Point South Mexico - Real Estate and Lifestyle Magazine

When I first met Dolly I was eighteen years old and just out of high school. She was twenty-two. The year was l944 with WW II still raging. Dolly and I worked in a war plant making struts for fighter planes.

I was a gofer in a large machine shop, while Dolly was a machinist to whom I made occasional deliveries. A good-looking woman, I found myself attracted to her. On one of my deliveries, she unexpectedly asked, "How old are you?" Startled, I found myself groping for words and responded hesitantly, "Eighteen."

I had waited about a year after my dad, Sam's, death to go back to the Roanoke Inn. In his last year or two of life, it had become his favorite watering hole, as he would refer to it. My wife, Linda, a flight attendant with TWA and later American Airlines, was usually out of town two or three nights a week during that time. Knowing that, Dad would nearly always call on Tuesday nights to invite me to join him on Wednesday to down a few together. The Inn had seen far better days, for certain, and the restrooms, in particular, were clearly fit for cave dwellers alone. There most definitely could be no "rest" at all taken in those rooms. A hasty exit was always in order.

Will my problem be solved or must I extract myself from my Ajijic paradise to remedy this evil threat to limb and life?

Wednesday, just over a week ago my elbow struck the cement wall as I rounded the corner at Zaragoza and Colon. Small shooting funny bone pain caused me to drop the empty suitcase. A quick rub, grasp of the handle, I was briskly on my way.

One evening sitting on our veranda, a cold Margarita in hand, and totally in awe of our surroundings, and loving life, our world suddenly jarred with loud, distinctive whamp, whamp noises. My significant other and I looked at each other, bewildered. The noises were very close...in fact, right in front of our house. We listened for a bit longer, and Bill, being the investigative half of our domicile, got up out of his chair.

‘Twas Noche Buena, Christmas Eve. Our new casa in the Mexican mountains was peaceful, the only stirring being sparks crackling through mesquite logs in the fireplace, spilling out onto the hearth. New neighbors and friends, who had joined us for holiday remembrances and cheer, had gone home earlier, disappearing into cars covered in midnight shadows. A full moon skipped through cotton-ball puffs of cloud overhead. In spite of my relative sobriety, my wife Linda's sofa-induced nap and the silence of the night compelled a winding walk skyward up to our mirador. My late-night climb alone was measured, designed to cap yet another wonderful introduction to our Mexican experience. We were newcomers to the country and our first Navidad in Ajijic was going to be special. Somehow we both knew it.