A favorite song of mine is “One More Day” by Diamond Rio:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TuE1XJ_uqOs

One more day. For me, today is one more time I play at the beach with my husband and my dog.

It is important to me to appreciate each day–each moment actually. If I can learn to love the not-so-easy days, what my neighbor calls the “bad Mexico days,” I will have the brass ring. And so that is my goal. One more day. Whatever it brings, it’s my day to appreciate.

One more day to love and be loved.

I thought people might like to see some pre and post Hurricane Odile pictures from our house and nearby beaches. Like I’ve said before, the landscapes have changed. It’s encouraging to see how things are coming back already and we have only to wait awhile and we’ll be back to where we were. It’s all good for us. We are having a new palapa built, and doing some things a bit differently of course to make the posts stay up. The actual palapa stayed together really well.

Banana trees  & carport before

Almost grown enough to start producing bananas.

Morning after

Back yard with foxtail palm before

Foxtail palm after

Washingtonian and coco palms before

Washingtonian and coco palms after

Traveler’s palms & areca palm before

Traveler’s palms & areca palm after

Traveler’s palm after

Passion fruit vine “green fence” before

Passion fruit vines after

Los Cerritos beach before

Los Cerritos beach after

The beach in front of our house before

The beach in front of our house the evening before the storm arrived! Sweet, clear ocean water.

The beach in front of our house the morning after! See how dirty the water is.

Oh, and it’s my 68th birthday today. So I’m going to throw in some before and after of me too. I have a hard time looking in the mirror these days, but I am grateful for every day and having another birthday is definitely a blessing. Funny how in my mind I’m still young! Got to stay away from that mirror, so my mind can stay focused on the me it thinks I am. Ha ha! The day after the storm was the 50th high school reunion in San Diego. I did not go, obviously, but I hear it was fun. It might have been nice to see that all those other people are wrinkled and falling apart too. Or maybe not. Anyway, like I said, I am so grateful for each and every day I get to be here. Amen!

My brother, Ronnie, me, and Mom, shortly after my birth.

My birthday at 3 years old, making a goofy face! I’m so excited about my new doll house. (I started out a blond).

I used to be a ballerina!

High School Graduation…brunette years!

Dripping with sweat after a walk. Happy 68th birthday to me.

The last picture is undoubtedly not the most flattering picture of me. So I want you to know it takes a lot of guts to include this. My hair is a mess and I’m not feeling so good with the heat and all. And for those of you who may not know, I do not color my hair. This is what 68 years and high humidity has done to it. 🙂

When you want to get attention from your students, when nobody in your class is listening to you, just lower your voice to a whisper. Look someone right in the eye and begin whispering. It’s your lecture, but now you’re whispering it to someone and suddenly everyone wants to hear what you are saying. As if it is a secret you are only sharing with the one you are making eye contact. Ha ha. Good trick. It only works once or twice with the same raucous crowd though.

I guess most people try to hear others when they are whispering. Whisperers make funny faces when they are trying to be heard only to a choice one or two. They exaggerate their silent words making their mouths look peculiar. Their eyes get big and the animation is amusing. But it’s the whispering that gets the attention first.

Mom and I were whispering to each other in front of Steve, my stepfather, her husband of 30 years. He had Alzheimer’s and we thought he was sleeping. His hospital bed was next to Mom’s normal one. We were able to keep him at home, with visits from the hospice team, and all the meds he needed to be administered by us or the nurse who came regularly. Anyway, we thought he was sleeping. Suddenly he shouted, “What are you two whispering about?” The tone of his voice sounded angry. Actually I don’t even remember what we were whispering about; that’s not the point. We were only trying not to wake him.

It was one of those moments when we were brought down to our foundations regarding the strangeness and the inconsistencies of that horrible condition named after the scientist, Alzheimer. Just as suddenly as my stepdad boomed his question, he was lost in a world we weren’t a part of, never hearing our response, or possibly forgetting he’d even asked the question. Alzheimer’s is a sad and strange way to go. All Mom and I could do was look at each other for relief; just one of the many times we sought solace in each other’s eyes.

But by this time, Steve didn’t even know who we were most of the time. Well, that isn’t altogether true. Sometimes he would call me by name, or something close to my name, but he always remembered who Mom was. He called her “his sweetie.” He would look over at her and smile and say, “Hi Sweetie.” To the end we felt he knew who his sweetie was. They were together when he passed.

It’s such an old tradition to lay the deceased body out for viewing. I don’t know anyone who professes to like this tradition, but it somehow carries on. As people gathered into the “viewing” room, I watched them looking uncomfortable as they timidly went to the casket. Or maybe it was my own feeling of unease that I projected onto their demeanors.

