MSN photo

so little
so much
laces hearts
with love

verse copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series

Less than a dollar

On a bus tour of Mexico City, Mexico, our driver stopped at a curbside flower stand. Papa got up and got off.  He returned handing me a single long-stemmed red rose. I felt loved, cherished. Its scent floated through the bus stimulating women’s desires. What followed was a study in relationships. Men who understood they could have the world by the tail for the small price of a rose got right up and bought one. Their women were delighted. Some men were elbowed to buy one, and did. A few women bought their own when their man wouldn't budge. Across the aisle a woman elbowed, begged, and offered her own money, but he still refused. They didn’t speak to each other the rest of the bus tour. Cost of the rose, less than a dollar. Feeling cherished, priceless.

Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series

Tummy Treasure

MSN photo

Papaya: tummy treasure. Imported we've seen them the size of a pear, and didn't buy any. Once in a while we find one that weighs a couple of pounds. The flavor is passable. In Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, Mom, Dad, LBJ and I bought one that weighed 17 pounds. With ceremony we sliced into the two-inch flesh revealing a handful of black seeds in the womb-like space. We feasted on its smooth, soothing-to-the-tummy goodness for several days. Foods taste better close to their source.

Verse copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series

Shades of Blue

We've seen Minnesota lakes turned into cities with ice houses, snowmobiles, pickup trucks, and plowed roads with street signs. We didn't fish there, but we walked out on a small frozen lake to ice fish inside an ice house. Heavy clothes were in order, but we were out of the cold wind with the freedom to move around, drink coffee, eat sandwiches, play cards, and at the same time catch crappie, walleye and northern. Sweet.

At daylight, the day after Christmas, we piled into our friend's pickup truck to ice fish on Minnesota's Saint Croix River. Just the thought was spooky. Moving water. A river. My heart pounded. I held my breath. He didn't seem afraid, he'd grown up on it. I gripped my coat collar and shut my eyes when he drove onto the ice without hesitation. Clunk, clunk, clunk made me open them. Was he driving over planks? "No, it's the ice," he said.

Several blocks from shore he stopped and cut the engine. All alone, what ifs raced through my head. "Come on, get out," he urged stepping onto the ice. "It's okay." Not convinced, I stepped softly holding my breath, as if that would make me lighter. Ice scrunched under my boots. Nose-nipping cold greeted my face. The ice supported the truck and us without effort.

Exhaling, I looked around and discovered one of the most beautiful mornings I've ever seen: a still, silent, sacred secret of heavy cloud cover that created a world of everything awash in shades of pale blue to slate. Stunning. I wanted to walk away, look back, and see what shade of blue the truck and our friend were, but I didn't. Stay close I thought and speculate.

While I gaped, our friend drilled a hole a foot and a half deep in the ice. Thirty-eight feet of water moved beneath. The occasional crack of the ice, like a shot, made my tummy flip, but nothing disturbed the blues. Fishing brought up a few small ones we returned to the river. It didn't matter, there'd be more fishing trips, but I might not ever again see the blues.

Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series