My face is red.

 

      My face is red.

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Yesterday the four of us women who are here on the rancho went to Oconahua to share pot luck with Ana and Michelle, and to meet Michelle’s sister Janice.

My neighbor Janet and I have been to their home several times. This was the first for Kathy and Crinny so it was really special for them to see the lovely and incredible stone house the Ana and Michelle built over eleven years.

We each introduced ourselves to Janice, me being last in line. “Hi, Janice. I’m so delighted to meet you. I’m Sondra.”

“Oh, I remember you,” Janice said. Italics are mine but I swear I heard them in her voice. “Years ago your neighbor brought us to see your house and you were not happy with us. We were there to walk through and look at the houses that were empty at the time. She wanted to show us your house and yard.”

Oh, yes, memory returned with a whump in my stomach. I’d thought of that day from time to time, with chagrin, wishing I’d been more amiable.

That morning my neighbor had shown up trailed by three or four women, all strangers to me. It was a couple or three years later until I really met two of those strangers, now my good friends from Oconahua.

 On the day of my infamy, I’d not lived here in Etzatlan long. For several months I lived without kitchen cabinets or sink, hauled my dishes outside to the patio sink to wash up, lived out of bins and stacks on the floor.

Nothing about my house was finished nor was it a show place. And the day in reference, I was hot and sweaty, cleaning cloth in hand.

She meant well, my neighbor. But she also had come tromping through my yard to get to the two houses beyond me. And I took offense. Churlish of me. Rude and presumptuous of her.

And I said, “No.” I also asked her to take her entourage around and not through my yard. I didn’t say this meanly, but I said it clearly. And I do remember it.

I apologized profusely to Janice who laughed and said, “Think nothing of it. It was understandable.”

Interestingly, I liked Janice immediately. I let my memories and embarrassment drop to the floor and carried on with visiting. I hope she found me to be more approachable than last time but I can’t control what other people think.

Today the “girls from Oconahua,” and I always think that phrase to the tune of “The girl from Ipanema” are stopping by for the quick tour of all our homes now. Janice had seen most of our houses when empty.

I’ll invite them in. Me and my house are ready. They’ll see me same as you would if you dropped by without calling. The ironing board is out and a sewing project is on the table.

My house is small. But it is pleasant and inviting. People tend to walk in and automatically make themselves at home. I like that.

I’ll be more gracious than that other time. Ana and Michelle have been here often. They know me well. Janice will see the everyday me in my everyday setting.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 28, 2022

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Building a Sturdy Spite Fence

 

Building a Sturdy Spite Fence

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Unfortunately, I have friends stuck in a spite fight. As is often the case, one party is bewildered while the other party is self-righteously sticking pins in voodoo dolls, metaphorically speaking.

I’m the onlooker.

There is nothing I can do but watch it unfold. I feel sad. I know about spite. And I know who spite hurts. Not so much the intended victim, who often is unaware.

My first clear and vivid memory of my own spiteful action occurred when I was five or six years old. My Grandma made me share my favorite doll with my little sister. Okay. Sharing is good. But I was not allowed to play with my sister’s dolls. Catch the righteousness here?

I showed her. I cut the fingers off my favorite little rubber doll. So there! Play with her now!

Who did I hurt? Well, it wasn’t my sister who had to live with both a disabled doll and that ugly memory of spite.

My next most shameful and cringe-worthy memory is from high school and over a member of the opposite sex. Rightly or wrongly, I thought, rumor being such a marvelous tool, that she was after him and I had him! This is embarrassing to admit. I flaunted it in her face.

Immediately I felt shame and remorse. My behavior was despicable and I knew it. A part of me slunk away and died from that experience.

High school romances are fleeting but memory is forever. Fortunately I paid attention. I did not like those feelings of inner ugliness. Again, who did my spite hurt? Me.

Years later, I was moving house and my male helper was whingeing and whining. I showed him. Remember when television sets were huge, awkward, a 30-inch square box weighing half as much as myself? I wrapped my arms around that sucker, the television, not the guy, and stomped it down the long, narrow stairway, across the alley and slung it over the side into the pick-up. The guy was oblivious to my righteousness and my anger but my spine screamed, hyper-aware, for days.

Memories are painful. Learning often hurts. But these memories taught me a lot about myself, my own tendencies to righteousness and urge to get even for slights, real or imagined. For the most part I’ve been able to keep a lid on those tendencies.

 So it pains me when I see someone I love building a spite fence. Metaphorical or built with brick and razor wire, a spite fence works. It keeps one party righteous in indignation and anger at wrongs, real or imagined. It keeps the other party from opening communication, from attempting to solve what might once have been a solvable problem.