I made my own way over eventually ready to say goodbye and I stood staring at the ghost of Steve who was in the casket. We had him in his favorite red shirt and his turquoise tie he loved so much (see picture), and because he always carried his glasses in a case in his front shirt pocket, we tucked them in as well. It’s obvious that the “real” Stevie wasn’t there, but I repeated the farewell I’d given him when he was sleeping in his hospital bed in his own bedroom two months before: “Thank you for loving and caring for my mother, for being a wonderful stepdad, and such a loving and fun grandfather to my boys.” Touching his arm, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, leaned in and whispered, “I love you, Stevie, and I’ll miss you.”

Stevie and me, a very long time ago…

I’ve been sober since April of 1979, which is a little over 35 years. Sometimes I feel angry, resentful, and bitter about being the one person in a group who can’t have a drink. I dislike parties. It isn’t any fun to be around people who have had a few too many. I don’t know why I sometimes get resentful. Succumbing to the Devil (alcohol) has never done anything good for me. That’s why I quit. It was either alcohol or me, and I wanted desperately to win. So, like I said, it’s been over 35 years since I’ve had any alcohol. I don’t even take Niquil. 

Remembering the things I did that make me ashamed brings on Guilt. (I’ve capitalized guilt because it is almost like a person to me). I don’t dwell on Guilt very often anymore, but when I do, the struggle is sometimes overwhelming. Then Depression comes to call. It gets ugly. However, I am tough, and I will not allow the Devil, Guilt or Depression to win. And besides, most of the time I am happy and satisfied with myself and my life. But once in a while…

I know. I know. I’m not a drinker any longer. I’ve been sober for a longer time than I was a drunk. A therapist once told me to think of it this way, “This happened. Now what?”

I wrote the following piece almost four years ago. We’d only been living in Baja for a month. Today I am feeling a lot better. I haven’t had a bout like this one since the day I penned this. 

…………….

12-8-2010

Let’s face it. Math is not easy for me, and I have struggled with it forever.  But fighting my way through math problems seems trite and inconsequential when I consider the many times I have entered the ring to combat my own demons. In a whirl of my own fists, and the tangle of my own limbs, I am clawing at my heart. Repeatedly, I tear myself down, only to fill my lungs with breath enough to force my legs to stand again. Certainly, I have come out stronger for having this combat with myself, but I am so exhausted with the energy it takes, and I want to lead myself down the hallway to a safer place.

Okay, slow down. Take it easy. But it’s just not that simple and sometimes I don’t know how to slow down or take it easy.  What I know how to do, what I have always done, is to close my eyes, imagine digging a big hole, and burying whatever the hell it is that’s bothering me.  Put it neatly down into that pit. How nice. No need to wrap it up, or put a bow on it. Just toss it down the hole and forget it. It tumbles down so easily. Now cover it with the dirt from the hole and the job is done. Out of sight, out of mind.

As I brush the imaginary muck from my hands, I know I will be back to dig it up later when I least expect to be there. The timing is always wrong. Oh yes, I’ll go down there and get it again and the fighting with myself will start all over— when I should be living happily ever after, licking the ice cream that’s running down the cone.  You’d think that after all these years, all these crazy, upside down years, I’d learn. Instead, my theme song has been, “Beat my head against the wall, do dah, do dah,” and I’m just getting better at carrying that tune!

While I try to make some sense of all this, I remember a time in junior high when I saw Psycho. It was a shocking movie for its time. I remember one scene so vividly. I watch the crazed arm that holds the knife. I see it slash the woman in the shower, and terrified, I stare at the blood pool as it flows into the drain. The poor woman grabs the white shower curtain and slides down so slowly into the tub. The movie is in black and white, but her blood pours red. I see it. It swear it is red.

The horror of this scene stayed with me, and like many others who saw it, I was too frightened to take a shower for a long time after that. Only a bath would do. Every noise, real or imagined, sent my heart pounding and I just knew he was coming after me. There is something pure and simple about fright like that. It’s there, it’s horrible, and it is hard to take. But, it’s not real, and you know it. The awful fright fades, finally leaves, and you can breathe again.  The relief of it being over feels so good. Or is it over? When I least expect it, something triggers that memory and I’m in junior high at the movies again.

This is how it is with my hole-digging and demon-burying ritual. Something will trigger a memory and I’m once again visiting that hole where my devil is a coward hiding in a bottle. “Come. Swallow me. You know you want me,” he whispers. I see the promise in his eyes and feel the warmth of his elixir on my lips. Again and again, I am living with the memory of those dark days when I was a drunk, in a hell of my own making.

