Death and Distance

It’s about five in the morning Montana time. The sun is out though not yet shining as brightly as I hope it will the rest of the day. I am in bed. I hear the familiar, rhythmic buzz of my phone. A call is coming in. Someone back home on the East Coast. Someone who doesn’t know where I am. Not that it matters. I’ll only be here a week. I hope I keep my sleep pattern just as it is until I return.

It is a family friend calling. My uncle in Cuba passed away in the night. My mother’s brother. My mom is still sleeping. That’s good. She needs her rest with all she’s been through. The friend asks if she should wake mom and tell her the news or would I like to tell her. I think this kind of news should be delivered in person whenever possible.

I sent a message to my cousin in Cuba, offering her my condolences for the death of her father. She called me a few minutes later. We chat and I again offer my sympathies. My wife is awake now and I tell her what has happened while we were sleeping. The family friend calls a few minutes later to let me know she has spoken with my mom. I call her and she is, understandably, upset. I tell her to stay calm and to not drive or stress herself out. She tells me that if the initial shock didn’t kill her, none of this will. Her little brother is dead. She has to tell her big sister, my aunt.

The news of my uncle’s death passed from Cuba to Hialeah, Florida, to West Yellowstone, Montana, back to Hialeah, to my mother, who was right next to the family friend who called me with the news in the first place. In the meantime, I spoke to my cousin, who is about two thousand miles away but only about three hundred miles away from my mother, who will eventually call her sister who is about ten miles away in Pembroke Pines, Florida.

Because my uncle died in Cuba, we will not be able to attend his funeral. We will not get together and share memories and laugh and cry the way one does to cope with the loss. We will talk or text. We may receive pictures but we will not hear the music or the sobs. Our shoulders will remain dry as we will not be able to offer them to comfort a relative. We will each grieve our own grief and cry our own tears. Our pain will be more personal. The loss will not be shared, but divided. Each of us will carry our own piece of it.

Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published ten books, which you can find here.

Something About A Horse

If you’ve never ridden a horse, you probably should try it. The younger you are, the better. It’s hard on the knees and the hips. It’s also tough to know that your life is in the hands of an animal that can throw you off and trample you in a heartbeat. If it was so inclined.

As I write this, I can feel the pain in my knees subsiding. I spent three hours on a horse this morning. I am in Montana, one of my favorite and least favorite places in the world. I love it here because it is beautiful and it’s where my daughter lives. I hate it here because the beauty and nature of the place makes me forget that guys with knees as bad as mine probably shouldn’t ride horses up in the mountains for three hours.

Not that I won’t do it again. I will do it until the pain gets to be too much or until the wranglers sit me down and tell me that this particular horse has gone to pasture. I did not grow up around horses. I went on my first horse ride two years ago. I am not sure if I’ll be back. 

But you should definitely give it a try. It’s fun and it’s a nice, relaxing way to give up control for a while. It’s nice to be a passenger and not a driver. I am not speaking for experienced horsemen and women when I say this, but you are never really in control when riding a horse. You are driving in the rain at night in  a car with bald tires. You might get through it in one piece but no one would be shocked if you come home with a busted collarbone. You can kick the horse to make it move. You can pull the reins to stop it or pull them left or right to steer the horse. But these are just suggestions. If the horse doesn’t want to cooperate, it won’t. I don’t know about you, but I don’t kick that hard.

Of course, if you do get through it, if you are able to relax enough to enjoy being a passenger, if you are able to live in that particular moment, listen to the birds, admire the trees and feel the breeze in your face, you might come away with a different perspective. You might find something you didn’t know you were looking for.

 

Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published ten books, which you can find here.

The People In My Neighborhood

    I've lived in the same house for nearly 19 years. My daughters both took their first steps in this house and although the elder child did live in a different place before we moved here, it was for the first nine months of her life so she doesn't remember a minute of it. This is their home. It always has been, and in many ways it always will be.

    I rode my bike to the grocery store this morning to pick up a baguette and some coffee creamer. I live in south Florida so you can guess which grocery store I went to. There are two kinds of people in Florida: those who shop at Publix, and those who just moved here from somewhere horrible. They'll come around on the grocery thing, maybe, but they'll keep voting like assholes.

