Sunsets and sopapillas

As I mentioned in a previous post, Wednesday was my birthday. We had huevos rancheros and, as usual, when Leah told them it was my birthday, they brought out a birthday sopapilla.

sopapilla

It was rather large, although that’s hard to tell from the photo. Leah had just a little taste, so I had to eat the rest of it. Poor me.

Later on Wednesday evening as we drove home down Huffaker Road, nature gave us another sunset. As usual, we could see it only in little patches. This was the best shot I could get.

sunset19may16

The colored clouds stretched halfway around the horizon, but we couldn’t see all of it at once at any one place.

If we look off to the east from our new house, we can see Mount Alto, from which, if you look to the west, you can see Lavender Mountain and our house. And also the sunset. I told Leah we should finish our new house, sell it and then build on Mount Alto. She thought that was pretty funny.

We celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary tonight. It was not much of a celebration. We exchanged cards in the morning, and for at least the second time, we got each other the exact, same card. I had to (or got to) do a few hours of work for the company I used to work for, which, thank goodness, I could do right here at home. Then we went out to eat for dinner. Sunset on the way home was hidden behind thick, gray clouds, so no photos of that.

I’m not sure how many people read this poor, little blog, but I wanted to thank anyone who does. When I read the blogs that I read every day (I hope if any of their authors are reading this, they know that I do read them), even though I don’t really know any of you all, I feel like it’s a conversation between good neighbors leaning on our common fence. I appreciate comments, since otherwise it can feel like shouting into an empty stadium, and I try to reply to every one. Sometimes I miss a comment, but rest assured, I read them all.

We’re going to a party party

The first time I drove out West was early in 1971. I went with my high school friend in the 1966 Buick Special convertible I drove at that time. We drove as directly as we could, which was basically, go north to I-40, turn left and keep going. When we got to New Mexico, parts of I-40 were unfinished, and traffic was dumped onto the old highway.

route66sign

Route 66 is a historic highway these days, sometimes a local road and sometimes completely abandoned. It’s mostly kept around out of nostalgia but not much use for anything practical.

66ontheroad

And, speaking of that, today is my birthday. We’re not really going to a party party. Our plan is to go to Los Portales, our Mexican restaurant of first choice, for huevos rancheros. It’s our normal practice to have huevos rancheros for lunch on Wednesdays. We have been doing it for long enough that the waitress doesn’t bother giving us a menu and usually brings out our drinks without our having to order. She brings one sweet iced tee, one unsweet, lemons, a bowl of regular salsa and one of ranchera sauce. Then she asks, “The regular?” And we, of course, say, “Yes. Suave, please.” That ensures the yolks are soft and runny.

If we happen to mention that it’s Leah’s birthday in March, or mine in May, they usually bring a complimentary sopapilla in the Eastern style (a flat toasted tortilla with sugar and cinnamon, topped with ice cream and whipped cream — not the puffy New Mexico style eaten in one hand with a squeeze bottle of honey in the other hand).

Back when I was younger, in my 30’s and early 40’s, I didn’t expect to live past 50. It wasn’t that I was in poor health or anything like that, it was just that I thought of myself as a young(ish) person. A young person is not 50 years old, so I couldn’t be 50 years old. I have since figured out that no one actually is a young person. They may be at a young age, but they’re only passing through; age is not a destination.

I see it kind of like we’re all falling from the top floor of a very tall building. As we age, we pass lower and lower floors. So as someone passes the 20th floor, it’s ridiculous for someone who’s just now passing the 99th floor to look at him and say, “Ha ha! Look at the old guy. He’s almost reached the ground now.” We’re all headed towards the same end.

So now I find myself at an older age, an age that I thought of at one time not as “older” but as flat-out old. People older than me probably think, “Why, that young whippersnapper, he thinks he’s old. He’s not old. I’m older than him, and I’m certainly not old!” Just like I do when someone turns 30 (or 40, or 50, or even 60 …) and moans about getting old.

My body is old. My knees are bad (Bad knees! Bad!). My shoulder is bad (Bad stepladder! Bad!). My eyes are kind of bad, bad enough that I need reading glasses and a little bit of long-distance correction, although I can read highway signs without glasses, not to mention the writing on the wall.

