Say Goodbye to Christmas 2010

I seem to be having a hard time letting go of Christmas this year. Most years, come the end of December, I can hardly wait to pack up all the all the Xmas decor that is strewn about the house. This year I feel differently. As dusk settles in and the house darkens, I am still enjoying turning on the lights in the Dickens village and around the mantle and plugging in the tree. I don't want to pack away the Christmas dishes and candles quite yet or turn off the holiday music.

Target has no trouble packing up Christmas. Yesterday I went there to buy a rug for the kitchen and immediately learned Christmas had been replaced by Valentine's Day. I wandered about looking for the rug and rolled past the 50%-off Christmas shelves. Most years I would have walked on by, but not this year. Christmas nostalgia got the best of me. I found myself putting a rather hideous bargain $7 Santa Claus cookie jar in my cart. When I got it home, Harry said it was so ugly they should have given it away. He then asked when I would be packing up all the Christmas decorations and I told him probably sometime near Valentine's Day.

Two Christmases ago, we drove up the Cortez side of the Baja Peninsula to La Paz and spent Christmas Day on the beach. I remember thinking that I couldn't remember feeling so carefree and relaxed on Christmas. My decades on Abbott always included dinners that required all the leaves for my dinning room table. Last year we flew from Cabo to Sarasota for Christmas and, as always, Pat and Bill pampered us rotten. This year I have been running myself ragged on a gimpy knee and loving every frigging minute of it. I decorated the house, I shopped, I baked cookies, I wrapped presents, I cooked, I cleaned up, I cooked, I cleaned up, I shopped, I ..... My physical therapist got mad at me, telling me that after an hour or two on my feet, I need to sit down. I asked him "Who has time to sit down at Christmas?"

This year I had the joy of watching my granddaughter open her Christmas presents. We had not been together with Ivan and Joanna at Christmas for four years. We made homemade ravioli. My sister Julie invited all of us to her house on Christmas Day to make tamales. My sister Ardee, her husband John, my nephews, and my niece and her boyfriend came for dinner last night. Harry made us a delicious stracotto al vino rosso (well if you don't know, you don't need to know, right?) served with braised leeks, both from a new cookbook our daughter-in-law gave us for Christmas. I whipped up a rather delicious chocolate bundt cake and everything received rave reviews. New Year's Eve we are having friends over for a little party. The friends are doing the cooking. Brian is making a beef stew and Anne is creating one of her famous salads. Monday night Alexis' childhood friends Katie and Beth are coming for dinner. While Katie has been exiled to far-off St. Paul, Beth has been living and working in Madrid. She is bringing several Spanish foods for us to savor.

So, an exhausting and calorie-packed Christmas it has been for sure , but wonderful. I hate to see it end. But ... all good things ..... As children's author Dr. Suess said, "Don't cry because it's over, be glad it happened at all." I know Harry will be glad when I pack away that half-price Target cookie jar.

The Miracle of the Mittens and the Hat

As each year draws to a close, I become thoughtful about the hands which were dealt to us and to those we know and love over the past twelve months. When I ponder the years' events, I always conclude that I never, not in a million years, could have predicted or imagined the things that came to pass. This year is no exception. Life's unpredictability makes living both wonderful and terrifying.

Terrifying for me this year included Harry's accident, driving up the Baja, and Sara Palin threatening to become our future president. Wonderful for me included Harry's recovery, driving up the Baja, being back in my own home, re-uniting with family and friends, our trip back to Mexico, our road trip across the US, subbing again, experiencing the cold and snow of Minnesota, and the tanking of Palin's reality show.

Our friends and family members were hit with extreme challenges and tragedies over this past year, including deaths, surgeries and divorce. They also experienced events that brought them great joy and happiness. Relationships changed over the past year, as they always do. Some of the changes people experienced were for the better, some for the worse, and some relationships ended.

Having made it through six decades, I have also have begun to ponder just how much more time will be granted to me in this fun and scary world. I always think of when my mother was dying, she wanted a bit more time to enjoy her family. When Queen Elizabeth I was dying she stood for four days because she knew that when she took to her bed that it would be all over. This is our human condition. We often live as though our time on earth were endless. Human beings throughout history have taken to the idea of life everlasting in a place free of worldly woes. Religions that promise a heaven or a re-incarnation have had great appeal, helping people cope with the fear of death.

The Christian tradition of Advent taps also into the deep longing human beings have for miracles in their life experience. C. S. Lewis wrote a book about miracles which was one of my favorites back in college. Lewis believed that some things in life can never be explained rationally or logically. He believed in the mystery and spirituality of life. Miracles are part and parcel of most world religions.

People who know me well know my irrational and illogical tendencies, so it will be no wonder to them I loved Miracles by Lewis. My religion of choice would probably be mysticism which acknowledges the mysteries of life and the possibility of miracles. The mystics as a group have not been in the mainstream for a few centuries, having lost popularity with the rise of Christianity. The mystics tolerated and encouraged diversity of thought.

I am often teased about my frequent use of the word miracle. What I often call a miracle may in reality be described by most people as a lucky or unexpected turn of fate, or even just something nice that happened, like Harry finding my keys after I've looked all over for them and rushed off to work with his. None of this divine intervention stuff. I seem to find miracles happening most days. In fact, I experienced a little miracle today.

My neighbor and friend, Ann, called me this morning to tell me she had completed the applique I had requested her to sew on the mittens and hat which I had knitted for my granddaughter for Christmas. Ann wasn't very confident that she would have time to create and attach the little snowmen because she has so many projects going relating to her at-home business, but she said she would do her best. I waited as the days went by, hopeful. Down the hall she came today and knocked softly at the door. When she took out the mittens and hat for me to see I wanted to burst out "It's a ..." -- no, I stopped myself from sounding ridiculous. I settled for telling her how grateful and delighted I was that she had taken time from her crazy schedule to do this for me.

Whatever religious faith or lack thereof which one chooses in this life I believe to be an extremely personal matter. There have even been "scientific" studies that argue some people inherit a "faith gene", and that others do not. We are all on our own journeys, and I believe respect for people's beliefs or lack of belief makes for a better world. Humanity has justified atrocities throughout history in the name of its gods. Belief that your creed is the only or best creed has always led to suffering and death for those who believe differently. If there is a god, I prefer to believe in a god of miracles not dogma. I prefer mysticism, where there is acknowledgement of life's mysteries, to a religion that believes it has all the right answers.

May you find strength to withstand whatever challenges life will undoubtedly send your way this coming year; but more importantly, I hope things mystical and miraculous find their way to your door. Sometimes the mystical and miraculous knock quietly, so listen carefully and be ready to open the door and let them in.

knee replacement postponed

I went over the MRI of my knee with a doctor today and the good news is I may not need a knee replacement for 10 years or so. The other good news was that the doctor proceeded to drain nearly a cup of fluid off my knee and gave me a cortisone shot and knee brace specially designed for people with arthritic knee caps. I was dancing with joy as I left the doctor's office: a slow fox trot seemed appropriate. It has been a bit of a rough go the last few weeks but I should be on the mend presently. The knee has decreased in size and feels so much better already.

And as if that good news were not enough for one day, I bought People Magazine for the week on my way home from the doctor, and learned that Jane Fonda, age 73, is releasing a set of new low-impact exercise videos. So, what is so good about that you may ask? Well, Jane has not released an exercise video in 30 years and in those intervening years, she had hip and knee replacement surgery. Maybe all that high impact exercise took a toll on her body. She says she now feels like 50. She looks about fifty too, undoubtedly due to the plastic surgery she has had recently to take the wrinkles out of her neck and the bags from below her eyes. Jane also has a younger boyfriend: he's 68. (People magazine tells you everything!) I felt emboldened upon reading this story! There is hope for the old and infirm.

