Recession, well, my world fell apart during that time when bankers bad behavior caught up with the rest of us.Normal creatures lick their wounds and move on; it’s hard as hell, I know. I lost my business, my investment, my lifestyle, and then, my husband died. I know what hair-on-fire feels like and pissed off runs around in the outfield.

Politicians photographed with gleeful, let’s stick it to them expressions doing harm to us; I mean, are they photo-shopped? Why do one thing after another against our interests, even when ultimately they hurt their own families? I lived in a Republican county; Denny Hastert lived down the road. I get Republicans; on many issues, I see their point. This is double bubble, toil, and trouble in green and with warts.

Soon I’ll be sixty-nine, almost ancient, but I feel like I did in the sixties when my friends died in Vietnam. Negative energy abounds and I struggle. But, older and, yes, wiser, I see the cauldron being stirred.

Life isn’t as good; I live on a pittance. In my neighborhood that’s a chronic condition, but we spend our days trying to make the best of it. Being kind or at least nice keeps meet-ups friendly or cordial. You’ve heard the expression: poor, but happy; let me introduce myself.

Before you conclude that I’m down on Republicans, let me tell you that a lifelong Democrat has quit. I’m not happy with them either. Baffle them with bullshit if you can’t impress them with brilliance somewhere down the line became both parties motto.

Why would we elect representatives toxic to us? Our representatives are neighbors; do your neighbors treat you like idiots? Sell off your kids playgrounds? Pay to play mentality benefits the rich and powerful; no doubt, but is it in our DNA or God’s plan that man upon becoming rich and powerful turns into Ivan, the terrible.

When you ruin Earth, what will you do? Hop a rocket to Mars? The rich and powerful, the all powerful Os knows even better than we do that aliens have been here. Even aliens have accidents; other than those, we are hardly aware of the signs that they’re here.

Children of Earth don’t become children of the stars while we’re busy behaving like Neanderthals. I’ve read the writings of the brilliant and hung out with the most humble. I’ve known crazy and seen evil and I truly believe someone is stirring the pot.

An ecosystem doesn’t purge itself, a forest doesn’t naturally burn unless it becomes unhealthy. There’s a natural point at which the snake stops chewing its behind or death ensues.

The rich and powerful exploit Earth like they have a getaway vehicle or they’ve lost control of their headsets.

How many ways could we be manipulated? Think about it. Fifty years ago we were in a race into space; what happened to that?

A new frontier would benefit this generation just as opening American did for our ancestors, but here we are wanting to dig more coal. What’s wrong with this picture?

Please Be Warned

People are basically good; we can be whipped into a frenzy and led to destruction but left to our own devices I find human beings to be decent and frequently kind. It’s in our nature.  

Have you ever had something nag on your mind? Your mind drifts back to an event you wish would stop, but there you go thinking about it again. You laugh out loud, which I understand to be a jail-able offense these days thanks to Mr. Sessions; but there you go with that laugh. Suddenly you feel embarrassed to have had the thought. It’s so out there, but the shimmering and displaced feelings; either you’re losing your mind or an alien energy has invaded. 

What began as a vague haunting what if takes the shape of what the  F--- and I just want to run, to hide and be safe. 

What is it they say about “All it takes is for good people to look the  other way?” 

I’m scared. This isn’t the normal energy of the planet. This is bad,  Folks. At least it’s bad for us. 

Holistic Healers on the planet know we’re in a bad energy vortex. Who wants to give this a name we can fight? Mother Earth didn’t birth this energy. 

Human beings will fight to the death over a whole bunch of things, but most of us also manage compassion. Don’t you find it odd that people we’ve  elected to serve us do everything possible to hurt us or the environment?  Surely, we’ve elected an asshole or two over the years, but a whole room full of them says something’s not right. 

What if when powerful leaders congregated, say like the inaugural in  January aliens opened a portal over the event releasing a neurotoxin that reduced empathy to one’s own species? 

Removing laws protecting the environment harms their children also. What evolved species? What did Christ teach? Buddha? Who shits in their beds?!

Picture poor people around the world living modest lives, hoping for a decent day. They travel on scooters searching for scrap discarded on the side of the road. They walk holding children’s hands. Their malls open when crafts get hung from a rope slung between two trees. 

