Maine to Mexico

Sitting on a screened porch in a red rocker overlooking a pristine lake carved out by glaciers eons ago, I think about life when we retire. This is a dream and each year brings us closer. The lake is two feet from the porch. The cabin, a traditional heart of pine Maine camp, is about 400 square feet in size. (We each came with one small suitcase and I am not missing anything.). Just off shore a fledging loon stays close to mother waiting for the day they will fly south — when wings fully develop and before the bitter cold envelops them.

Much like me as I intend to live my future between Maine and Mexico. Staying up here until past the Fryeburg Fair when we need layers of wool blankets at night and layers of wool clothing by day — the season when wool no longer itches. It will be almost November then. Time to go to Mexico for Day of the Dead, then through Semana Santa.

Maine is a juxtaposition to Mexico. It is liquid here. Richly green. Almost monochromatic. Quiet. Only the cry of the loons and an occasional paddler going by. Time for reading, reflection, noting the passage of minutes and hours, the shifting chill of September.

Shifting to the richness of vibrant, pulsating Oaxaca colors, celebrations, family gatherings, the singing of grinding car and bus gears as they flood the city streets and village roads. Mothers calling to children, between haggling for a better price of corn at the daily market, the constant cacophony of braying donkeys and cackling guacalotes (indigenous turkeys).

We spotted a flock of wild turkey here grazing in an open field. They were stealth, moving as one unit until they disappeared into the birch and hemlock forest at the edge of the field.

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