Lately, I would have settled for feeling 60 and looking 59. I had visions of myself soon needing a cane as I waited to have my knee replacement surgery scheduled for after Christmas. I have always had a tendency to become obsessed about the worst possible outcomes in life. (Ask my husband about how close he came to divorcing me as he brilliantly drove us home in the snowstorm last night!) I guess that then, when things don't turn out so badly, I can have a moment of euphoria.

I know knee replacement is no picnic. A dear friend of mine, Louise, had her knee replaced, and it was extremely difficult. Louise has always taken time to exercise and she worked extremely hard to recover. I have luckily been granted some time to prepare mentally and physically. Harry's mom, Olga, opted not to have her knees replaced and has become an invalid the last few years, although her mind is still sharp. I am similar to Olga in that becoming an invalid would make me very cranky.

Needless to say, my exercise regime went by the wayside these last few weeks. I felt fortunate just to be getting around at all. The orthopedic doctor told me yesterday that biking and thus spin class are not a good idea for someone with an arthritic knee cap, but swimming would be good. I did not think to ask about Pilates. Looks like I will have to invest in those expensive water shoes after all and get back to water aerobics. And I will, of course, be ordering Jane's video from Amazon.com. I can afford the videos, just wish my health insurance would pay for some plastic surgery.

*Harry is not much older than Jane's new boyfriend so I don't think I will need to replace him. Yet.

Death of the Black and White Boards

Back in the 70's when I started teaching, I regularly developed bursitis in my arm from writing on the blackboard day in and day out. Even though it hurt, I remember having a real sense of satisfaction as I wrote the schedule and the day's lessons on the board. I always used colored chalk, printing some things, using handwriting for other things, and drawing pictures. It was a creative effort and it took a good 30 minutes most days to get the board prepared for the day. I think the students appreciated my efforts. After school, I diligently washed all the boards with my pail of water and a sponge.

Towards the end of my 30-year career in Minneapolis, whiteboards began to replace blackboards, which were seen as messy and hard to clean. Mpls could not afford too many of these whiteboards, however, given the number of classrooms in the district and their legendary budgetary constraint. The markers alone one used to write on these boards were ten times more expensive than a box of chalk. I continued to have blackboards in most of my classrooms until I retired five years ago.

While subbing in Edina today, I was welcomed, or perhaps catapulted is the better word, into the 21st century. I learned that whiteboards are now passe and the young teachers most likely do not even know what a blackboard was. In the Edina Schools, where the money flows freely and technology is king, every classroom is now equipped with a smart board. You and your students don't write on blackboards or whiteboards anymore. Your computer projects lessons on a screen and the students interact with the constantly changing images. One can even write on the screen with some sort of magic pen. The writing somehow disappears when the teacher waves a magic wand. St. Louis Park, and I assume Minneapolis, do not have these devices in every classroom, but they probably should, or more correctly, would, if they could afford it.

The class I subbed in today consisted of elementary students with Down's Syndrome, autism, and retardation. The lesson plan written by the classroom teacher said the children were to begin their day sitting on the carpet in a group to have a calendar lesson, a math lesson, and a song. Fine, I thought, no sweat. Then as I read through the plan I realized I was to use the smart board for these lessons. I was about to panic when the wonderful para-professional, Kara, stepped up to bat for me. She must have seen my distress because she cheerfully asked: "Would you like me to teach the lessons for you?" I told her yes, that I was from the blackboard era. Kara taught the opening lessons using the smart-board as I sat watching with my eyes popping out of my head in true amazement.

When called on, the kids jumped up off the carpet, dashed to the computer-driven screen, and with their fingertips racing about, put objects on the screen in the correct order, added and subtracted numbers, rearranged the calendar, and much more. At times the kids used colored pens and wrote on the screen. The engagement of the students was striking. Kara even taught this old dog how to use the smart board. Proficient, no, but I was able to teach a reading lesson all by myself using the smart-board later in the morning when Sara had to take a student to music class.

I only taught a half day but it felt like a full day, or more. The room had students coming and going like clockwork, each with their own educational plan assisted by a team of para-professionals. The smart board was used frequently all day long in the classroom, along with computers and teacher-directed lessons using old-fashioned paper, pencils and books. Students used manipulative games and puzzles, listened to tapes with music, had snacks and took time-outs. I had no time to even pour a cup of coffee from my thermos, let alone drink it. I thought regular ed was tough, now I know what tough really is!

I was left alone with a first grader with Down's syndrome for a few minutes at one point in the morning. The para said upon leaving: "Whatever you do, don't let her escape from the room." The minute the para left the little girl began running playfully about the classroom, hoping I would chase her and hiding in places where it was hard to fish her out. At least she did not escape. An autistic boy to whom I taught a reading lesson lost his temper and began pounding on my arm with great force. At least he did't kick me in my arthritic knee! One little girl with seizure disorder kissed me and told me my hair was beautiful. (I knew going blond was the right choice.) The children were all very lovable but labor intensive. Those who do this sort of work everyday definitely have reserved for them one of those many rooms in heaven we have all heard about.

The regular teacher arrived back and I proudly told her I was feeling pretty darn smart after Sara taught me to use the smart board. I went on to tell her what a very busy, highly organized and challenging place this classroom was. She smiled and said it was indeed a challenge teaching these kids, but she loves them all so much. There is always more to teaching than technology.

*Special thanks to my sister, Julie, for encouraging me to sub for her in Edina where she teaches English as a second language. I am learning a lot!

Thanksgiving in a Box

I think we all like to believe that things were better in the past. If only we could go backwards, life would be so much easier and better. The problem being, life doesn't allow us to go backwards. Instead, life drags us kicking and screaming into the future. This time of year I always think about the Thanksgiving in a box I bought from my local grocery store. That box helped me move into my future.

It had been a bad year, everyone has them. My daughter graduated and went off to college (a good thing) but was not coming home for Thanksgiving. My husband decided he wanted a divorce, again, and moved out. My mother died suddenly and my dad quickly found himself a new wife who moved them to Florida. Our foster son had a major meltdown, packed up and left. The IRS was after me because of my husband's business practices and I had to put my dog to sleep. And lastly, Thanksgiving was coming and I had no idea how to cook the bird. My husband always took care of that.

So I found myself in an empty house planning Thanksgiving. I decided to buy Thanksgiving in a box as sort of a comfort. No fuss, no muss, everything was cooked for you right down to the pumpkin pie. It all came neatly organized in a box, ready to re-heat and serve. I invited a few friends for dinner, friends who were also a bit short on tradition that year. Friends who also brought their own sadness to the table. The meal wasn't all that good, but it wasn't bad either. We had some good laughs and I felt like I had made a baby step in moving into a future I did not like at all. I mourned for the Thanksgivings of old.

Looking back now, I think it was good that I had made an effort, however tacky and tasteless, to celebrate Thanksgiving on my own in the very place where all my cherished memories and departed loved ones seemed to be hanging suspended in the air around me. The people I invited had heartaches too, I was not alone. I tried to focus on the thankful part of the Thanksgiving holiday, knowing full well that the time had come to pack up and put the old memories in a box. Loss comes bearing gifts if you don't let yourself become completely stuck in grief. That year I wanted nothing more than to be stuck. I could not imagine that life would soon be offering me more wonderful Thanksgivings memories.

