A Kino Bay Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving week in Mexico, a tad dissimilar to the Minnesota experience. No frozen nostril hairs and no noisy grandkids. Saw'em via Skype, though, and they blew us wet kisses. I swear I could almost feel the spit.

Mexico Thanksgiving week started with very low tides and great clamming, and ended with a huge feast at the RV park with 29 friends and neighbors. Everything was delicious, and the gravy was as good as Terry's. I made Freeda's cranberry salad, always a hit.

I also cooked at home, ensuring leftovers which you don't get when you eat elsewhere: turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, and gravy (which was NOT as good as Terry's...) And we've eaten nothing but ever since.

Yesterday I hauled out the Christmas decorations. Yes, I'm an atheist, but have always been willing to capitalize on the finer perks of religion. (I also enjoy Easter candy.)

Having lived with our crowded casita since installing the bed, I got Ron to help me rearrange the furniture prior to decorating. Now there's room to dance!

Guest seating!

Putting the TV up on that armoire thing necessitated finding a new place for my Christmas tree. Since I only used that table to store casserole dishes on anyway, I put them up above the kitchen cupboards.

I gave the kids most of the ornaments and lights, but kept a few faves to make extra-sure I get teary every holiday season from missing family and friends. The big mercury glass ones are on a lit garland over the window.

Hula Frog



Cone Cat

Society Lady Cat

Eeyore in the center, and I kept my Seri Indian carvings and basket in the window. Yes, the snake and bull are wearing tiny wool scarves. It's winter...

The small tree requires small ornaments, and each of these is so special to me.

My late brother and father, grandkids, and a seashell angel I made.

Fish vertebrae and crab claw wreaths, and Les Kouba bobber.

Bell given to me by my son Jon at age 5, Navajo horsehair ornament, saucer-sledding polar bears, and my pets in their holiday finery.

The room divider screens off the bed somewhat, and is also handy to hang stuff on. The TV can now swivel for viewing in bed. Neighbor Jaq gave me that wire scorpion, which he received in payment for work he did for a local. The Santa Candles are from Goodwill.

Last photo, promise: My Desk, the coffee table. The computer's displaying one of our 2012 Calendar Hunks, on sale at the park next week...

So aside from desperately missing my family and friends back home, we're plugging along and trying to avoid bedsores. My friends arrived last week, and we've been enjoying the beach and catching up. Ron's being kept busy (due to Maurice's negligent delay in arriving here) trying to fix internet connections for our friends. One night we experienced a local caretaker/laborer chasing and shooting at a bandito throughout the neighborhood. This next week will include a girls' day out in the city, another one in the segundas, and then we go to Tucson for a doctor appointment. Busybusybusy.

Hardly any Jammies Days lately. But we sure enjoy doing this! (I lied, one more photo)

Photo courtesy Jan Knickelbein

Wedded Bliss...

When I met Ron in 1980, I'd been separated from my husband of 7 years for only 2 weeks. Ron was like nobody I'd ever known before. He was a Marine Corps combat veteran. Tankers. Three tours in Viet Nam, including the Khe Sanh siege.

Normal daily bullshit would never again even faze him. He worked day labor jobs. He'd been married twice before, and had 5 daughters (two adopted, three biological, and two of those were only 6 months apart!) He was a San Diego native, and I'd never ever even seen California. He lived across the street from my new apartment-in-a-gay-neighborhood in downtown Minneapolis, and I assumed he was gay. But he wasn't. Isn't. And he was easy on the eyes.

Plus he loved my toddler son, Jon.

So we cohabited until my divorce was final, then we got married and moved to California. My ex, also a California native, was supposed to follow us out there (he's a great dad to our son) but he had a near-fatal motorcycle accident and was delayed a few years.

In the meantime, Ron's three daughters from wife #2 (Judy, a saint) spent some summers with us, became and remain very dear to me, have produced 5 most-remarkable grandchildren, and I love them like they're mine.

Lissandra, Juliana, and Caprice

My son Jon, single dad.

But they're not, and I'm so grateful they have Judy as ballast. Because Ron and I weren't ballast. We were happy drunks.

In time, we decided the drinking might be problematic, so we quit, for 16 years. Those 16 years allowed us to build a bit, amassing a fairly happy, extended-family unit and setting us up for an early retirement (mostly courtesy of the VA, who finally agreed Ron was worthy of compensation for his service).

And here we are, Mexico. We have a delightfully quirky little homestead here, in a perfect climate, and at 58.9 and 64.999 years old, respectively. None of our children has managed to visit us yet, but I think they will, in time, because this life is SO great. Plus it's all there is to inherit...

Our Mexico neighbors and friends are every bit as quirky as we are, some a tad more so. We only see the grandkids once a year, not nearly often enough. But with Skype, we still "see" them. Just can't touch them. I rationalize that they're better off without our influence/interference/meddling, and suspect nothing could be truer. They are all thoroughbreds, and I have zero doubt that each one will be happy, fulfilled, and will go on to found dynasties. Despite us!

Max, Linny, and Bryan

Ruby and Eli

Dylan

Nora

Nora and Dylan may have some genetic challenges to surmount, time will tell... Just kidding. Thoroughbreds. But these are their grandfathers:

Grampa Rene'

Grampa Brian

Ron's turning 65 on Thursday. We'll be married 30 years on Valentine's Day. Nobody I know (including us) thought it would last a year: we're so very different. He still makes me laugh every day, often just outta-nowhere slapstick stuff. One day I answered the phone, and a man asked for Ron. Sounded like a bill collector, who Ron insists he can't talk to on the phone because he gets too angry. I told the man that Ron couldn't speak very well since his stroke (he DID have a stroke, that part was true, but his speech had long recovered) This guy wasn't able to talk to me without having Ron's permission. I handed the phone to Ron, said "Just tell him he can talk to me." He screwed up his face and shouted garbled-ly "EHWHSSH? HEH! MMEH WIIIF!!! EERISH!! Then handed the phone back to me. I was absolutely liquid, quivering, shaking with laughter, tears pooling on my neck. I was eventually able to whisper into the phone "That was permission."