I’ve traveled alone in a car across a modest Caribbean island getting well lost in the process. People were kind and they helped me. One man’s hand an inch above my purse as he leaned in to inspect my belongings, but he stopped traffic to get me in the right direction. He was an angel. The goodness of mankind’s nature touches me often. I’m not saying there aren’t assholes among us; we all know better. 

A percentage of humanity who have no empathy are generally the outsiders and not the community core. 

I saw the shimmering, what apparently happened I believe to be a dispensing of the toxin on inauguration day. 

I never thought I’d say this, but Republicans are right, global warming is a result of aliens dumping toxins on us through worm holes and not the stupid shit we do here. 

Diner Tale Continued

“I was ten years old when I met Sara,” the hero said as he stepped away from the table. 

Rock Star, “You know she recycled her cherry.”

A man at the counter looked up, “Yeah, she recycled her cherry.”

“Good morning, how are yah?” Venerable Bette to a man who just inside the door shook himself dry. 

“Short stack?” Bette queried with a familiar gaze.

He nodded while wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Bandanna man asked lobster red head, “What are you doing for your  anniversary?”

“I’ll get her flowers and see what’s playing at the Saenger.”

“You should get a room in the Quarter.”

Lobster red shook his head in agreement.

“You gonna ask her to marry You?” Bandanna guy asked the young hero when he returned to the table.   

“I don’t think so.”

“You ought to tell her. I’d rather know if I had no hope; wouldn’t You”

“I suppose,” the hero sheepishly replied.

“My grandkids are coming over Sunday.”

“You see them often?”

“Yeah, the last time my two oldest boys brought girls who didn’t seem orientated to the family. I’m proud of them because they saw it and those girls won’t be back.”

“Al Hirt was a nice man; my momma worked with him,” a man at the counter offered.

Rock Star added, “He come from New Orleans, made New Orleans music. He could play.”

“Good morning,” the staff chimed as a mom with her three children closed her umbrella just inside the door.

The oldest, a teenager with shoulder length hair streaked in that new shade of gray followed her mom. The middle child with red and gold streaks in her hair threw her bottom in a chair and the baby, a girl of about eight with black rimmed glasses looked like she orchestrated the lot of them. 

Tales From the Diner

Five foot two, twirling a red umbrella, self-proclaimed     oracle, Rock Star danced in the parking lot drizzle while on a cigarette break.

Soft and sweet, a pretty young blonde woman stepped the restaurant looking unsure. 

Three large gents grabbed a table near the door while    discussing coffee black verses with cream as if it were a headline in the morning news. Big guy with a full beard, cut off jeans, and braided hair to the middle of his back fiddled with the blue bandanna folded over his eyebrows and swore French press was the best. 

The fellow with close-cropped hair and lobster red bald    spot wiped his glasses carefully paused thoughtfully before adding, “A dash of salt brings the flavor of the coffee to perfection.” A glop of keys dangled from the belt loop of his Bobby Hill denim     shorts; Rock Star eyed the glop as she poured the coffee. 

“Y’all got enough keys there?” She shot him her quirky    smile. He grinned back as if they’d just exchanged a private joke.

“What’ll ya have for breakfast?” She asked with a bright  smile.

With muscles bulging, a Captain America  Shield under   Trust me, I’m a Superhero on a tight tee, the younger man in the  group announced,

”French roast is the best. Add a little sugar, cream, put it all together for the best morning ever.” 

“Excuse me, I have to take this call; it’s my girlfriend.”

To be continued…..

    

Next Trip

What’s next? When living in a time suspended between past and future, planning a new adventure beats the hell out of dwelling on how much I miss my honey, so what’s next? 

An adventure frequently includes some peril such as the distinct possible of being alone on a boat dock late at night and the cell phone battery dead due to all the pictures you took. It happened to me last January in St. Thomas, but rather than that scenario I hopped into a private car with people I’d never seen before. My heart beat fast and I kept wiping moist fingertips on my pants. Fear  gave way to euphoria when I recognized the light in the distance as my hotel. The lines of waiting cabs left before I caught the ferry from Water Island, where I sat less than six feet away from a piano being played by Julian Gargiulo. The stars were out metaphorically; it drizzled sporadically during my time between heaven and earth, a surrealistic evening absolutely worth the peril.  

Memories give the heft to your soul, most of mine are of evenings enjoyed with my husband. That night, I thought about a Tennessee Williams play in which in the movie version Elizabeth Taylor belts out, “Maggie, the cat, is ALIVE! I’M ALIVE!” We were kindred spirits in that burst of joy  of life. Welcome to a positive, no wonderful memory during my time alone.