The year immediately after my Thanksgiving in a box, I flew to New York and Alexis and I took a bus to New Jersey for Thanksgiving with her roommate Eliza's family. I remember coming out of the subway and unexpectedly seeing those giant balloons coming down 34th street. We had a wonderful time together.

The next year I had met Harry and we began a tradition of spending Thanksgiving with Harry's friends, Pat and Bill, who lived in St. Paul. I fell in love with these two men and when they moved to the beautiful city of Sarasota, we began going to Florida every year for the holiday. I even began a new tradition of watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, which I had never done, because for years I was too busy cooking. I learned I did not miss all the preparation and hard work required when you host Thanksgiving every year.

We interrupted our Florida tradition when we lived in Mexico for two years. Our Texas friends, Holly and Kara, with whom I taught with in Cabo, created a Thanksgiving feast with Texas charm for a group of our Mexican friends (drank a lot of tequila that night!!!). The second year Harry and I found a little restaurant on the beach and the two of us ate a mediocre turkey dinner while watching the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen in my life. We celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving, in October, with our Canadian friends in Cabo for three years running, this year included.

Thanksgiving 2010 found us with a group of Pat and Bill's close friends here in Sarasota. Chris, a chef and television personality, served up lamb and goose along with the turkey. There was no pumpkin pie which led Harry to toast that it was his favorite Thanksgiving ever! Traditions change, people we love die or move on. This year I was the only woman in our group of twelve and I couldn't have loved it more.

It's probably best that life doesn't allow you to go backwards. You can always open up your box stuffed full of memories anytime you want remembering not to get stuck for too long going through the box. Just re-heat, serve and move on to the different pies life has in store for you. When I get home, I am going to make myself a nice pumpkin pie.

12 reasons to get off the couch

While at the doctor today waiting to have my knee x-rayed I found myself reading a large poster mounted on the wall that was quite interesting. I was not in the mood for the poster's message, having been sidelined from exercise the last couple weeks because of a bad knee, but here goes:

If you exercise regularly you will:

1. Loose weight by boosting your resting metabolism.

2. Decrease your risk of colon cancer by 50%

3. Sleep better/less insomnia

4. Increase your longevity

5. Cut symptoms of depression by 50%

6. Reduce your risk of breast cancer by 50%

7. Cut your risk of catching a cold by 50%

8. Have increased energy

9. Reduce your risk of osteoporosis

10. Reduce the risk of developing heart disease

11. Reduce your odds of getting dementia and Alzheimer's by 30 to 40%

12. Improve your sex life!

*Exercise unfortunately means "aerobic exercise" the kind that gets your heart rate up for 30 minutes at least 5 times a week, not taking your dog out for a quick potty break.

I have been in a lot of pain that only seemed to grow worse the last couple days. I learned that I probably have a bone spur and that my knee is full of arthritis. The doctor asked me about past knee injuries and I told her the only one I could remember was a bad fall I took while skiing back in my thirties. She said that was probably when the arthritis started. Bone spurs just happen, and she thought she saw a large spur and a few small chips floating around on the x-ray. I will have an MRI to assess the extent of the tissue injury and the treatment I may need when I get back from our Florida Thanksgiving. Meanwhile, I will follow my doctor's advice and mega-dose on Advil and stay off my feet, which of course being me, I have not been doing.

After my doctor appointment today, I had a few moments of regret as I pondered the stupidity of my youth. My ex-husband, Jerry, and I flew out to Vale in a small 4-seater plane back in our thirties. (Funny how at 60 you begin to think of the thirties as your youth.) The couple we went with skied Vale every year, and on our first day on the slopes we ascended the lift to the more advanced runs. I knew I had no business being on these trails, but I thought if I just skied slowly I would be ok. The ski bunny couple would assume I was just slow, not inept. No such luck! Shortly after getting off the lift I took a bad fall. I was so embarrassed and told Jerry and the couple to just go on ahead and I would see them at the chalet later. It took me nearly three hours to get down the mountain where I proceeded to get into a good hot soak with my knee twice it's normal size. I put an ace bandage on my knee and skied the next day even though it hurt like hell. I stuck to the easier slopes and tried to work through the pain, as they say nowadays. My rationale was I would probably not get to Vale again, and the beauty of it all was breathtaking. Now, it seems, my vanity and bad judgement have come back to haunt me. I do still remember how beautiful those mountains were, however, and I can always tell the grandchildren that Grandma uses a cane because of an old ski injury.

I hope to get back to my exercise routine when this mess heals up. The doctor said SPIN and Pilates classes are actually good for knees. Until then, I will be on the couch remembering the list of 12 reasons to get off the couch.

PS. What did you expect? I'm 60 now: of course I'll be talking about my ailments!!

Back to Work

I returned from our road trip and called to have myself reinstated on the sub list in St. Louis Park. Two days went by and the phone did not ring. I, of course, began to obsess about my career as a sub being over. That was then, this is now. My phone rings constantly. This past week, I have worked every day and I have not felt so tired in a very long time. Even a 12-hour drive in the car now seems like a piece of cake. I need to build up some endurance, sort of like when you begin an exercise program.

St. Louis Park's school district has undergone some major changes this year. They closed one elementary school and now send all the 6th graders in the district to the one Jr. High. Student population has declined and the district took the opportunity to distribute low-income students and kids of color more equally around the district by changing school boundaries. The minority student population is now more balanced at 39% in every school, except for Spanish Immersion, which has a smaller percentage. The St. Louis Park school district is ranked academically #2 in the state, next to Edina, where the income level is much higher and the school population much less diverse. St. Louis Park city planners have included lower-income housing in this first ring suburb. Not true in Edina.

This is my third year of substitute teaching in St. Louis Park. I started right after I retired and continued for two years until we left for Mexico. I have great admiration for this school district. The diversity of the student population is fun and a culture of respect is carefully and skillfully nurtured in every school. A first grade I subbed in this week included a mix of Hispanic, Asian, Muslim, African-American, Jewish, and even white kids. A good way for kids to start their school career.

My first assignment back in the sub game was kindergarten. It was a good way to begin. I was reminded why I never took Kindergarten certification. The crying, the tattling, the shoe tying ... ah yes. Not to mention they hug you constantly. Day two: first grade, my favorite grade to teach until I realized I was too old. I love the way first graders internalize their daily routines. "No, Mrs. Baxter, we do it this way, never the way you are telling us to do it." Day three: elementary special ed. I was never certified in special ed. either, although I always had special education students in my regular classes over the years. This week's special education assignment included a student with an IQ of 68 who I found to be extremely articulate; and one student, named Usher, with a much higher IQ who kept flipping out of his seat into a handstand and then proceeding to walk on his hands around the classroom. Day four: middle school. A boy in class wore baseball gloves on both hands all day while displaying his baseball trophy on his desk. I was blown away by a discussion the entire class had about the Holocaust. I never studied the Holocaust until my senior year in high school. Day five: Spanish immersion grade 5. These students practically teach themselves. I wrote in Spanish on the white board the plan their teacher had left for them, and sat and read on my Kindle as they carried out what they were supposed to do independently. I remembered many of these students from when I taught them as first and second graders. One boy who was always folding and cutting up paper is still folding and cutting up paper. Day six: collapse into exhaustion.

Not being as young as I used to be, having hit the big 6-0 in October, I realize that a couple or three days a week of this may be more appropriate for one of my advanced years. I like subbing because each day is so different and there is no lesson planning involved, no meetings to go to, and no report cards. You walk out of the door empty handed, knowing a new adventure and challenge awaits you with the next assignment you accept. The bag of tricks it took years to learn is useful everyday with all the varied situations you encounter; and best of all, you can afford to relax and enjoy the students without all the overwhelming responsibility which a regular classroom teacher has. Some days, if the teacher has a lot of prep time on the schedule, you can fit in a little knitting and/or book reading. Pretty nice!

