The in-between time

CHRISTMAS, FESTIVUS and Kwanzaa are all behind us, and we’re careening toward the New Year. It’s an appropriate time for memories.

I went to the photo album, found these shots and, being a sharing sort of fellow, I’m putting them here for you … and me.


This is the house I grew up in, the Arlington area of Jacksonville, Florida. The house looked far better back then. This photo was taken by my daughter about five years ago. There was no sidewalk in my time, and the yard was well-tended by my father. There was a mimosa tree to the left. There were flowers everywhere.

The house was painted aquamarine.

My parents purchased this place brand new in 1952. I lived there from the Third Grade until I graduated from high school. The window on the left was my parents’ bedroom. The one in the middle was my bedroom. My sister’s room was in the rear. Due to my father’s drinking, this place does not hold fond memories for me.


This small apartment is in a high-rise called the Houston House or, as it was known locally, the Heartbreak Hotel due to the number of divorced guys in residence. It was where I moved when my last wife decided to take up with an illegal alien yard boy half her age in 1995. Like the home above, it too holds no fond memories.

But it had a spectacular view. I was on the 22nd floor.


I’m including this shot just for the heck of it. It was taken in rural Texas, as the time stamp clearly indicates, on July 30, 1994. That was about a year before my second wife developed goo-goo eyes for the yard boy.

That’s me on the right, and we’re about to take off in an ultralight. I already had a private pilot’s license, but I didn’t know how to fly ultralights. The guy on the left was the pilot. I never got around to learning ultralights. Life intervened, and not in a good way.


The photo shows a happy time, my Mexican wedding in 2002. Well, for the two on the left, me and my child bride. I was 57 at the time, and she was 41. The not-so-happy folks are the other two, my wife’s sister who spent the evening glowering with jealousy. Yes, that’s a double-dip ice cream cone over her head. Irony.

The guy at the right was her husband. Long-time readers here may remember him as The Eggman. They later split up, and a couple of years after, in a cry for sympathy, he shot himself with a .22-caliber pistol. He did not intend for it to be fatal, but it was. He now lies beneath the floor of the Basilica here on the mountaintop.

Forevermore. Like the Raven.

10 thoughts on “The in-between time

  1. Memories. Hold even the unpleasant ones for future use. We all have our allotment of those, some self-induced, others not so much. If you’ve got them, you’re doing better than many who have none. Saludos, señor.


  2. I have had a sister, brother and son all marry someone 15/16 years younger or older than themselves. Some have worked out well, others have not. My sister mentioned once that she tired of her younger husband wanting her to go play basketball with him. Ha, ha. He is long gone. Your choice has worked out well.

    I have stayed with my first choice, 52 years. We are only 18 months apart in age. No alcohol involved. I think that makes some difference. That and separate bathrooms.


    1. Beverly: It’s an interesting, complicated issue, this significant age difference. I had a lady love in Houston after my second divorce. She was 20 years my junior. The age difference was a source of continual nuttiness and worry on her part, and it eventually did us in. Well, that and that her nuttiness was rampant in other areas of her life. In Mexico, this age gap is not so unusual.

      Large age differences work far better when the man is the older one, not the other way around. And that is a stone-cold fact.

      The primary worry is that I almost certainly will die far sooner than she will, gifting her with a long widowhood. So, it ain’t a perfect set-up for her in that respect.


  3. Thanks for sharing. Sorry you had to go through some unpleasant experiences, but you stayed strong and came out the other side smelling like roses. You’ve done well. The medal’s in the mail. Happy New Years.


    1. Brent: Everyone goes through unpleasant experiences, and the longer you live, the more they can add up. Mine, however, quit adding up when I was 55. Long time ago. ¡Qué bueno!

      And compared to the world at large, mine have been relatively trivial, and for that I am very appreciative. And I do smell like roses, don’t I?

      I await the medal in the mail, and a wonderful 2018 is awaiting you, I pray.


  4. Can’t help comparing your old house to your new one (which I admire greatly). You’ve come a long way, my friend.


    1. Thanks, Creigh. Yes, the Florida house would almost fit into our current living room. Our Mexico City apartment would fit easily into our current living room, literally. Yes, I’ve come a long way in numerous respects. As for our Hacienda, there’s no way in the world I could have afforded such a stupendous abode above the Rio Bravo. The Hacienda only set us back about $100,000 U.S. 15 years ago, and I only paid half of that. My generous mother paid the other half. It would cost a good bit more now, but still. The ranch house I owned in Houston, and where my second ex-wife still lives, was appraised at over $200,000 the last time I checked about eight years ago. It’s probably only about 35 percent larger than the Florida home where I grew up.

      Life moves on, they say.


  5. Wow! How did the Eggman score an interment under the floor of the Basilica? I thought those spaces were reserved for the famous most holy of holys.


    1. Carole: I don’t know exactly how the Eggman ended up down there because I don’t know the requirements or procedure. I suspect he’s down there because his family is a prominent one here that goes back probably centuries. He was something of a black sheep, but one must keep up family appearances. And, of course, money was surely slipped into the paw of a church representative. You can be sure of that part.


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