I'm staying "up north" with Mom and Dad, and that is always good.

My mom and dad have built a life that is pretty much exactly the way they like it. They have rituals and habits they do almost without thinking. But the amazing thing -- to me -- is that just about every one of these daily routines ends up giving them a healthier and much happier life.

At this point, my dad would snort, and my mom would say I was making them sound like saints, and they'd both shake their heads in unison and say that I like to exaggerate, and so I guess you'll have to take my word for it.

My dad turns 90 at the top of next year, and my mom isn't far behind. They still live in the beautiful home they designed and built together more than 30 years ago in the Northwoods. The house is not large, but it is perfectly suited to them. It sits high above the lake in the woods, so their nearest neighbors are squirrels and deer and raccoons, a variety of birds and the occasional bear. Loons fly over their home and land in the lake. My mother keeps dozens of pots of flowers blooming outside the house. My dad keeps enough wood chopped and split to keep them in firewood all winter, and they are out biking or walking or snowshoeing every single day.

"We don't eat as much as we used to," my mother notes.

But what they eat is healthy. They've got a vegetable garden in town, as it is too shady in the woods for vegetables. Yesterday, they picked up fresh sweet corn and a cantaloupe from the farmers market.

And I feel as if this is the part of the story where I should tell you the really amazing thing about my parents. But, as I write this, I realize the really amazing thing is not any one thing. It is all of it. As their needs and desires have changed, their habits have remained positive and healthy and filled with joy.

I think I've known for most of my life I would never be as consistent or disciplined or sensible as my parents. They were this way when I grew up, and they remain every bit as remarkable now that I am getting old. I've even thought, from time to time, that it was a lot to live up to. Their marriage, lasting many decades, was not one I could emulate in my first marriage. My moods fluctuate far more wildly. I require regular "reboots" to stay on track.

But I am no longer envious. I am now simply admiring. And I am grateful. I am so grateful they have taken such good care of themselves and so grateful that they are still here with me, active and happy and as practical as ever.

My dad says he's slowed down a lot, and turning 90 certainly gives a person plenty to think about. But just as I learned how to paddle a canoe and ride a bike by watching him, I now watch him managing the perils of aging with grace and elegance. And I am, once again, learning.

What I've just written, my father will dismiss. He'll say he wasn't so elegant the other day when he tripped over the doorsill and cut his hand open while bringing the laundry in from the line. He'll say he's doing nothing out of the ordinary, nothing worth writing about.

And that's why you'll have to take my word for it.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found at CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook.

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It was time to come back from Mexico.

It wasn't because of the weather. The weather was wonderful. The nights up in the mountains were cool, and the days were warm, and sometimes, in the afternoons, a thunderstorm would roll in, and a refreshing rain would fall, leaving the air clean and sweet. No. It wasn't the weather.

And it wasn't really my family -- although, I do miss them. My parents have been in the thick of summer activities at their cabin by the lake. They had lots to do and lots of visitors, and I knew they were doing well. No. It wasn't my family.

The truth is, I heard some concerning news about Stubby, my mother's pet red squirrel, and I thought it was time I went to visit him to make sure everything was OK.

My mother reluctantly adopted Stubby after the tragic loss of half his tail last year. He went from her archenemy to her best friend, and now my mother feeds him every day. He spent the winter under their deck, digging tunnels through the snow to get to the treats my mother left under the bird feeder. He has become quite tame and is clearly devoted to my mother and so, naturally, every time I chat with my mom, I ask how Stubby is doing.

Apparently, Stubby got into some trouble.

According to my mother, their neighbor, Rod, painted his deck recently. I can picture Rod's deck. It is a cheerful blue and has bright yellow flowerpots and patio furniture on it. It's a beautiful deck, but keeping it that color requires a bit of upkeep. So I'm assuming that when there was no rain in the forecast, Rod got out there to paint the deck.

At this point, I would like to emphasize that there is no proof whatsoever of Stubby's guilt.