I only wish this moonlighting paid better, but a little extra money is nothing to sneeze at. I sneeze the money I make right along into our travel account. Nice! Also pretty nice was this week's completion of the bridge across Highway 7 that has been under construction lo these many months. We watched everyday from our windows as they constructed it, anxiously awaiting its completion, and gleefully yelling about the first accident, which took place before eight o' clock on the first morning. I am now able to walk across the blue bridge to the Spanish Immersion School and can also easily zip onto Highway 7 which gets me quickly to the other schools in St. Louis Park.

I figure subbing is something I can enjoy doing for a good long time to come if I so choose. (My first choice of career now would of course be professional tourist and blogger, but no one has called and offered me such a job.) Subbing will be fine for now. I just have to get over being shocked when students tell me I remind them of their grandmother (after all, I am a grandmother). When they say I remind them of their great-grandmother it will be the signal for me to retire yet again.

*And yes, dear Cabo friends who follow my blog, winter has arrived in Minnesota, snow and all! Hence the weird outfit.

Raviolissimo

I have always wanted to learn how to turn out good homemade ravioli, but being of British/Scandinavian descent, I was at a distinct disadvantage. Together Harry and I tried a couple of times to make ravioli, but we failed miserably. I knew we needed a good Italian.

Our friend, Linda, gave us a ravioli making lesson last Friday. Linda and her sister, Nicki, have been making their grandmother's Christmas ravioli recipe together for the last 25 years. Their Italian grandmother came to this country when she was 16 and every Christmas, made ravioli for the family using a broom stick to roll out the pasta dough.

When we arrived at Linda's kitchen in Linden Hills last week, everything, except the broom stick, was ready for our lesson. Linda had spent two days preparing; making the meatballs, the sauce, the filling and the pasta dough. This time our ravioli making went perfectly. We were in the presence of a maestra. Linda taught us how to create the adorable little ravioli using grandma's techniques with the aid of a modern hand-cranked pasta machine. You roll the pasta dough through the hand-cranked machine until it is thin but not too thin. And don't be afraid of the flour you may have to add after kneading the dough so it won't stick in the machine. We learned how to squeeze the air gently out of the little pasta blobs before you cut them with the roller that also seals in the filling.

We drank a nice bottle of red wine after our efforts and took home a bag of the frozen ravioli, sauce, meatballs and ribs (the secret ingredient to the tasty sauce). We also took home a huge casserole of ravioli with sauce, meat and cheese which we ate for the next three days. I felt like I had died and gone to Italian heaven! We were given Grandma's recipes for the sauce, the filling and the pasta dough!!

For me, the love affair with ravioli began many years ago. I remember my dad would sometimes open a can of Chef Boyardee as a bedtime snack. I thought the perfect little pasta shapes were so cute! Nine times out of ten, I order ravioli when I eat in an Italian restaurant (the tenth time is gnocchi!). Of course, restaurant ravioli is usually better than Chef Boyardee, but not always. It is not easy to make good ravioli. Sometimes the filling or sauce isn't good, or the pasta is rubbery. To get it all perfect is complicated and it takes hours of work. A true labor of love.

A couple years back I happened upon the book, The Lost Ravioli Recipes of Hoboken, by Laura Schenone. The author, a food writer and chef, embarked on a very personal journey in search of her family's authentic ravioli recipe from the old country. What she learned disappointed her (cream cheese in the filling made by her great-grandmother? OMG!) but what she learned about herself was firmer than cream cheese. I sent my Italian friend a copy of the book and we began to talk about someday getting together to make ravioli.

I am grateful to Linda that the day happened and for all her hard work on our behalf. Harry and I are going to try making ravioli on our own next, and if Linda ever wants to learn to make Shepherd's Pie or Scotch eggs, or trifle, or Christmas Pudding, she just needs to say the word! None of these things are as difficult to make as ravioli, that's for sure!

Forget the gardening!

I gave away, or threw away, all my plants on the plant shelf Harry built before we left for our five-week journey. However, I had no trouble this week filling those empty shelves with the Mexican treasures we brought back. So much for indoor gardening.

The new, beautiful, useless items fit perfectly on the empty shelves, but the Mexican dishes I brought back had to be stuffed in a bathroom cabinet. There simply was no room in the kitchen cabinets to store them, as they are replete with three sets of dishes already. The empty plant pots, such a nice collection indeed, are now stacked in the laundry room. Blessed be the shelf makers! Maybe next, Harry could attempt cabinet making.

I have found myself looking forward to December with great anticipation because it will be the time to bring up my tub of Christmas tchatchkis and dishes from our storage area in the basement garage. HELP!!

I really thought that with the need for three garage sales when we left the big house on Abbott, this urge to collect useless things would stop. But here I am once again, with no more space on the fridge for magnets, no more room in the spoon racks for spoons, shelves and cabinets all filled to the brim with odds and ends, dishes, and Mexican wine glasses (what a find these were, so adorable).

It's obviously time to pick up the phone and dial for help.....Tchatchkis Anonymous, a twelve-step program. I have at least taken the first step, admitting I am powerless in the face of a foreign gift shop.

I suppose I could throw out my husband and take over what little space I have allowed him for things. Certainly his bookshelves could be pressed into service ....

The Collector

Shortly after returning home from our trip, I sat reading an old People magazine and resting from unpacking my Mexican treasures, when I stumbled across an article where Diane Furstenberg, famous fashion and interior designer was quoted as saying, "Don't fill your space with useless tchatchkis. It will look too cluttered." Too late for me. She went on to say, "Know that your rooms are never done. It's where you live. So there is always more." Isn't that a contradiction? More is more and more is good has always been my motto. I never could abide that famous French architect either, LeCorbusier, who always said, "less is more."

As I continued to organize and find space for my new objects, my sister Julie called. I began to tell her about my cherished Mexican finds and she asked if I had ever watched the reality television show about hoarders. We laughed, but secretly I wondered what the tipping point on collecting things might be? Upon reflection, I know my predilection for collecting began early. My Scandinavian grandmother gave me a small china dog as a birthday present when I was about ten. I loved it so much and began to collect more dogs, so many that my mother said, "I think we should get you a shelf." The beginning of the end.

Scandinavian Grandma collected Royal Doulton figurines and the one that sat on the top of her television had my name written on the bottom of it for as long a I could remember. She would pick it up when I visited her and tell me that it would be mine someday. Today I have collected on my own several Royal Doulton figurines, Doulton dishes and a complete Doulton china tea set.

Upon further reflection, I remembered moving from the bedroom I shared with my sister Cathie to a room in the basement, shortly after my 12th birthday. I was never clear as to why, but now think it might have been that my predilection for collecting meant that there was not much space in our shared room for my poor sister. I took my collections with me when I moved and began to fill up the basement. Today I have filled up the condo with all sorts of collections and objects and it is indeed, as Diane would point out, cluttered. Harry turned out to be a collector of books (escaped academic!) and blue and white English china. We have a room of wall-to-wall books and a china cabinet we had specially made to house the old china from his mother's house in England. Quite the combo in a small condo!

Beyond reflection, objects can give a sense of security that may be lacking in a person's inner reality. My childhood could easily be described as unpredictable, at best. Maybe the objects I collected gave me the sense of order and predictability my reality lacked. Objects don't change in scary ways, they are safe and can be counted on to remain the same.

