Sweet Dreams

I never imagined having a 50th wedding anniversary, let alone share it with so many amazing individuals. The evening began with my precious granddaughter Magdalena recounting a memory to our party guests. As her captivating voice exploded through the microphone, I fought hard to hold back the tears. After surveying the room, I noticed not a dry eye in the house and sobbed aloud. Upon completing her heartfelt story, she presented the handwritten tale, to my wife and me. I will do my best not to dampen the pages as I recite her written story with you now.

“I’ll always remember that special Christmas Grampa came to visit, his presence was as welcome as the fresh snow that blanketed the yard overnight. I would have been nine years old then, and it had been two years since I had seen him last. His grizzled beard, calming voice, and boyish charm were welcome guests. Tucking me in, he picked up my favorite book to read aloud. When I softly demanded, “Not tonight Grampa. Tonight, tell me the story of how you and Gramma met.” As I melted back into my pillow, he began a tale of his youth. His experienced voice regaling a tale of romance, perseverance, adventure and universal luck.

He confidently began. “Even as a young boy I had a job, which ultimately led to starting my own business. First landscaping, then renovations. I worked harder than anyone I knew; I wasn’t close to my family and became lonely even in a room full of my closest friends. I resolved to be alone for the rest of my life. I found more comfort in working and was busier than usual at that time. I still had no idea what self-care was, and for some reason I just couldn’t say no to this new project, a full kitchen demolition and rebuild. I found myself surrendering to a power that I wasn’t even aware of, as though the Universe was guiding my every move. Only now it was more like a benevolent kick from behind, and I found myself driving faithfully, completely exhausted, to a job I didn’t want to do.

The homeowners were moving in in two weeks - I had no time to spare. Like a hurricane, I began to tear the kitchen apart. Upper cabinets tore off effortlessly and the countertop peeled like an orange. The lower cabinets, however, had a mind of their own and they weren’t going without a fight. One lone cabinet had a curious false back screwed onto the wall. I left it remaining. I cleaned up the debris and labored on - a man on a mission. Oddly enough, I felt compelled to remove the remnants of the drywall and to see what was behind that piece secretly screwed to the wall. Curiosity filled my mind as thoughts of treasure flashed through my head. The final screw twisted out as slow as a child doing chores. No treasure, no gold, no trinkets - just an old black Moleskine notebook, dusty and withdrawn. Its cover seemed as fatigued as I was. Nonetheless, I dragged it home.

After showering, I retired to bed and threw the book on my nightstand like a participation ribbon, unappreciated and unearned. Being as busy as I was, the notebook sat there for weeks collecting dust, until that fateful night when curiosity got the better of me. The fascination gnawed at me with a hunger that I needed to satisfy, almost as if a voice was summoning me from across the sea. Heeding its call, I cuddled into bed with this mysterious gift. I stroked the edges, felt its weight, smelled its history, feeling afraid to open it as if it would somehow blind me. Like a haunted door with a ghost lurking behind, I entered. Little did I know that I was opening the next chapter of my life.

There, in colorful balloon letters scripted with the grace of a child, were five larger-than-life letters… “M.A.R.T.A”. I stroked each letter lovingly, feeling emotion with each caress. I thumbed through each page, communicating with someone I had never met, through nothing more than the pages of her uncensored life. I was hypnotized by this portal into another person’s soul, characterized in verse, stories, diary entries, recipes, art, and silent blank pages purposely left to portray what was missing in her existence. The hollow depths of loneliness spoke as loud as her wit and wisdom. Over the next few weeks of re-reading every personal note, I became filled with mixed emotions. Reading her innermost thoughts, like a stalker from afar, I felt as if I were reading my own thoughts - concise, smart, and familiar. With each read, I became more attracted to its author.

It seemed the notebook was born on Marta’s 13TH birthday - a gift from her Gramma, who thoughtfully shared all her secret recipes inside. A life meticulously documented until five years later when her family had to move away to a place called Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, to look after her sick Gramma. Marta became very upset over this turn of events. Blaming her Grandmother, she decided to bury the notebook behind a cabinet – its secrets entombed forever. Or so she thought!

I became obsessed with finding this Marta, who would have been 25 years old now, two winters younger than myself. Finding myself oddly attracted to her, I often romanticized our connection. I resolved to find her. Coming up with the money would be the hard part, this now became my focus. I began sampling all the fabulous recipes while trying to think of ways to raise the cash. It almost felt as if we were dining together. The lasagna was the best I had ever tried! While eating my third helping, I remembered a contest being put on by one of the grocery chains, where the best recipe would win $20,000.00. The company then manufactures your recipe to sell on their shelves. What was there to lose?