According to Rod, whose house is next door, his work was spoiled with little squirrel tracks all over his newly painted deck. Rod was not happy. He told his wife that he was going to get some squirrel traps and catch whoever ruined his paint job and deposit them far away.

Rod would never kill a red squirrel, but I can imagine he was pretty angry about the deck and would be willing to drive quite a long way to relocate whoever had left paw prints all over it.

Char, Rod's wife, was chatting with my mother last week, and she told Mom about Rod's plan.

"Oh, no!" my mother said. She told Char she wished Rod wouldn't do that, but she never heard back, and she hadn't seen Rod or Char since.

"I haven't seen Stubby all day," my mother wrote me. "Should I be worried?" And she signed her note, "Stubby's friend and protector."

And that was how the story was left.

There is a lot I don't know. First -- and most importantly -- there is no evidence that it was Stubby who ruined Rod's deck. Stubby is missing his tail, not a paw, and his tracks would look like any other red squirrel's -- including the very wicked squirrel who ran across that fresh blue paint.

And I never heard back from my mother. Surely, she would have called me in Mexico if Stubby had gone missing for more than 24 hours. So now I am planning a visit to check up on my mom and my dad -- and Stubby.

But I will tell you right now, if I happen to notice a slightly blueish tint on Stubby's feet, I do not plan to say a word.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found at CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook.

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Usually, just as I am getting close to leaving Mexico, I find some absolutely irresistible treat and have to eat it every single day until I leave.

I arrive back in the U.S. a few pounds heavier, wondering how I ever got so carried away. I return to my more or less normal eating habits and more or less normal weight, only to return and discover some new treat across the border.

This week, it was apple empanadas.

I didn't know what an empanada was. I thought it was a sort of meat sandwich and not something I'd get excited about. That was until Jorge, our benevolent landlord (possibly too benevolent), showed up at our doorstep with a small plate. On the plate were two large, crispy, perfectly browned triangles covered in cinnamon sugar and filled with apples.

"For you!" He explained, unnecessarily. "Empanadas!"

It was midafternoon and not exactly our coffee and pastry hour. (Full disclosure: My husband, Peter, and I didn't have a coffee and pastry hour, although this soon changed.) We cut one of those apple empanadas in half and tried it. And that was pretty much it.

We ate the second empanada. Then, I went downstairs to find Jorge.

"Where do we get more of these?"

Jorge laughed and gave me directions, but no address. The next day, I went hunting.

"But only after 2 p.m.!" he warned me.

Jorge said it was near the flower shop. There was a bakery across the street, but I'd been in there, and there were no empanadas.

San Miguel is a historic town, so they don't put up much permanent signage. They will hang a shingle out when they are open and take it down at night. Many times, I have walked right by a business with no way to recognize it after it was closed.

On my first day, I found no sign of empanadas. On the second day, I asked a couple of gringos nearby, and they knew nothing about them. On the third day, I went into the flower shop and asked in Spanish. The owner pointed to the bakery.

"No, not the bakery." I told him it was empanadas, specifically, I was looking for.

The people in San Miguel are used to being asked stupid questions. They answer the same stupid questions over and over, and then gringos come up with new ones.

The owner of the flower shop stopped working on the roses at his table. He took me gently by the arm and guided me out the door. I wondered where we were going. He walked directly to the bakery that I had, by now, passed at least half a dozen times.

"Here are empanadas," he told me. Still, I doubted.

I stepped inside. There they were.

Miraculously, a whole new selection of baked goods had appeared. Because a crispy apple pastry was something I would eat in the morning, I expected them to be there in the morning. But that would be foolish if you wanted to eat them warm and fresh from the oven in the afternoon, as they do in San Miguel.

I got the last two on the tray and brought them home to Peter.

"Now we're in trouble!" I announced as we ate an empanada each.

But, before I went home, I stopped at the flower shop to thank the store owner. The vocabulary I have in Spanish to explain that I am stubborn and pigheaded is limited. And now I think I should do something about that -- both the vocabulary and the stubbornness.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos of Mexico and other things can be found at CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook.

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