I do think, however, that there are signs I have reached the decline of my collecting days; and it is not just that we are out of space (even Harry has begun to clear out a few books). I bought a beautiful poster in Mesa Verde displaying magnificent pottery cups made in the ancient Pueblo style that were unearthed at the site of the ancient cliff dwellings. Upon researching the potter who makes these cups today, wanting of course to start a collection, I learned one cup can cost $5oo. Maybe less is more after all, more money in your pocket anyway.

*I told Alexis this week that she and Ivan and Joanna will have to orchestrate quite the garage sale upon our demise. And not to worry kids, I do recycle my People magazines.

The big sister

Eva is wearing her new dress from Oaxaca while finishing her latest painting. (reminds me of a Georgia O'Keefe) She learned yesterday that she will become the older sibling of a little sister in March. I asked her what the the baby's name would be and she looked at me rather incredulously and said, "Baby". It is a very joyful time for all of us here in the Baxter/Dinsmore household. We also learned Ivan, Joanna and Eva will be coming to Minneapolis for Christmas. It has been a few years since we were together at Christmas, so it will be special time indeed.

Harry and I plan to leave St. Louis and head home Saturday morning, the last 500 miles will seem like nothing after the 3,500 driven so far. It is turning a bit cold here and we know what is coming next, although we have not experienced it for two years. I plan to go back to subbing a bit and Harry has developed a long to-do list: nobody is better than Harry at making a big to-do about things. So we will keep busy as we adjust to the cold. (Did I forget to mention exercise?)

Santa Fe!

Santa Fe is a city of architecture, food, fashion, art, and shopping. The lovely old city is celebrating its 400th anniversary this year. The mix of Spanish, Indian, and Mexican culture makes it unique. Santa Fe is only about 72,000 people, but thousands of tourists crawl the streets every day while shopping: even Harry got into the swing of it.

There are many, many museums in the little city: Indian art, folk art, modern art. We went to the Georgia O'Keeffe museum and I was a little disappointed. It was smaller than I expected and at the present time, they are not showing any of her famous flower paintings that I love so much. I became a fan of Georgia many years ago when Alexis and I went to an exhibition of her flower paintings at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. I didn't know anything about her, but as I stood in front of one of her flower paintings, I found myself crying. Alexis came over to me and said, "Mom what's wrong?" I said, "It's just so beautiful."

If you come with a few thousand dollars to buy art you could have a marvelous time here. The world-famous art district, Canyon Road, is within walking distance of the town square and cathedral. Adobe houses on this road, dating back to the 1740s, are now art galleries. All new construction in the central city of Santa Fe has to be in the adobe style. Original adobe construction of even a small building took thousands of hand-made bricks. Today, they make the new buildings look like adobe construction while using easier methods.

We did not buy any art, as we were out of our league, but we did eat like royalty. The restaurants are amazing in Santa Fe. We picked two after reading the restaurant guides (plus a little Vietnamese in a shopping mall) and hit it right. We ate antelope burger and tamales for my birthday lunch, and the following evening went to a tapas restaurant. It was like being back in Madrid! The food was excellent in this small New York-style restaurant with all the people crammed in like sardines. Sitting next to us were a very interesting couple from Austin who were doing an encore evening at the restaurant. They had made reservations elsewhere for that evening, but after eating one night at La Boca, had to come back. We chatted with them about Mexico, Texas, and food. I think Santa Fe is a great tourist destination.

We are now in St Louis after another 1,000-mile drive. We had perfect driving weather, although the winds were up in the 50 mile an hour range for much of the way. We stopped in northern New Mexico for gas and felt like the doors could have been blown off the car as we got out. I found I enjoyed driving across Oklahoma and Missouri with the country music radio station blaring and my coke and chocolate candy bar nearby. Harry had to keep reminding me I was well over the speed limit.

Eva fit into her Oaxaca dress perfectly and the whole family is off this morning to the OB/GYN to find out if Eva will have a new brother or sister come March! Stay tuned ....

All Aboard!!!!

Thank God! Harry finally got a day when someone else did the driving. We rode by train from Durango, Colorado, altitude 7,000 feet, to Silverton, altitude 10,000 feet in about 3 and one half hours yesterday. This amazing steam engine chugs it's way up into the mountains on a narrow gauge track that seems like it is about to send you plunging into the canyon 1,000 feet below, where a raging river cascades over boulders. Lots of fun!

The man who took our tickets told us that the track was constructed in 1889 by a crew of 1000 workers and it took them 9 months. Lots of dynamite required for the job. The train initially carried silver mined in Silverton to Durango, but the towns got together to preserve the train even after the silver was gone. The ride is so amazingly beautiful. The fall colors were intense. Each day, the train makes one trip up the mountain and back carrying tourists and elk hunters. In our car were 40 French tourists, an English couple and a couple from Finland. We have seen many Europeans and Japanese at the Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde and again today on this very special train. Our lunch in Silverton was in one of the town's many bordellos, now converted to a restaurant.

We arrived back in the posh little city of Durango about six p.m. and found a small French restaurant with a real French chef. We ate a shrimp and lobster bisque, and shared a vol au vent and a plate of coq au vin. We ordered a glass of red and a glass of white wine to share. Harry said he was not about to have a repeat performance of a few nights back. I was stuffed but still managed to stuff down a cream puff.

We chatted with the the chef and his wife after dinner. Their long-legged Jack Russell jumped up on his own high bar stool to sit at their dinner table with them. No, he was not eating coq au vin, he just sat there and watched as they ate theirs. The couple were our age and told us that a beautiful and very inexpensive place to retire was Quito, Ecuador. The climate is perfect year round, if you can get along at 10,000 feet, and they said a friend of theirs lives very well on a few hundred dollars a month. We, especially me, have experienced a little altitude sickness today. We are off to Santa Fe today for a couple days, not Ecuador (although that would be a nice place to visit after you adjusted to the altitude), and then on to St Louis to see our kids. We expect to be home by Halloween.

*I am now driving, whimpiness phase is over! (as long as it is not raining and I am on a four lane)

Mesa Verde

The Ancestral Puebloans began constructing their homes in the cliff alcoves at Mesa Verde, Colorado in about 500 A.D. What remains is what they built during their golden age between A.D. 1100 and 1300. They left this site over a 25 to 50 year period in the 13th century for unknown reasons. I took this picture of the settlement called Cliff Palace. It is the largest and most intricate of the 6oo settlements found in the park. Archaeologists found jars of corn seed at the site, which meant the Puebloans had probably hoped to one day return to this beautiful site but they never did. A group of cowboys looking for lost cattle stumbled upon Cliff Palace in 1888 and the world began to learn of this amazing place. The Puebloan descendants are now mingled with the Navajo, Ute, Hopi, and Pueblo native American tribes of the southwest.

It was a beautiful 20 mile drive into Mesa Verde National Park and once again when you arrive at the cliff dwellings, you cannot quite believe what you are seeing. The park ranger, Adrianne, explained to the group of about 40 that the descent to Cliff Palace would include many steps and ladders to climb so if you were not in the best of shape it was a good idea to re-think your decision to view the site up close. Looks of panic swept over the faces of the mostly older crowd, but no one held back. It was well well worth all the huffing and puffing it took to get to the site and back out.

Adrianne, also gave us an excellent history lesson halfway down the trail as we rested up for the remainder of our journey down. There is also an excellent museum of man-made artifacts which archaeologists have discovered in the park dating back 10,000 years, back to the earliest arrivals. The Pebloans were farmers with domesticated dogs and turkeys, and they made beautiful baskets, rugs and pottery.

