PART I

My patio faces east. In the early afternoon the sun has embarked on its ancient descent toward the west and I relax on my lawn chair in the shade. I breathe deeply. My lungs are clear. Coronavirus has me contemplating life from a variety of angles.

I am led to believe that those who suffer death from the disease slowly suffocate. That doesn't sound like a pleasant exit to me. As a result of this grim reality, I have quit smoking dope. I don't want to weaken my lungs any more than 55 years of puffing on joints has wreaked on them.

I have been retired for three years from the BISD after ex-Superintendent Dr. Esperanza Zendejas threatened to fire me if I kept writing. I chose to keep writing. That's is what I do. It is my spiritual calling. I had contributed 39 proud years to the school district and I was virtually working for free. Retirement was a logical option. I don't miss the job, but I do miss my students, athletes and colleagues.

I liken my present existence to floating down a lazy Hill Country river in an intertube. Little did I know until recently that there might be rapids in the near distance with a waterfall dropping precipitously into a rocky gorge possibly waiting for me around the next bend.

I am not panicking, but there is a small paranoia, maybe the size of a Chihuahua, nipping at my heels. At 69 I am at the most risk of dying although the growing number of Coronavirus cases in Cameron County are claiming much younger individuals. I have no fear of death, but I am not ready to have my ashes tossed into the Rio Grande from the New Bridge.

With the exception of not wining and dining at local restaurants and bars as well as hitting the weights at Gold's, my life has changed little. I read, I write, I exercise (I am the creator of Yankee Yoga, which includes an hour workout consisting of push-ups, sit-ups and stretching on a thickly cushioned mat while watching the latest Narco movies and shows on Netflix.), I walk and I'm eating and drinking well at home.

After seven years of a solitary existence, I have reconciled with my ex-wife. Based on the stark reality we are enduring, it was a fortuitous reunion. I am residing under the same roof with my 15-year-old son, my step-son and two dogs. It is a full house, but I am comfortably adapting. This is the hand that I have been dealt and it's a good hand. With life nothing short of a gamble, I am confident that I am holding the right cards.

I no longer keep track of the days. I just check the date. The last few days didn't seem like a weekend and today doesn't have the feel of a Sunday. Being a Catholic, Sundays were very much a part of my childhood. We would go to mass as a family. After church we would return home and my dad, now several springs dead after a glorious 87 years, would prepare pancakes, one of many traditions that my parents imparted to their children.

Claudia and I watched television into the early morning hours last night and I didn't rise until ten. The boys sleep into the late afternoon. They play video games until dawn. My two big boys from my second marriage are on their own, but they never part from my heart.

I rose at my regular time. I popped two pills for minor health threats and commenced preparing breakfast while I listened to famous waltzes. I enjoy waltzes because they inspire movement, but they are also tranquilizing.

Besides pancakes, which I prepare well by adhering to my father's recipe, I make French toast, which I learned from him. These meals don't require tremendous talents, but their simplicity shouldn't belie the fact that they call for a particular touch, a gringo's touch. We honkies do have our own cuisine. Claudia slowly dragged herself out of bed and we ate breakfast together, hot coffee and fresh strawberries accompanying our plates.

In these sad times of Trump and Coronavirus, Claudia and I are sharing a happy relationship. If I should suddenly die and somebody were to ask her about my last days, she might reply, "They may have been our most joyous moments together."