But I’m not old. The me that’s looking out through my somewhat bad eyes remains pretty much the same me as it ever was. Maybe a little wiser. Probably not much, but enough so that when I look back on some of the things I did or said at a younger age, I cringe.

What idiots young people can be. I’m glad I’m not one of them.

Birthday and anniversary

The US government officially recognized me as old on Monday, my actual birthday. We had planned to eat huevos rancheros in celebration at Los Portales, our favorite Mexican restaurant, but Leah was having some intestinal issues, so we didn’t make it. But on Wednesday, our 10th anniversary, we decided to make it a joint celebration, my birthday and our anniversary.

Leah told our waitress, who knew we didn’t need a menu, that it was my birthday, which was a very pale lie indeed. So, since it was the day of my observed birthday, she had a margarita instead of iced tea.

As we expected from our celebration of Leah’s birthday back in March, the waitress brought out a sopapilla. Only this one was a super-sopa. Leah’s had a cinnamon-sprinkled, fried tortilla with honey, chocolate and whipped cream. Mine had all that plus a heaping helping of ice cream. Here it is with Leah insisting she would have none of it.

leah_and_sopaIt’s kind of blurred, which must be the phone’s fault, since I didn’t have a margarita. Here is the sopapilla, finished off but for one normal bite, mine, and one small bite, Leah’s.

sopa_10th

I couldn’t believe we ate the whole thing, but we did, and I’m glad.

Later on at the dentist’s office, Leah and I were talking about how it was our 10th anniversary, and I did some quick calculations and realized that we have actually known each other for 50 years. Of course, for the first five of those, she ran away every time she saw me.

Anyway, we both recovered from lunch and the dentist found no cavities, so, all in all, a pretty decent celebration.

 

Leah’s Mexican birthday lunch

We usually have huevos rancheros once a week at our favorite Mexican restaurant. Leah always has a birthday once a year. This year, they coincided, just like they did last year. And, just like last year, Leah got a margarita to go with her huevos rancheros. When we were finished, Gio, the waiter, brought a birthday sopapilla, just like last year.

Leah, contemplating the sopapilla

Leah, contemplating the sopapilla

I think I mentioned last year that the sopapillas here in the Southeast are not like the ones served in New Mexico, but this one was just fine. Leah didn’t want all of it, so she broke it up so I could help her.

And a little for me

And a little for me …

I ate a lot of it. Leah got the cherry on top.

Birthday thoughts

The most important event of August 2, 1917, at least in my view, was when my father, Grady V. Paris Jr., was born in the little town of Cave Spring, Georgia. I was thinking about my father and his birthday, so I looked back at some of old pictures I scanned a while ago.  Here are a few of them.

I think this is a high school picture. He was probably a senior, which in those days meant his was in the 11th grade, since high school went only as far as that.

Grady V. Paris -- the teen years

Grady V. Paris — the teen years

My father was a happy man. He maintained a child-like enthusiasm for almost everything for his entire life. He loved kids, but most of all he loved his kids.

My father, Henry and me

My father, Henry and me

He spent a lot of time working around the house, so he ended up in worn, paint-stained clothes a lot of the time. When my brother and I were old enough, my father started taking us to the same places he had gone when he was a kid. I think he enjoyed those outings as much as we did, and as much as he had when he was young.

I like this picture. I’m not sure what his expression means here, but it was unusual for him. The car in the background is a 1949 Buick that I remember pretty well, considering that I was only one model year newer.

Bow ties were in

Bow ties were in

This picture was made around Christmas, probably in the early ‘70s. That’s me and my brother Henry flanking our parents. Everyone was a lot younger then, but for some reason when I think of my father, I tend to picture him at about this age.

The Paris family

The Paris family

My father’s health declined fairly rapidly over the last year or so of his life. He suffered from pulmonary fibrosis as a result of gastroesophageal reflux. It was not diagnosed early enough to really do anything about it. Between the low blood oxygen levels and the bone-destroying effects of long-term steroids to help with the lung inflammation, he became an old, stooped man. He said that one day he saw his reflection in a store window on Broad Street and couldn’t believe that man was him. When he died early in 2000, the only way I could see him in my mind was as a much younger man.

And that’s the way I remember him today, not as a near invalid but as an active, vigorous, happy man of late middle age. I miss him a lot.

This would have been his 96th birthday.