May 5, 2024
Cinco De Mayo
We woke up in style, munching on orange glazed cinnamon rolls and sipping hot Nespresso coffees. Really, could a Sunday morning start off any better? After breakfast, we fed the dogs and sat down at the dining room table with our laptops, my wife studying, and me writing. As we worked, I monitored the weather. First, it was cloudy, then the sun popped out, only to be followed by more clouds. The weather report called for a chance of rain.
Needing a break, we grabbed our boots and headed out the front door to the western trailhead hidden in the tree line. This week, the Chinese Privets that surrounded the entrance were in full bloom, and their fragrant scent lingered around the front and back yards. When we ducked under the tiny white flowers to enter the trail, we saw that small white and purple flowers, fallen from the chinaberry trees, covered the entire forest floor. The place looked magical; romantic.
In the area sat a watermelon rind, completely hollowed out, as thin as an avocado skin. There were also empty corn husks, and the apples we had placed there were nowhere to be found. I pulled the SD card from the trail camera and we took it inside the house to watch the videos on my tablet.
The video showed several rabbits, all very wary, who took small bites out of the apples. One rabbit picked up an apple in its mouth and hopped away. During the day, there were squirrels who took the corn, pulling off the husks and silks with their miniature hands before munching on the juicy kernels. A pregnant deer visited during the day and night. While the doe was leery of any danger the food presented, once she sunk her teeth into the watermelon, she ate the entire thing, scraping it clean.
We studied the doe’s belly to see if we could see a fawn kick, but we only saw the deer’s deep respirations. On the last video, a black long-haired cat passed by the camera. We had seen this cat on the north side of the main road, so I was surprised to see it so far from its home. After we finished watching the videos, we got back to studying and writing.
Inevitably, after a long study session; we felt famished. For lunch, we drove into Wilson and picked up food from the drive through at Panera, a salad for my wife and a sandwich for me. We ate the food while our car was being washed, finishing up the meal while parked in one of the many empty spaces near the vacuums. It was raining lightly while were out, but about thirty minutes after we arrived home, the sky poured. The morning had been one big tease, offering hope for a sunny day spoiled by dark clouds and intermittent showers. Now, the rain was coming down, and I found it comforting.
After a couple of hours, the rain softened to a light drizzle, so I changed clothes, grabbed some earthworms, and drove to Buckhorn Reservoir to fish. The sky was still overcast, mostly filled with dark gray clouds, with an occasional patch of blue sky poking through. The weather was warm, and the wind was tolerable. Compared to winter, the fish were biting, but it still took five or ten minutes before a fish hit the hook. In late spring and all of summer, the fish would bite almost as soon as the bait hit the water.
Today was Cinco de Mayo, and as if by an act of fate or divine intervention, I heard music behind me on the lake’s edge. It was live music. At first I thought it was a marching band because of the snare and bass drums sounding, but when I turned around, I saw a large traditional Mexican band complete with drums, horns, guitars, and, of course, an accordion. The group had arrived on a large touring bus and they were there filming a music video near the water. It was all a little surreal. During a part of the filming, the band really amped up the energy, whistling and yelling out their gritos.
I had the sensation of falling through a portal and being transported back to my life spent in Cancun and Puerto Juarez. Hearing the festive music, seeing the men dressed in their white shirts and pants with red neckerchiefs, bandanas, and huarache shoes, along with the motions and sounds of the water; it all took me back to a quarter century ago.
I remembered sitting on a dock off the lagoon, listening to a similar band while heading off on a boat to fish for dorado and huachinango. After fishing, we’d pull our boats onto the dock and hand the fresh-caught fish to the chef and in twenty minutes, we’d have the best fish dishes I had ever eaten. There was ceviche, fish tacos, and salted fish dishes that I really loved. And the people of Mexico were tough and full of wickedly funny humor. What a rugged land and people. Recently, my wife asked me if I missed Mexico, and it was one of those things in life that I was happy that I did when I was young, and had little interest in as an adult. Working as a bodyguard was a risky business. The people there, how should I say it? They didn’t fuck around.
Amid all that was going on around me, a large family’s yelling pulled me away from my vivid past. There was a mother and father with four young children who were all fishing. Every time a kid was reeling in a fish, the whole family would yell, cheering on the fun. It sounded like they were rooting for their favorite Super Bowl team. It was loud and jovial. For as much as I went to fish at the reservoir in search of silence, I welcomed all the celebration, noise, and banter. Recently, an experience at Lake Wilson had reminded me that negative emotions were contagious, and today was a reminder that positive feelings also spread quickly. Catching two bass today was the least fun part of this afternoon’s fishing.
When I arrived home, my wife and I left to fill her SUV with gas, and when we got home, we went for a walk in the woods with Axel. My wife put me in charge of tearing down the spider webs along the trail after she walked face first into her third web. It was a very nice evening. Even though my wife was leaving for the week, something that made us both gloomy, we really took advantage of the time we had together this weekend. We sat outside talking about life after school, and I recounted stories of practicing martial arts in Japan, telling my wife about the time I trained in Noma Dojo, which was Tokyo’s oldest school.
Tomorrow, we would separate for a week, and although we had done this many times over the past twenty months, it was still difficult. In fact, I think it was getting harder. The closer we grew, the more averse we were to being away from each other. The weekend had officially ended.