If only I could write a story to entice you to come along for the ride, I’d be a good writer, but I’m having enough difficulty in becoming the responsible  adult again. I just want to run away and play. The list of I shoulds grows but I get to prioritize. This could be fun.

Cuba calls me back. My sister from another life lives there. We met in  Trinidad in 2013. Have you ever had an energy connection with someone across a crowded room? This could have been a scene in the movie, Cloud Atlas, with Hallie Berry and Tom Hanks. Of all the people currently on the planet, two of  my best are in Cuba. 

In what Kirt would call, “One of your but firsts,” I want to attend another writers conference and spend more time in Florida. Old dude chic resonated on the Gulf Coast last year during my trip to Orlando from New Orleans. It’s funny that in my twenties I had a fantasy about driving Florida alone in my TR6; come to think about that car would still be fine for the drive if I can still drive stick. 

The hunt for an affordable airfare or what free music offerings are in the area begins my planning stage. This time the search includes writers’ workshops and conferences. Maybe its all in my head, but I think my writing gets better after a little effort. 

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.   

  

Home

I’m just a lonely widow past my productive prime living on an island where I don’t speak the language and have no family ties to the community. Why do I stay here?
It’s warm and beautiful; that’s enough for me. I can’t sell my house; three out of four houses up the road sit vacant and decaying. Maybe when they institute a real estate tax, people barely hanging on will leave. Sad because Puerto Rico grew a warm, loving culture that isn’t the same when Puerto Ricans come back from the states after generations they’re American just like the rest of us, which isn’t bad; it’s different.
What’s the value of living in a melting pot, if you don’t understand your ingredients? It’s like cooking; when I have a sniffing relationship with my vegetables and so forth, I appreciate the flavor when I’m done so much more. Too bad I’m not a good cook, I love to eat and travel.
Where ever I’ve been, I found people to be rather nice; even thieves and murders have charming moments. Mostly, I try to leave it up to God and the courts to decide what’s wrong.
One thing I’ve learned over and over is the value of not judging; being as it’s so difficult not to, I’ll call it a work in progress.
I value my belief that a higher power, a first cause, an intention evolved ahead of everything else; we came from the pleasure of that, which we call God. To my way of thinking to devalue another being in my mind devalues my thoughts of God; I found that profoundly disrespectful.
Looking at whomever I meet as God’s creation, a manifestation of God, that’s become a preoccupation because I love what I find so much of the time I pity the souls who are unable to connect. I adore nodding, smiling, and saying, “Hello.” To me, that connects with a lovely bit of God energy.
People talk about the power of positivity; a smile, a nod, and a greeting do we get a more basic positive exchange than that? We don’t because there’s a dark energy crossing the planet, but I don’t want to discuss that today.
I’m going back to New Orleans, home to the happiest years of my childhood, where I’ve returned throughout my life. New Orleans does weird really well and I’m a fan of weird. The local vibe being a familiar song feels comfortable like a big leather chair.
The loss of my husband depleted my positive energy. I can only handle so much of other peoples’ negative vibes before I need to rush to my corner, where I can see miles of green and blue beauty that God placed before us for our enjoyment.
That’s why Puerto Rico is my home.

Love Affair With Parks

Sitting in a shady city park with statues, and flowers, and people passing, I resonate with peace and excitement at the same time; how delicious!

I remember having lunch in a small park in downtown Chicago when I worked in the Loop. The stress and boredom of meaningless job drained into the trees. As teenagers, we’re required to hold at least one job we hate; right?

From the age of eight when I first saw Spanish moss hanging from ancient live oak trees, I fell in love with City Park in New Orleans, which remains on the top of my list.

The tree lined park, Plaza Antonia Quinones can be proud of its beauty with a fountain and a stage for horns from the San Juan Philharmonic playing tonight.

Havana’s wonderfully ornate light poles delighted me as I strolled with my dearest friend through the park in the shade of overwhelming statues adorning Cuban government buildings. Horse drawn carriages offering tours were under scrutiny by my brave animal advocate friend.

She boldly strode up to a man whose horse kept licking its lips. “Go immediately to a water trough; your horse needs water.”

Have you ever seen a senior lady with her back up? She radiated command. Those ladies who have ever gotten their backs up know what it’s like to be so filled with moral outrage your eyes are bloodshot. The water station was visible from where we stood. The man dutifully complied.