Tchatchkis queen that I am, I found the traditional Puebloan black and white pottery particularly beautiful, and of course found a shop where I could buy pieces that are still made today by descendants of these people. Where to display these lovely pieces in my tchatchkis-filled home will be my challenge, but of course this did not stop me.

We are next on our way to Durango to ride the Durango-Silverton narrow gauge steam train.

Very Grand indeed!

I had never been to the Grand Canyon and it is one of those places that has to be experienced to be believed. I have seen the wonderful photographs and watched the NatGeo specials about this place which makes the list of geographic miracles along with Mount Everest and Victoria Falls, but they do not do it justice. I probably never will see either Everest or the African falls, but I have now been fortunate enough to visit at least one of the Seven Wonders of the Natural World.

We arrived late in the afternoon at the canyon village and headed straight for the edge. I will never forget that moment. My first thought was that what my eyes were seeing was not possible. How could something like this happen? Oh, this took 6 million years, now I get it! We walked along the rim until darkness took over. The canyon looks different every few steps you take and you find yourself just standing in awe. People are talking all around you, but somehow the silence is what you hear. The light keeps changing as the day moves along, making the colors of the rocks change. A photographers' paradise. We started the next day walking the rim in the opposite direction for several hours, and by then felt too tired to attempt a short trek on Bright Angel Trail which leads to the canyon floor. Those who begin such a walk take the entire day to go all the way down.

It has unexpectedly turned out to be a good time of year to travel, in that the grey hairs and home-schooled children make for small and tame crowds and the temps are perfect. We had planned to take this trip in July after finishing up teaching in Mexico, but we now know July would not be the best time to be in the Grand Canyon because of large crowds and heat. Our next stop is Mesa Verde, Colorado.

Once is enough

I have now experienced driving the Baja Peninsula once and once has turned out to be all I will ever need. Harry drove the entire 1,000 miles while I whined and cried. We encountered two major road construction projects. One of them meant we had to drive the 2-lane Baja in the dark, which is a no-no, but we had no choice. There were two military inspection stops that turned out to be major wait-in-liners, so as darkness fell, there was no stopping or going back. We arrived in Ensenada in the dark, with the rain falling after a 12-hour drive. The other major construction zone was near the border and it seemed like it went on for days.

Major road work in Mexico does not mean you are provided with a little well-constructed detour route. No, it means you are driving on a horrible, dark, dirt road that is one major rut and bump after another. It is frightening and exhausting, but you just have to keep going. And yes, even under these road conditions from hell, drivers continue to pass. Harry is an extremely skilled driver, thank god, and I was counting my blessings the entire way. The road up the Baja is 95% two lane and sometimes it becomes more like 1 and a half lanes. Guard rails on the high mountain "curva peligrosa" roads are the exception, not the norm. Following a big slow truck is a comfort because if someone does pass in a no-passing zone, or if a cow happens to be on the road as you take a major blind curve, you figure the truck will take the major impact, not you.

We had a couple near misses with cows and reckless drivers, but got lucky. There was much beauty to behold on the drive for sure, but I don't need to do it again even with all the road construction completed. I am a wimp who flies down the Baja. The passenger wimp who didn't want to drive the Baja for one single, solitary mile.

And just in case this sounds like a Jeremiad, I'll add that driving the Baja is 95% heaven and only 5% hell.

Jennifer!

As those of you who saw Harry recently know, his hair was reaching shoulder length. He had had one haircut since we returned to Minnesota in late March. That haircut was a "cost-cutters" sort of haircut and it was pretty horrible. He resorted to trimming his own hair and even got me involved with trimming the parts he could not reach. He insisted he would just wait for a proper cut in Cabo from Jennifer. He hates to have his hair cut, claiming he was traumatized as a child by some brutal English barber, called Sweeney Todd (that's why he hated the movie so much). Some may have trouble buying this one: I know I do.

Our friend Jennifer, hair stylist extraordinaire here in Cabo, cut Harry's hair last week. (You can now perhaps see why it was worth the wait.) I met Jennifer our first year here through one of my students and she became our "hair person" and our friend. She even made house calls to our condo to cut our hair when we lived here. The first time she cut and colored my hair she would not let me see what she had done to me until she was completely finished. I remember the moment when she spun me around in the chair so I could see myself in the mirror. My hair was darker than it had ever been in my life! I looked positively Mexican. Talk about trauma! After my initial shock, I decided it was very fun to do something so different and I liked not being immediately taken for a gringo in Mexico. A few weeks back, I let my new Minneapolis hairdresser have her way with me too, and I went blonde. Jennifer taught me sometimes it can be fun to just let go and have some fun. I have tried to apply this philosophy to other aspects of my life with less success.

Tomorrow we begin our long journey home. We have been stuffing the car and getting on each's others nerves over the last couple of days. I am feeling very sad at leaving the friends who have become our Cabo family. It seemed like we just picked up where we left off ... wonderful dinners, tea times, and parties as we caught up with their lives. We even stopped into the Blue Med Clinic where Liz took Harry immediately after his accident and our lovely doctor, Omara, was on duty. There were the hugs and kisses, of course, and even a bit of a tear in her eye when she saw how well Harry had recovered. I will never forget how, when she began to examine my blood-soaked husband, she gently asked if his nose had always been bent so much to one side. She took such good care of him, too, when his blood pressure went out of control.

I am going to try applying that spirit of fun Jennifer taught me about hair to the 3,500 mile trip home. It is going to be hard at times, but heck, I'm the gringo who tried looking more Mexican for a bit and then went blonde. I can do it!

Monte Alban

Today we took a thirty minute bus trip up into the mountains outside Oaxaca to the ruins of the ancient Zapotec city, Monte Alban. This world heritage site was built around 500 BC, and it became the first urban complex in Mesoamerica. In its time it was about the size of Oaxaca today.

Monte Alban wielded enormous political, religious, and economic power over the inhabitants of the Great Valley of Oaxaca from 500 BC to 850 AD, when it was abandoned for reasons unknown. I was relieved to learn that in the city's ball courts which we saw, the game played by the ancient Zapotecs used rubber balls, not human skulls such as their neighbors the Aztecs and Mayans used in their ball court games. The Zapotecs, however, did, according to their stone art depictions, completely emasculate the leaders of the tribes they conquered in the Great Valley of Oaxaca. Some aspects of history one would sometimes rather just not know about. Like the Bush years.

On our way to and from the bus station we saw parts of Oaxaca much less beautiful than the part of the city where we are staying. I knew there had to be more to the city than we had seen so far. The bus ride up to the 5,000 feet Monte Alban was a thrill a minute. A new city of tar-paper shacks has grown up along the hillsides from Oaxaca over the past decades and the road is one sharp turn after another. Guard rails have not been invented here yet. We rode the bus back down chatting with two women passengers who told us interesting stories of their world travels. They showed us the way to the city zocalo after we left the bus. In the zocalo, free bags of rice were being distributed to the victims of the recent flooding in the valley surrounding the city. I, of course, did what I do best when it comes to aiding the local economy: shop.

Tonight we had dinner in Lonely Planet's favorite restaurant in Oaxaca. There are those of you who know me well who will laugh at this, knowing my great enthusiasms, but, it turned out to be the most architectually beautiful restaurant I have ever eaten in in my life! Alas, yes, I forgot my camera, so I have no photos and any description I tried to give would not do it justice, so I will not even attempt it.

