mementos to celebrate and reflect on the lives of their deceased relatives. It was a day of contemplation for me, too. I plunged into the cold waters of our lap pool, sandwiched between the main house and the casita’s flower box, bursting with purple and fuchsia bougainvillea blooms. Face down, stroking through the water, competing thoughts raced through my head. My mind floated back through the past ten years of the ordeals and triumphs we had experienced while embracing a foreign culture and language. I remembered my first attempt at Mexican grocery shopping, and recalled returning home from that initial encounter at the Mexican Supermarket giant, Soriana, in tears. With just two half-empty bags, I swore to my husband that we were going to starve. Nothing felt familiar, I couldn’t figure out the meat cuts, understand the signage, or be sure what I was buying. I felt like a food shopping cripple. Then I realized that just this past week, I had flitted between the local family-owned store, El Torito and the Mexican high-end chain, Mega like a free bird, shopped at the butcher and meandered through the outdoor fruit and vegetable market. The vendors knew my name, we chatted in Span-
ish about their family, the weather, the cost of produce. It had become so easy, done in a language not my own, in a country not my native land, but in a foreign culture that I had assimilated into. Like the Mexican Halloweeners, I had learned the rules of a new game and was reaping the treats from playing it like a local. Gone was everything Pennsylvanian and I rejoiced in the simplicity of living the Mexican life. Carol L. Bowman
Saw you in the Ojo 67