Havana also had beautiful horses and carriages. I insisted on riding with a handsome dappled gray. What is it with women and beautiful horses? My heart skips that beat, sweet!

Where ever I go I spend time in local parks; only one gave me bad vibes. I left quickly. On the island I call home watching loving families play in the parks and on the beaches remains a great time soaking up vibes.

Memory took me down many paths in many parks. Considering how important parks have been in my life I pray that people running the world realize how important they are to my stability.  

60's People Do You Hear Me?

I want to be checking prices for car rentals and hotel rooms in cities I haven’t seen yet. Finding free concert venues should be my priority or at least searching for something that registers more than a yeah, so what on my joy meter.

In my life, I walked the walk, as we used to say. While still in my teens I went door to door collecting for cancer research. My dad died of lung cancer at the age of forty-two.

Marches in Chicago against the war in Vietnam frequently had me in attendance, as did later marches for equal rights, and various issues of the day. We have the right to protest, but nonviolently.

I will confess to being a blind sheep just wanting to live my life and munch my grass. A Democrat would get into office and do a few things for the people and I’d feel reassured that all was well in my world, which I had enough damn trouble handling.

After the Great Recession bankers should have been arrested and put on trial. That didn’t happen and that was a huge freaking clue as to how corrupt the system is. This didn’t happen under Obama’s term; I could cry.

Trump may have been a blessing in that our eyes are being opened to our masters behind the curtains. Things I didn’t understand in the presidencies of men I admired when you add the control layer of the man behind the curtain, the controlling world economics, all become clear.

Whenever I imagined it before I thought an elite occult layer controlling us too fantastic, but I’m just one of the ninety-nine per cent; what do I know?

Allow me to live out my life in peace. Don’t privatize or otherwise mess with my Social Security. And don’t threaten our children with bullets like Kent State. The sadness of that day still lives in my heart. Those were our children killed in our homeland.  

This is a battle for your future; the young will figure it out as best you can just like we did. 

Slowly Better

Going on four years and still no life I want in sight. How lucky I’ve been, I had no idea. Each day presents so many problems; it’s easy to get caught up in what’s wrong with everything.

At the end of my road, I live in a beautiful green valley with a lake where I’m never really cold. I’m blessed. My husband’s ashes sprinkled on the lawn surround me; that’s the best we can do these days. The warm memory of our happy days here helps me deal with his loss.

All through my life, I’ve been on one quest or another. Striving for a goal always added zest, but I’ve run out of gas and need to switch to solar like the dinosaur generation consuming fossil fuels. So this is what it feels like to be old.

I may as well own it like so many changes I didn’t want. To look at young couples with fresh skin so in love and feel in my soul the memory, and then, to walk alone without a hand to hold when I’ve always held his hand forces me to be strong if I want to move along.

I could stay home and garden; I’ve done it before, but I’ve always seen myself traveling as a senior, so I believe I need to go with that. I could devote the years I have left to travel and not see the world. It’s all lonely without him.

As I recover from my grief I find my two greatest motivators to be boredom and since Kirt died I dropped my causes, except to bitch on Facebook, which is nothing.

Over the last few years, I’ve drifted from pain to a neutral, which I preferred to that hard ass hurt; that’s a murky abyss I need to be paddling away from post haste, like right now because before I wasn’t well enough to do anymore.

America is going to hell in a hand basket and I’m focusing on inner harmony; that’s sick, but you have to have to give it.   

Just Singing the Blues

In that stage grief between mourning and hope, I toss sometimes mourning and other times pleased to be alive. Let go of the past; that’s what people say. How do I let go of the best of my life?

For all the fun things he was there, loving me. I miss being loved more than anything. I never thought about loving myself. Most days I didn’t think about liking myself preferring always to focus on my shortcomings.

How do I let go of the person who loved me the most? I can’t, so I have to hold him in my heart and continue because I still have purpose in this life. Frequently, I wish my life came with a how-to manual. I struggle with damn near everything; probably that’s just me. Being with Kirt made even challenges fun, we loved life together.

I’m not sure how to go on, but three and a half years later it would seem that I’m doing so, however poorly. So this is what it means to be on the downhill slide of life with losses everywhere and days numbered. Ok, that sucks; now what?

I’m thinking New Orleans, jazz, road trip down the gulf coast of Florida, and a whole mess of oysters. What do you say?