At the beautiful restaurant, Harry ordered canneloni with huitlacoche, a fungus that grows on corn, which he loves but I refuse to eat. I had mushroom linguine. (Yes, I know mushrooms are a fungus! Just shut up about it!) We ordered and drank an entire bottle of wine from the Baja wine country. After dinner we asked our waiter about mescal, a liquor made from the maguey cactus, which tastes like scotch. It is sold in shops all over town but,we have not tried it. Our waiter brought us each two shots of two different varieties of mescal made in the state of Oaxaca. I loved the way it was served to us with a "special" tasting salt and orange slices. I asked the waiter about the special salt which I had been consuming wholeheartedly and he told me it was salt blended with ground-up worms. I refrained from screaming. (Actually, after late-night web research, I learned what he called worms are actually moth larvae that live on the cactus plant) What a relief that was! Proving once again, sometimes it is best not to know everything. Oaxacans are well-known for encorporating insects into their cuisine. I had seen grasshoppers on the menu the night before last.

I, being an adult-child with alchoholic roots, had no trouble guiding my tea-totaler husband home along the smooth cobblestone streets after dinner. He was bombed and I was feeling no ill effects. Nothing like genetics to see you through when needed. He gently slumbers now as I write this blog into the wee hours of the night.

My friend Bill never fails to point out that I fall in love with every new place I visit. Oaxaca is no exception in that regard. It is magical, full of beautiful places, lovely smells, amazing art, and delicious foods. Perhaps I will return someday, like the vanished Zapotecs, and learn to eat more insects fearlessly .

oh! Oaxaca oh!

Oaxaca is not at all what I expected. We arrived at our hotel, Las Mariposas, the butterflies, early last evening and immediately set out for a walk around the city. I commented to Harry how unusual it was that the majority of the buildings are one story high. He astutely pointed out that it is earthquake country. I then remembered I had read in our guide book bible, Lonely Planet, that this 16th-century city has twice been destroyed by earthquakes, once in 1854 and once again in 1931. The 1931 quake destroyed 70% of the city, only buildings like the cathedral and the aqueduct, with their thick stone walls, remained standing. Thus the continuity of the 1930s architecture and the rich color adobe building facades give the city an elegant grace.

Oaxaca is exceptionally clean and the cobblestone streets and sidewalks are much easier to walk on than those in San Miguel, the beautiful city just north of Mexico City where we stayed last summer for a couple weeks. I took a bad fall on one of the hilly cobbled sidewalks in San Miguel the first day we were there. No trips or falls so far here. The streets and sidewalks are cobblestone here as well but not dangerously random in their construction like those in San Miguel.

There seem to be fewer expats here in Oaxaca than in San Miguel and few natives speak English. Harry's Spanish is back up to speed, which may be good when the cops pull us over for speeding on our drive up the peninsula next week. I have been speaking more bad Spanish and my comprehension is adequate, at least for shopping. It is good to be forced to speak. In Cabo, the minute you begin to stumble in Spanish, the waiters and store clerks speak to you in perfect English.

This city is surrounded by cloud-covered mountains which you can see from the city streets and the air smells so good. A sense of calm permeates here, except during rush hours: the crazy driving seems to set a record that even Los Cabos can't match. You feel very relaxed. It has been a relief to find a respite from the opressive heat and humidity in Cabo. When we left the plane here, it was about 70 degrees and no humidity. The evenings are cool and you can wear a light sweater or jacket and feel comfortable.

Oaxaca is known for its unique cousine, weaving, and textiles, the perfect -- or more accurately, dangerous -- place for a woman who loves nothing more than to eat and shop. We had dinner last night at a small, quaint, nine-table restaurant recommended by our hotel. We ordered tostadas with Oaxacan sausage and chicken fandango: chicken stuffed with plantains covered with a mole sauce. The food is like nothing I have ever tasted. I have temporarily given up drinking coffee, instead drinking hot chocolate like the natives. They steam the milk and add a bit of cinnamon to the chocolate. (Unfortunately, according to a Certain Person, they also add cinnamon to the coffee.) I watched at the restaurant where we had breakfast this morning, as a woman skillfully used one of those ancient wooden tools to mix the chocolate by hand into the milk. I felt like I had time-lapsed (sic!) back a few hundred years. I have no idea what we actually ate for breakfast, we just pointed to some beautiful looking food on the counter and they brought it on plates to our table.

We bought one of the famous Oaxacan rugs today in town after looking around to get an idea of quality and price. We found a lovely hand-woven one with a very intricate pattern. The shopkeeper said her son had woven the rug on the loom that was standing in the middle of the shop. When we paid her in cash, she did a silent prayer with ritual motions: we weren't sure whether she always does that or whether it was the first substantial cash she has seen in a while. A rug will be good because wall space for art, as forementioned in this blog, is scarce in our condo. We also found Harry a nice dress shirt and and the cutest little white woven jacket for Eva Juliet. Tonight we went out for dinner wearing tasteful T-shirts I bought us late this afternoon with the words Oaxaca, Mexico on the front with interesting Indian designs. I asked Harry if he thought people would take us for tourists. Of course, he spilled food on his new shirt.

Tomorrow we plan to take a bus to the ancient ruins of the Zapotec city, Monte Alban, just outside the city. Details to come....

Fire and Bleach

In my experience, Mexico is a country of intense surprise. Good surprises and bad surprises flow like unpurified water. It could be my culture shock kicking back in again, but I can't help but think it is something deeper. Mexicans expect life to deliver both horror and beauty and they are not surprised when it does exactly that. Maybe it started with Cortes riding that horse into Mexico City. He looked like a god and the people were not surprised their god had come. Then the horror began.

The culture of Mexico has been woven from a fabric of intense cruelty and unimaginable beauty. The Spanish and the Catholic church perpetrated horrors on the native population here in Mexico for hundreds of years. Today the wealthy and those in power continue their tradition of callous cruelty but somehow, those without power or wealth, live life with a joy and appreciation for beauty that somehow transends reality, making life bearable. The Mexican fabric I was wearing this week was transformed in a surprising way.

Our friend Mary Ellen, Harry and I were grocery shopping together at Mega, the large Target-like store here in San Jose. I reached up high on a shelf for a bottle of bleach and to my dismay, found myself drenched in its contents. The bottle had no cap and my momentum splashed the contents all over my arm, my hands and my clothes. I watched as much of my black blouse immediately turned an ugly brown and my light colored pants turned lighter. Mary Ellen and Harry went to find a store employee to report this event. I suddenly found my self surrounded by the English-speaking Mexican workers who roam the isles helping tourists find peanut butter and attempting to sell you a local time-share. They all looked so sad for me, shaking their heads in disbelief, that I figured I would be compensated in some way. They all disappeared as quickly as they had appeared and I was suddenly standing alone in the soap and detergent aisle smelling terrible and looking ridiculous.

I got mad and wanted to get even. I am an American! I had not brought down many clothes that were appropriate for this hot humid weather. I needed the outfit I was wearing. I got fired up and chased after one of the bi-lingual employees. He took me to a manager who, after much debate and argument, told me I could have a blouse from the store, but not an expensive blouse. Finding a blouse is not easy for me here in Mexico: shoes I can find easily; blouses, no. Mexican women have small feet like mine, but not generally my bust size. A woman employee in the clothing department began diligently bringing me very ugly "sale" blouses and after a few tries, I thanked her and fumed off. Just another arrogant American shopper.

Mary Ellen, expat of 20 years here, told me I needed to just let it go, though she went to the store manager too and told him in the states or in Canada this would have been handled differently. I had told the manager what it would cost to replace the outfit but he smiled and pointed out I was not physically hurt. This sort of thing happens all the time in the store he said. Why was I so surprised? You are now wearing a different colored outfit! What's the big deal? "Ni modo!"

