Sixties Chick

I don’t care what they say. From where I sit, the economy doesn’t feel a bit better, except perhaps for our buddies at Goldman Sachs who seem to be just fine, bless their black little hearts. No, from my perch, even here in scenic South Jersey, there don’t seem to be any appreciable signs of recovery, at least not for the writing business. I am full of faith nonetheless. One day soon things are bound to turn around.  It’s just…what does one do in the meantime?

Enter my Brazilian ex-husband, an ever resourceful soul, who arrived yesterday for a week’s visit to buy all sorts of strange merchandise for his internet business – a business that supplies ranchers in the remote interior of Brazil with files for goats’ horns, oversize nipples for weaned calves and “castrators”  for cutting the you-know-whats off of bulls. His appearance reminds me of one of the things I learned from six years in that incredible country.

Coming from a place where old folks get tossed out like so many bags to Goodwill, I used to marvel at how Brazilians would save old string, make toys out of plastic soda bottles, oil lamps from old tin cans. Not only prodigious recyclers, Brazilians could come up with the most ingenious ways to make a living, melting down stolen manhole covers notwithstanding. And that’s with 80% inflation per month!  If the Third World teaches anything, it’s how creative humans can be when it comes to survival.

Case in point, Dona Antonieta – 63, 250 pounds, a diabetic blond bombshell. Left in the lurch by her second husband, a man twenty years her junior, Dona Antonieta had no skills, no education, no means of support and no hope for a job.

She did, however, have an apartment two blocks from the beach in one of Recife’s tonier districts. Although it couldn’t have been more than 750 sq. ft. with only two bedrooms and a bath, three including the maid’s off of the kitchen, this modest asset saved her from the street. She used it and her head and figured out how to make it pay.

Last I knew there were eight people living there. One in each of the two bedrooms, one in the tiny maid’s room. She had divided the living room using shelves, taking one half for herself and her 36-year-old gay son who produced impeccable meals (extra if you so desired).  Three boarders occupied the other half.  She employed a full time maid who kept the place spic and span, and had a laundress show up on Thursdays to do the wash, offering yet another service at what she called a slight charge.

Dona Antonieta had firm rules as all good landladies do, and, surprisingly, everyone seemed to get along just fine. In fact, they seemed to have a great time together. In the evening, the ragtag group would gather in front of the TV to watch the latest episode of the hot soap opera of the season, often shouting comments at the actors and each other. There was a lot of laughter coming from that small room.

Afterward, Dona Antonieta would hold court. Dona Antonieta loved to talk. She often said she’d never been happier in her life.

Lately, I’ve been eyeing the guest room down the hall. Then too, my daughter’s off to college again in the fall.  The thing is, where survival’s concerned, you’ve got to be willing to crawl outside of your comfort zone. To leap right out of that box. You’ve got to be creative. And if there’s one thing I am…. it’s that!

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