And so it was that the first five years of sobriety were the hardest. My burden then was to bury my demon every day. Surprisingly, Guilt served a useful purpose at first. But soon His demands also became unbearable. The longer I avoided the devil’s liquid lies, the stronger was Guilt’s hold. Once a proud and reliable talisman, he became my worst tormenter. I became obsessed with this irony. I’ve been digging them up, my demons. I keep revisiting the awful truth, the pain, the guilt, and the experience becomes so real to me. I want to stop myself. Dig an even bigger hole and bury my burden of guilt deeper still.  It’s all so ludicrous to be fighting myself this way.

Sitting in the Baja sun, feeling the breeze against my face, this breeze that tosses my grey hair into my eyes and mouth, I imagine my life without the dance at the edge of all those holes. Surely, my original assertion—I’ve learned and grown stronger in direct relation to those many bouts—is my own bitter, sweet truth. It is my truth to embrace, to wrap around my shoulders, a truth to relish as I once relished my own youth.

Putting an end to my insane ceremonial, cerebral act is the reward I seek. I must be strong enough to satisfy purposeful growth while rallying enough magic to eliminate such powerful and debilitating hurt. After all, this is the game of my own making. I long for the courage to change the rules. Guilt, the most fearful and powerful of all my torments, is residing in my one remaining hole, and it is my very own arm that holds the knife that haunts me.

Sitting on the beach with the reflection of the gold hotel on the water, I beg the sun to bake into my heart an understanding and acceptance so sweet that I may stand taller and move with the quickness and strength required to dig up the worst of my demons, face him, fight him, and walk away to claim victory. I seek redemption. Every night, in the quiet time before I succumb to sleep, the question hovers in the doorway: Will these self-inflicted wounds forever bleed? Looking down, I see blood swirling at my feet, and I reach desperately for the white curtain to break my fall.

It helps to know what you want from yourself and your life. I’m not always focused and purposeful, but when I am, affirmations help me. Here are some of my favorites:

• Small portions of good food satisfy me completely. (That sounds about right, doesn’t it?)

• I’m alive, alert, awake, joyous, and enthusiastic about being here. (Used to make my students say this to start the day!)

• I eat to live, not live to eat. (I use this one a lot…maybe not enough!)

• I’m a strong, sexy, sassy woman! (Well, it helps to think positively. hahahha)

• Wild women don’t get the blues!

What helps you get out of bed and make your day the best it can be?

“I am Heat, and I have come for her!”

Somewhere in the middle of her chest I take hold. I hunker down for awhile gaining strength. She feels it. I know she does, because she moves uncomfortably, pulling at her clothes. It is her feeble attempt at getting some air movement between her skin and her clothes.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I creep farther, invading her arms, shoulders and neck before flushing to fill her cheeks. Her ears turn visibly red; she is engulfed, feeling the burn now. In a rush I move from her upper body, pulsing quickly down to her toes. Before long I rise to the top again. I am waves of heat going up and down, up and down.

The first time I entered her body uninvited, it was a rush of energy that was almost a pleasure to her, but soon my strength improved. I practiced until I became perfectly efficient at filling all her tissue, her muscles, veins, cells and (best of all) her mind with my gift of heat.

Pleasure is no longer associated with my presence. Now her experience is more akin to an uncontrollable freight train to hell. I want to whisper in her ear, “Fear me!” but I feel pity for her in this moment.

Her usually straight hair is forming into ringlets. Drops fall from her face onto her white blouse. Drip. Drip. I’m doing my job well, aren’t I?

She focuses every ounce of her resolve, longing for relief from my hot, tight grasp. Ha! She can’t get to the window fast enough. She can’t rip off her outer garments quick enough. The panic overcomes her. She’s frantic.

“Open the window for God’s sake,” she begs. “Where is the damn fan?” 

Don’t look at me. I don’t know where her fan is. I don’t have time to hide things from her. I’m busy making her sweat. And I do so relish the time we have together. Her body is my vessel; I am her uninvited furnace.

Too soon I become tired of my little game. She is flustered and soaking wet. I am satisfied that my job (for now) is done. Even in this moment as I release my grip on her, I vow to take over her body again soon. For weeks, for months, possibly for years, she will live in dread of me.

Feel me. I am Heat. I am the heat of menopause, and I’m coming for you next.

Todos Santos, Pueblo Magico

It begins one day when I am working on the computer. I do not remember now exactly what I was doing, but in the middle of what was obviously important to me at the time, my thoughts make an abrupt turn. Maybe it is the cold, grey, wet of our Washington climate that gives way to visualizing a life in Baja California. Is it an ad for vacations on my gmail page that gets my attention? I’m not sure, but for whatever reason, I think of Todos Santos in Baja Sur.

I don’t have an actual image of the town; no, I am only “seeing” where it is located (almost at the southern tip) on the map of Baja. I remember a three-day fishing trip to San Jose del Cabo about three years ago, but then the closest we got to Todos Santos was a few hours nosing around Cabo San Lucas. We’ve heard so much about this place from others, but we have never actually spent time there. I can’t conjure up any specific images—only hazy images of a house or two and the exact dot of its location on the map.

