Another Small World Story

I was doing a little Christmas shopping at our local natural health store, called Moonrise Health (http://www.moonrise-health.com/home.html). The new owner, an attractive young woman, approached me to offer assistance. We got to chatting and she asked where I was from.

“Most recently from the San Francisco bay area,” I said, “But I grew up in Northern California.”

“Where in Northern California?” she asked.

“Well, the first 13 or so years were in a little town that you’ve probably never heard of; Garberville.”

“Give me a hug!”

(Garberville has a population of about 1,500. What are the odds?)

Her name is Shanti and she graduated from my old high school in Miranda (my high school before we moved to Eureka) and went on to college at Humboldt State University in Arcata.

The store got busy so we didn’t have time to share further. But I’m at her store every once in a while so we’ll have to see if we know anyone in common. I kind of doubt it given the generational difference. But still, it felt good to run into another Humboldter here in the middle of Mexico.

Approaching 50

I received a birthday card when I turned 40 that read: “The good thing about turning 40 is that you know that you’ll never die young.” Harsh.

Last Wednesday was my 49th birthday. Not technically a milestone birthday but sobering nonetheless.

I never thought I’d live to be this old. I used to tell people that I planned to die at 45. “Live hard, die young, leave a pretty corpse,” I’d say.

I was approaching 40 years old when I was on a sail boat some place in the South of France, and I shared my long self projected demise with my friend Debra. She said, “Maybe 45 will just represent the death of your old life and you’ll move onto something new.” (In hindsight she couldn’t have been more accurate.)

Now as I see 50 looming on the horizon, I’ve begun to take stock of my life. And much as one does with New Year’s resolutions, I’m asking myself what I want this second stage to look like. After all, the prospective corpse is not looking as pretty as I’d like so I need a plan ‘B’.

Some times I look at the skin on my hands or my naked body in a mirror and ask myself, “When did I become my father?” And on closer inspection, “When did I grow a second set of eyelids?”

Even though the current state of the economy has dramatically altered my retirement vision, I still have so very much for which to be thankful; a simple, peaceful life, loving family and friends, and so far, my health. And if I’m going to enter the second half of the game, I might want to pay a little more attention to that last item; health.

But oh how I hate exercise. That whole process of going to the gym, eating “right”, etc. I need to find something that I love to do that has a healthy side effect. Tennis? Hard on the knees. Golf? Expensive. Swimming? Fear of drowning. Bike ridding? Flat tires.

Yoga? Maybe I need to think about yoga.

And there is the 50th birthday to plan. Ideally I’d like to get a big group together and go whitewater rafting in Costa Rica. But that is probably prohibitively expensive.

So I’m open to suggestions.

Thanksgiving 2008

I thought we were a large group at 16. But then I ran into a gringo at the flower Mercado who said that he was attending an event of 35. Who does that? Who hosts 35 people for Thanksgiving dinner? I imagine someone very wealthy. Why don’t we know this person?

Alex wanted to provide a farm raised turkey from his family’s ranch. “By the time it gets here, it better look like a store-bought turkey,” I told him. “I wouldn’t know how to deal with a feathers and a head.”

In the end it turned out that their turkeys won’t be ready until Christmas. So off to Costco I went. Picking out a turkey in kilos instead of pounds was relatively easy. And I know the difference in Spanish between a smoked turkey and a regular turkey. I found the regular turkeys but was momentarily confused by a notation that read, “Doble Pechuga!” Double breasts? What? Are there four? What kind of turkey is this? A phone call to Rod cleared it up. He said that it probably meant that the breasts were twice as big.

While searching for sage (“Salvia” in Spanish) I ran into one of Rod’s clients; a Greek woman who lives here. “You’re so lucky,” she said. “Rod cooks too. I have to do the whole dinner myself, for 10 people.”

“Why are you doing that?” I said. “Rod and I are doing the bird, the stuffing and the gravy. Everyone else is bringing everything else.”

“Well that is not the Greek way. You know. In Greece it is the women who do all the cooking.”

“I know. But in Greece the kitchen is full of women all helping each other. You’re just one person.”

“You’re right. Next year it will be different.”

Three stores later I found the sage and bought enough for her in case she couldn’t find any. She did the same so now we both have enough sage to last us for several years.

Christine and Mario joined us, finally reunited in Mexico (after US immigration separated them at the border after their wedding). It is looking like Mario overstayed his tourist visa and therefore will not be able to return to the states for at least a year and maybe as many as 10 years. So Christine has quit her job teaching in Denver and will be renting out their house and moving back to Mexico. They plan to relocate to Queretaro which is only an hour from San Miguel. While I’m sorry that things have not played out as they had planned, I am delighted that “mi hija” will be back in Mexico and so very close.