We always celebrated Cinco de Mayo – north of the border up Canada way. We visited the graveyard every Sunday but we did not bring picnics on May 5. No, what we did was honor a dark haired child with wringlets who could recite the names of all the dwarves. And that was me before my fall from Grace. Me before I became the nasty girl with pigtails and siblings.

I knew about the place ‘south of the border ‘down Mexico way’ because Shirley Owen sang about as he played his guitar on stage, the fiddle and the piano behind him. He had fallen in love there and been disappointed. This didn’t seem to upset his substantial wife who sat in all her substance. Smiling.

We kids had waxed the floor by skating on the wax discs and we danced along the edges out of the way of the adult dancers. It was a bacchanalia for country kids who played alone on farms or regarded helping with the hay as play.

I never expected to live long. You should have met my father. I was busy with family still when I woke up to discover I was 87.

My 14th floor apartment is full of spirits. Hard to move some days. They are happy because I am finally writing a book about the future which they regard as the one job I came to do. There are 2 more in the series, but they assure me I have several more Cinco de Mayos left.