The Past Recedes

      It’s about six years that I’ve lived in Mexico, my third country of residence. To be sure, it’s very likely to be the shortest. Moreover, I am retired here and pretty removed from the hurly-burly of this capital city. My main people are my daughter, Ellie (whose main job is that of principal clarinet with the Sinfonica Nacional), Miguel, her husband (who is much in Queretaro where he is principal oboe in the orchestra) and their friends, quite a few of whom speak English. Max and Eva, the two grandchildren have been mostly away, with the former just graduated from RISD (and soon off for a job in the States); while Eva is very busy in her second year in the School of the Art Institute in Chicago. I see Max and Eva when they are home on vacation. Finally, there is Antonia, the young and very competent household assistant (for want of a better word) with whom I do not share a language.

   Now you know the people I’m with on a day to day basis, a most harmonious group. I’ve never been much of a phone person, so I add little traffic to that contraption. The main and only regular phone partner is my son Mark in Los Angeles.

   You have just gotten a picture of the people who make up my world, appropriately reduced commensurate to my age. What happens when I make an attempt to broaden this circle of contacts with acquaintances? Basically nothing: nada, niente, rien, garnichts.

   Granted my attempts were neither inventive nor vigorous. Emails sent off to past acquaintances were mostly not answered, though there were exceptions. I blame no one, since I have hardly been Mister Gregarious in my life  and now harvest what I have sown. I can’t say that if I could roll it over again, I’d want to change much of anything. Not having regrets about the past is a better sleeping potion than any drug.