Going to be a Fine Year

Over the New Year Holidays and since I’ve been feeling off. Sleep, my new best friend comes often and stays long. Post nasal drip plagues me; if you have it, you know what I’m talking about. This is physical stuff, not me with my usual whiney attitude over losing my husband.

Whenever I hear conversations about allergies, I hear something about winds from Africa and sand. A day at the shore breathing salt air helps tremendously, but my allergies haven’t been this bad since I lived near a coal yard in Chicago.

Of course, it may be the wheat; I eat way too much bread. I read that food allergies trigger other allergies and the foods we crave like bread cause it all basically. Just swell.

My allergy addictions get the best of me in high-stress times like when a bunch of my stuff breaks all at once and my car is one of those broken things. Just before everything broke, I booked a four day trip to St. Thomas when I caught the nice holiday sales. Live music on Water Island by world class performers, do I have to tell you how excited I was?

Light switches in the kitchen and both bathrooms refused to turn off; I took action, turning off the appropriate breakers. Repair could wait. Both toilets started leaking, so I turned off the water to both toilets; all of this happened before Christmas company.

My attitude remained positive; after the holiday I could hire a new handyman. I could get by, but my friend came to have fun and so we drove my car to Fajardo and Ponce, all over the island. The island beauty will grab the air right out of your chest.

Explaining my house problems to my guest humiliated me, but what the hell. If pouring water from a bucket to flush the toilet is too rustic for you, sorry; that wasn’t nearly enough. On the patio, I noticed a steady stream of water from the roof near the water tank that should have dried up with the rain. Goody.

All I wanted to do was to go to sleep, my joints ached and my face felt swollen. My company left early; I found a handyman, slept a couple of days, and then went to the gym. After a few days, I felt well enough to think about driving to Isabela or maybe just go home; I didn’t know.

I felt and heard a pop and my car stopped; I managed to get it off the road. The funny thing about hitting the end of my rope is nobody cared. I wanted to scream or cry or hit something, maybe. Time to inhale deeply, a few more times, since this had to happen after close of business before Three Kings’ Day and I was flying to St. Thomas on Friday, the thirteenth.

One nice thing about being a senior citizen is you’ve had plenty of time to learn how to get over yourself and get on with it. I handled my car problems, went on my trip, where I had a good time until a waitress upwind of me sprayed a cleaning solution in the air that I happen to be allergic to and instantly became wheezing ill. For two days of the trip, I slept like a bear in hibernation.

The night I made it to the concert on Water Island, classical vibrations by talented musicians danced with the dendrites of my neurons. The magic of performance ignited my spirit when I needed it most. 

Carlos Jimenex, my car’s fine mechanic had her ready and running on time. I and my stuff are on the mend.

Company

Company came; company went. Company wore me out. Out the door by eight to be there at nine every morning felt a bit much when coupled with getting back late each night.

Regular exercise gives me stamina, so I informed my companion of my need. “You can workout anytime you want before eight.” She told me as a matter of fact. She had our days planned. I tried to comply, but couldn’t drag myself to the gym before eight with breakfast, shower, and dress, so off I went another day without my exercise, but the next day.

“We need to leave soon. It’s going to be another day wasted because you won’t leave on time.”

Grit my teeth; stifle the scream wanting to leap out, every aching bone in my body instantly got pissed. “I’m not going,” I said. “You go, have a good time. I’ll catch up with you later if I feel better.”

“I’m your guest,” she thundered. “I expected to go with you. How do you expect me to get there? I came to see…”

Alas, my nice isn’t as deep as I’d like it to be; I interrupted her.

“You’re a grown woman; take a cab. Can’t you understand I hurt?”

There must be a list of telltale signs of an only child. Perhaps, I should have consulted it.

Walking at breakneck speed so we can see everything or standing on the corner unable to keep up wasn’t the fun adventure I’d hoped for, but pressed on gamely.

Note to self: establish ground rules before company comes.

I WILL be taking the time to exercise. I WILL rest as necessary.

If I don’t want to do something you want, go without me. I will try my best to please my guest, but my limitations need to be respected. We will share what we can and come prepared to follow your agenda without me if I can’t. I mean no offense.

Despite problems, minor skirmishes, and occasional bad language we parted on a positive note. Rough edges come with deep souls. Absent bad intent, all is forgiven by both. Friends are too few.