I took Mary Ellen's advice and thought, in my American way, there is a bright side to this! I now can rationalize going shopping for clothes! I went into town to the clothing store where I had bought my now bleached outfit and bought a new shirt and pants (OK, I bought two new shirts and two new pairs of pants: there was a sale going on). I was traumatized after all! Well, the surprises just kept coming! I learned I now could wear clothes from the shop that were two sizes smaller than what I had been buying when I lived here.

The last surprise of the day came after we had eaten dinner at our favorite beach-side restaurant that night. We were just about to leave and suddenly a group of two young women and two young men came dancing across the beach with torches ablaze, fired up, but in a positive way. The ocean waves crashed behind them in the darkness as they entertained us for several amazingly beautiful minutes.

SURPRISE!!!

From Times Square to Cabo

I love Times Square. Over the past ten years that I have gone to New York to visit Alexis, I have gone to Times Square on nearly every trip, even though Alexis hates Times Square. She was gracious enough, however, to take a slight detour through Times Square on our way back from New Jersey to her upper east side apartment over the Labor Day weekend. She knew her mother would so enjoy all the lights and the millions of people trying not to trample each other flat. (Plus, all three of us needed a little fresh -- well, sort of fresh -- air after the nightmare bus ride of a lifetime we took back into the city.) Harry is not so keen on Times Square either, and the two of them tried their best to keep me moving along as I kept stopping and twirling around in place. It is so different every time you go. Scores of lighted billboards stretching up into the sky, changing as you blink your eyes. It's like no place on earth, .... for me anyway.

New York did get the best of me this trip however. I got really tired racing around at my usual clip. I guess I am getting old (who knew?). I now think New York is a city for the young, like my daughter who can leap onto buses and bound up subway stairs and speed-walk down the street. Or, New York is a great city for the very rich who can order take-out, eat out and take cabs whenever they wish. Rich, poor, young, old, it remains the city that never sleeps and I did a lot of sleeping when I got home to my boring but beloved city of Minneapolis.

Next week, we are headed back to Mexico, where the pace will be more tranquil than in New York. Nature, not the bright lights, will be the wow factor. The Baja peninsula is geographically amazing, mountains, desert, ocean all in such close proximity. We had planned to drive our little blue Subaru up this amazing peninsula last July after our two years in Mexico, but, with Harry's accident, we and our plans were tossed like waves into the beautiful Sea of Cortes. We bobbed up, still afloat, and flew home. Sirius, as Harry calls our Subaru ("the brightest car on the roads"), remains waiting for us in San Jose. Our friend Mel has had all his scratches and dents removed so he will look like new again. Life was tough for Sirius in Mexico: like Harry, he took some hard knocks. We leave here Sept. 25th, and are very excited to see again all the wonderful people who became our friends in Cabo. Mexico truly became like home for us because of all the people we got to know and love there.

Once in San Jose, we will spend a week and then fly to the mainland for a five day trip to Oaxaca, the largest city in the southern part of Mexico, not too far from the Guatemalan border. Our native Mexican friends encouraged us to see this unique city with its wonderful foods, arts and crafts, and history. We had planned to take the trip in early April over spring break on the school calendar, but we came home late March so Harry could have a second surgery. My plan in Oaxaca is to find a dress for my granddaughter, eat lots of their famous mole, see the ruins of Monte Alban, put on weight, and buy some art for the condo. Just where I will put another piece of something "arty" is the question. Those who have been to our condo know it is chock full of tchatchkis and pictures which I have bought on our travels the last ten years. Clutter sure doesn't bother me!

We will begin our 3,500-mile drive back to Minnesota sometime in October. Harry has been diligently mapping the trip using Triple A maps and guides. Driving up the Baja alone is one thousand miles. We now think we will sight-see our way to the Grand Canyon, Sedona, Santa Fe, and Mesa Verde. Harry loves the Grand Canyon and I have never seen it. (These foreigners sure do travel nowadays.) I have had a love affair with Georgia O'Keeffe for most of my life and I want to go to her home and museum in Santa Fe. I have saved the last remaining piece of bare wall space in the condo, over the bathtub, for a Georgia print.

After these stops we will head to St. Louis to stay a few days with our kids, Ivan and Joanna and grandchild, Eva Juliet. Our family eagerly awaits a new member due in March. Then we will be on the road back to the cold and snowy tundra. I plan to take my computer and camera and will blah-blah-blog about the adventures as they happen ... the ones planned and the ones not so planned. Stay tuned..............

Postscript:

My Spin instructor today at LAFitness, who is about my age and thus very wise, told us she begins all her spinning classes with a quotation for the day. Today's quotation seemed to hit a meaningful note for me, sort of like what a good fortune cookie fortune can sometimes do for you after you finish eating too much Chinese take-out. Her words were:

If you don't change your direction, you will end up where you were going.

We are changing direction again in life and I have learned that when you do that, you can never be sure where the road will lead. The road less traveled is always beckoning you to travel its way, without a map. I guess that is better than thinking you know exactly what you are doing and where you are going. I used to be like that. It doesn't work for me anymore. I hadn't planned on seeing Times Square on this trip to New York, but as we reached the subway station Monday night, I looked up and there it was. Lexi's eyes met mine, she smiled and said, "We can walk through Times Square if you want to, Mom."

Tea for three

Alexis took Harry and me to a darling little (25 seats max) English restaurant in Chelsea when we visited her in New York to celebrate her 30th birthday over Labor Day weekend. We had the waitress take our picture as we ate Shepherd's pie, salmon and cream cheese tea sandwiches and a salad with walnuts and Stilton. The food was quite divine, like being back in England. They even bring you your own china teapot when your order your tea, filled with boiling water (unlike the very fancy place where we had dinner that night), just like they do in "jolly old."

Alexis recently moved to the upper east side near the Hunter Graduate School of Social Work where she started classes in late August. She can walk to school and her internship at another CUNY university is nearby. Her new elevator-free apartment is only two floors up, unlike the six-floor walk-up she inhabited in Queens. We were grateful to La Fitness as we were not panting for breath when we reached her apartment door. Her cute new apartment is New York small, but has a new kitchen and bathroom. She is a block from a scenic part of the East River and a short bus ride to Central Park.

Living in New York is not for the faint of heart, and on this trip I felt a bit faint at times. The noise and pace of the city is intense. Even our noisy spot in St. Louis Park, with all the highway construction noise outside our windows, seems quiet compared to life in Manhattan. We went to the Museum of Natural History, and the MMA, and we spent a couple hours quietly reading in Central Park. We took a stroll through Times Square at night (my favorite!) and went back by day to a National Geographic King Tut Exhibition, which was fantastic. Our last lunch together, near Lexi's apartment, found us listening to workers drilling holes in the street as we ate Reuben sandwiches at our sidewalk table. I must say I have never had a better Reuben in my life nor have I eaten with so much noise going on, but after five days in New York we hardly noticed.

We took a series of subways and a bus to New Jersey on Sunday to meet Lexi's roommate Jana's family. We were running late, needing to catch the two o'clock bus to Clifton, New Jersey. We made the New Jersey bus, just barely. Harry and I were trucking along as fast as we could. I cannot believe how fast my daughter can walk! I flashed back to how she and her Dad used to speed-walk around Lake Harriet. Little did I know what great training this would eventually be for when she moved to New York. Jana cooked us a great meal on the grill and we got to meet her extended Slovakian family.

We had a great time in New York, but most importantly, it is very rewarding to see your kid pursuing her dreams.