One of our first days in Mexico, in early July, Jen and I were walking through the cobbled streets of Ajijic, on Lake Chapala, and J stopped in the middle of the street, apparently lost.
A gallant fat man stepped out of his shop on the far side and asked if he could help her find something. J was fine, she said, just pausing, and in this pause I came up and acknowledged I was perpetually lost, it was my particular human condition.
When I inquired what the man did in his shop, he pointed into the dusky, dusty interior and said he was a carpenter. He and his workers made all kinds of things, senor — from cabinets, tables, and chairs to coffins.
Whoa, there! I protested. I’m not ready for one of those just yet, sir! Give me a few more years if you please.
At which, of course, he laughed.
But is it a laughing matter?
Sure, and why not, lads and lasses? Like life itself?