The time came and I submitted “Marta’s Magic Mexican Lasagna”, Or “Mmm Lasagna” for short. Five long weeks later I got a call - a call that would change my life forever. I actually won! They raved over the dish and informed me that I captured the grand prize of $20,000.00. For the first time in my life, I was speechless. I flew to Vancouver to sign the legal papers and pick up my earnings. Everyone wanted to know who Marta was and, after hearing my story - when I was leaving to find her.

Seven agonizing days later, I boarded a plane for Cancun. After an early morning arrival, my nervous anticipation quickly turned into jungle sweats. Climbing aboard the bus to Playa, I stumbled into my seat when an elderly lady hastily brushed by me with live chickens in hand. Soon, a bottle of tequila was being passed around and I took a swig, wondering if I was crazy. Lazily, the bus lumbered out onto the pothole-filled highway. I lost count of all the stray dogs we passed, driving through intermittent clouds of burning garbage. I realized how far this money could go in such an impoverished nation, it was more than three families could earn in a lifetime. Suddenly, I remembered the 20 grand and my duty to pay it forward. Finally, we pulled into the Playa terminal. I unloaded, backpack in hand, overcome by the beauty of this tiny tropical beach town.

Downtown was a paved road bordered by character shops and restaurants. My senses were in overload as the smells, both good and bad, leapt out like monsters from the dark, waiting to devour me. The sounds of flamenco guitar and mariachi bands were triumphantly vibrating through every corridor. One glance and the turquoise water lapping the golden sand handcuffed my eyes. Where to begin? All I had to go on was Marta and her parents’ names - Edmundo and Sandra. How hard could it be to find them, right? So, I grabbed a cold beer and began my quest.

Everyone I spoke to knew a Marta, but not my Marta. I did however meet two new friends - sore feet and blistering sun burn. I dragged them along to a hotel room on the beach, where I delicately collapsed in my new home away from home. Awakening the next morning to the sound of waves, like a marching band summoning me to forge on, I ventured out. I visited both churches, the police station, and miscellaneous coffee shops by day, bars and bustling restaurants by night. Everyone knew everyone in this tropical Eden, yet no one knew of my elusive Marta. Day seven brought me to the neighboring island of Cozumel – again, nothing. Seventeen exhausting days and nine towns later, dark suntan replaced my sunburn, and I begrudgingly settled at my hotel.

Sitting around the pool bar, discouraged and contemplating a return home, I met a couple from Vancouver. After I shared the details of my journey, they enthusiastically told me of their scuba diving adventure. Their trip was led by a dive master named Marta, whose father Edmundo, was the boat captain. Both worked in a dive shop in Akumal, a town 25 minutes South. I had to investigate.

I caught a cab at first light, counting each agonizing kilometer until we pulled up out front. The shop was filled with overweight, wet-suited tourists and skinny Mexican men, but still no Marta. I walked out to the pier to look around. Just as I reached its end, I heard a loud raspy Spanish voice yell “Marta!”, to which a soft voice quickly replied, “Yes, Papa?”. My head snapped as I turned to see the beautiful face of my mystery angel. After the tourists boarded, I sat on a bench drowning in my thoughts, watching their boat depart.

I quickly danced back into the shop and met its keeper - a delightfully talkative local named Sandra who spoke wonderful English. She mentioned that they moved back to Mexico, from Canada, to be with her sick mother.

My smile could be seen all the way to Playa when I found out that Marta taught all the dive lessons. This was my opportunity, I immediately signed up for what would be the most glorious four days of my life - an underwater and above water life lesson.

Classes began and the two of us got along famously - things seemed easy with her. I spent as much time as possible at the shop. The moment we surfaced from our last dive, I asked her out to celebrate my new certification. At dinner, we chatted about our pasts and, after finishing our second cocktail, I nervously laid the notebook on the table. She cautiously brought it close as I began my tale. Her smile shined brighter with each detail I shared, as she fingered through the familiar pages. It went much better than I ever imagined. Our hands somehow met and melted together, never parting, and were still clasped on the pier as we watched the sun rise the next morning. She invited me to dinner with her family for that evening.

During dinner, Marta’s father Edmundo shared the family’s dream of buying the dive shop someday. Explaining it would take a miracle to raise the $15,000.00 needed for the down payment. The entire family openly wept as I shared my story of winning the contest and my duty to present the money to its rightful owners. I explained that I had already won the lottery the day I found the notebook. It was a win - win situation, and they happily accepted. For the first time in my life, I felt whole, like I actually belonged. Things moved very quickly from there for us - she was clearly my destiny".

“That’s how it all started. Now, sweet dreams, my Angel” Grandpa concluded. The Universe had spoken.