    I swung by the bakery to pick up a baguette because that's as European as I get. (Baguette on a bicycle? How Parisian!) I ran into a lady who has worked at this store for fifteen years. She knows us by name and asks about my wife and my daughters. I hadn't seen her for quite some time and she was surprised to know my daughter is away at college. We chatted a little more and she mentioned how she's known my daughter since she was a toddler and my younger daughter since she was still a bun in the oven. 

    The bond my family shares with this lady is real. There is more than the usual hi and bye, these are the people in your neighborhood thing. There is genuine warmth and caring there. That makes my neighborhood special to me.

    My neighbors across the street are closer, more personal friends. We go out together, we drink together, we hang out in the median that divides our street together. If they were to move away, I would miss them dearly. You can't really choose your neighbors anymore than you can choose your family, so they are a winning lottery ticket. The neighbors on either side of my house are another story. I'll save that for another day.

    The truth is that all these people make up my neighborhood. There are many others, some of which I like, others I don't care for, and some I downright hate. I'm sure I'm on each of those lists for other people, too. A neighborhood is a microcosm of the world, much the way a workplace or classroom or line at the grocery store is. There are over 7 billion people in the world. No way we're all going to like one another.

    Still, just because we don't all love each other, doesn't mean we need to hate each other. Although, it is your absolute right to hate people for any reason you see fit. You can hate people because of their race, their orientation, their religion, the way they dress, or any other reason. In fact, I will defend your right to be prejudiced against people. Because I'm smart enough to know that your feelings about people mean absolutely nothing. As long as you are never aggressive or violent, your hate is your problem. Drink up and choke on it enjoy! I choose to live and let live and to love as many people as I can. 

    Love is my default position. When I meet a person, I do so expecting to love that person. Sometimes I never see them again. Other times, they are part of my life for a season or for many years. I don't like everyone, though. In fact, I can honestly say there are more people I love than people I like.

    Have I digressed? Apologies.

    The people in my neighborhood, good or bad, make my neighborhood a place I enjoy living. Just like I tell my wife that the man she loves (me, I hope!) is who he is because of the good, bad, and ugly things he went through before he was lucky enough to find her.

Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published ten books, which you can find here.

2 Flights in 22 Years

 The first time I traveled on business, and possibly the first time I flew by myself, was in 1999. I was twenty-eight years old. Now, as I am somewhere above the Rocky Mountains with my wife and daughters, I have to reflect on how much has changed. I remember that first business trip. I flew American from Miami to Dallas on a mostly empty plane. I had a row of seats to myself. I was given a meal. I was even offered seconds. Ditto the return flight. Now, this plane is packed, barely room for a thought. The first leg was Miami to Dallas and now we’re on our way to Bozeman, Montana for a vacation. Our third consecutive year of flying out here and spending a week at a ranch in West Yellowstone. We’ll ride horses, make smores, go whitewater rafting and eat a surprisingly good slice of pizza.

I am, as I write this, sick to my stomach. I had a 7-11 breakfast in Dallas and cookies and a Coke on the flight. We’re three hours or so behind schedule because Texans seem to be afraid of rain. I live in South Florida. Rain is something that’s just… there.

This is not just a fat guy whining because he didn’t get a meal on the flight. I feel bad for the crew. I hope they brown-bagged it today. It’s just that as I evaluate my current situation 26,000 feet above the earth, I can’t help feeling sad. We’ve lost so much.

I remember being on flights, next to complete strangers, and striking up conversations that lasted from wheels up to touchdown. Now, in-flight entertainment, cellphones and tablets have done away with conversations besides that awkward look that says, “Excuse me, I have to go pee. Get up and let me pass.”

It’s not different from all aspects of life, really. Think back to the last time you were in a doctor’s office. Were there magazines to read? Did you chit chat with others who were waiting? Or, did you just stare at your phone? The more connected we are, the more disconnected we are.This is not an original thought and I don’t mean to try passing it off as one. It just seems worth discussing.

There is a certain irony in the disconnected connection we experience now. We’re able to instantly access news, updates, stock quotes, hotel prices, a ride to the airport or pictures of people far away, some we may know, others we may not know. We gawk at celebrities and gush over kittens while ignoring people with whom we are literally rubbing elbows. I don’t know if it’s right or wrong, but it’s weird. 

Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published ten books, which you can find here.