Baja Sur

This is all I am seeing in my head, and my daydreams give rise to an internet session that lasts two hours. My favorite part of the search is seeing actual photos and reading descriptions of this Pueblo Magico! The government of Mexico has identified and then designated a small number of towns in Baja as magico—magical. Not beating around the bush, they come right out with it! “Hey! This little town of ours is a magical place—let’s tell everybody!!” I follow link after link, and it is in these moments that I vow to visit and allow myself to wonder if it is a setting that can be magical for us too.

Downtown Todos Santos

Warming up!

Beach in Las Tunas

Having retired from teaching high school English a year before, I have a lot of time to dream. Every journey has step number one. My first step is to seek information. This is important on many levels. Certain situations require their own set of facts. Will this be a vacation, or will it be “throw caution to the wind and move to southern Baja?”  Things happen so fast once I put it out there to my husband. “Greg you are making yourself sick and crazy working as a project manager for the boat yard. You are a heart attack waiting to happen. Your latest assignment is coming to a close; maybe the time is right for us to move to Baja.”

The Completed Ferry

It was Greg’s last project.

When I met my husband, Greg, he was a young man in his surfing prime, spending most days at the beach while living in Southern California. Within a year of our acquaintance we were packing up my three sons, his German shepherd, and our few belongings,into an old, green Econoline van and heading up to Washington State. The six of us were one big, happy family starting a new life. So it was that in the Pacific Northwest, Greg took a hiatus from surfing to work and raise his ready-made family.

1979

It wasn’t until twenty-seven years later that he took up surfing again. But the water in Washington is frigid, unlike Southern California, so he had to don booties, gloves, a hood and a 5-4 wetsuit in order to brave the elements. And brave them he did. It didn’t take any time at all for him to get his surfing fever back with a vengeance. After thirty-three years of living in beautiful Washington State, we found ourselves craving the heat of the sun and warm, instead of glacial, ocean waves.

……………………………

When I tell my 94 year old mother we are selling our house and all our belongings in order to move to Mexico, she is unhappy and worried about us. I know she will miss us terribly, even though she lives in San Diego and living in Southern Baja means we won’t be farther away, just in the opposite direction. Mom and I have always been extremely close. I have good memories of being raised by this strong, independent woman. I don’t expect her to truly understand, but it bothers me when she asks, “Why Mexico?” For one thing, it should be obvious that we can’t afford to retire in America. The economy in the US of A is in a miserable state and if a person wants to retire, the monumental task of living without a paycheck requires lots of planning and lots of saving. The experts say you need a million dollars worth of assets, or maybe it’s that they say you need a million dollars in cash. I just can’t see us with a million dollars in assets, let alone cash. Apparently, somewhere along the way you are supposed to make some great investments that will help you to provide for the lifestyle you wish to maintain or create. Most of our investments have been bad ones, so we don’t have anything close to a million dollars. But with a little luck our health will hold out till we can get Medicare and buy supplemental insurance to cover health care costs. I realize that the best insurance is to take good care of ourselves, and follow some common sense rules to eat right, exercise daily and get plenty of rest. Oh, and we must remember to avoid stress! As I write this, I realize how this is exactly what we are doing now. Ah, but none of this explains why it bothers me that Mom asks, “Why Mexico?” You see, I didn’t mention the other thing she says. The very mean and racist thing she adds, which is, “Don’t you know there are Mexicans in Mexico?”

This is the same woman who voted twice for Obama even though she is a Republican. All my life she has reminded me to be humble and to show respect for others, no matter what their ethnicity. Of course I admonish her right then and there. I call her on it, reminding her that she didn’t bring me up to be a racist, and how dare she say such a horrible thing? It shuts her up, but the pain of knowing she could have these thoughts leaves, what I can only describe as, a hole in my heart—a black hole. She has never talked like this and I am dumbfounded, hurt, disappointed and ashamed.

I know I want to love her unconditionally, and of course I do, just as she has always loved me. I guess her “filters” are not in place as much as they used to be, now that she is 98. I just hope I accomplish as much in my life as she has, and do as well as she is doing, if I ever get that far.

Mom holding me in her arms–1946

Looking back, I wonder how many other people are thinking like Mom when we tell them of our plans to chuck it all and move to Baja. Do they just have the good sense to keep those thoughts to themselves? There are most likely some people shaking their heads wondering if we’ve lost our minds.  They would like to ask, “Haven’t you listened to the news about Mexico? Of kidnapping and murder?” And in my head I’m hearing Mom’s deplorable question again.  I feel the need to shake off this negative energy! Let it go.

Mom and me being silly at the University of Washington 1991

with Mom in 2010

Having fun at The San Diego Zoo in 2014