Everybody loses. The neighbors on either side of the spite fence lose friendship and trust. The fenced in neighbor loses sleep for a few nights but that will pass. The fence builder loses sleep too, ever vigilant to find more reasons for hate and anger, nightly reviewing and revising each possibility.

The reasons are very real. “He looked at me.” “He didn’t speak to me.” “He pushed ahead of me in line.” Think grade school.

Me, the onlooker. I lose too. I lose at least one friend. There is nothing I can do. I tried. This isn’t the first spite fence flung in the way of communication between these people.

Once, a few years ago, I asked the perpetrator, “How does that make you feel.”

“I feel great,” the answer. The words from his mouth and the expression on his face did not match.

Alrighty then.

There are a lot of kinds and examples of spite fences. My favorite, from a farmer in Utah.  He planted a row of old vehicles nose down along the boundary of his farm and a new housing development, after his new neighbors complained of farm dust and animal smells. He called it “Redneck Stonehenge”.

I hope his story had a happy ending. Neighbors got the message, were able to say, “Oh, well, sure, I chose to live next to a farm.” And perhaps the farmer uprooted his fence, easy to plant, easy to remove.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 21, 2022

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Pay de pimiento morron and other wonders

 

            Pay de pimiento morron and other wonders

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In the space of a few days I’ve transformed from a hermit grub to social butterfly.

It all began when John and Carol invited me to please, please, please join them for a lunch before they headed off into the sunrise back to Minnesota. I had turned down numerous such invitations during these last months, just not comfortable being out in the greater community.

When you come to visit we will take you to spend an afternoon walking the grounds of the Hacienda del Carmen, a beautifully restored historic ranch with centuries-old buildings, where we went for lunch. After a wonderful meal we chose to go whole-hoggish and have dessert.

I like to taste foods new to me. One item on the menu was pay de pimiento morron which translates to bell-pepper pie. How could I resist? Well, I didn’t resist one bite. In looks, the slice of pie resembles pumpkin. In taste, it is its own yummy self.

Now my challenge is to recreate the pie and I’m fairly certain I’m up to the challenge.

In response to a comment by Michelle, I arranged a woman-time visit one morning, no men allowed. Over scones and coffee, five of us spent a couple hours noshing and laughing and generally relaxing, masks hanging from one ear while eating. It was all good.

Speaking of ears, has anybody else noticed how one’s ears grow larger as one ages? I used to have these cute little ears and am appalled at how large they have grown. Insult on top of injury, they don’t hear better being larger, in fact, well, huh, sorry, could you please repeat that.

From ears to toes, I know I have arthritis, but why do my toes look different at night, swollen and gnarly. In the morning they look normal. They pain me differently at night too.  

I just had a birthday, so I suppose that is where some of these observations originate.

Nature or nurture? Where does the urge for a thorough, deep, spring cleaning originate?

I can’t say I like the process but I do get a great satisfaction from the afterglow.

Procrastination works for me for weeks. Then one morning I wake up and find I’ve begun the process without conscious thought. Which happened this week.

Opposed to my normal “I’ll-do-it-myself”, I hired Leo to do the heavy, high and hard.

I “hid the keys” to the ladder and step stools from myself. It’s that birthday thing. My nature is to show you I can still do it. Or is it the fear thing? Fear of falling? Or is it that when I hid the keys I found my right mind?

At any rate it is getting done, little by little, and I’m grateful for the help. Along the way I brilliantly invented a cleaning tool, my million-dollar idea of the day and you are welcome to it gratis.

I no longer want to get down on the floor to scrub those lower shelves or that corner cabinet where we all shove the least used utensils. I can get onto the floor. It is the getting up that is awkward.

First I researched the market and found that the closest thing available to what I want is a toilet brush, which will not do at all. My desired tool doesn’t exist, at least not in Mexico which I must say has more cleaning products and whichits than anywhere I’ve ever been.

So I invented a new tool. I bought a new cotton mop, measured and marked the ideal spot to cut the handle and took the mop to Josue. I had him cut the handle and shape and sand the cut end. Then I carefully trimmed the twisted cotton strands to make a shorter mop head.

I’ve got to say my new tool works slickity-wickity, even more useful than I imagined.

Nature? Or nurture? I suppose we’d each answer differently. For me, after much thought while scrubbing out those once-a-year places, I found my answer. Grandma and Guilt, equal measures, possibly one and the same thing.

I’ll leave you with those thoughts to chew on while I go wash the bedroom windows.

What? Oh, the pie. I used the custard base of pumpkin pie with alterations: less pulp than with pumpkin pie, piloncillos for sugar. After you roast the peppers, whiz them in the blender. Carefully add seasonings to taste. I used cinnamon, cloves and a bit of allspice. It worked deliciously.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 14, 2022

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Go with the flow

 

Go with the flow 

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Remember those words from long ago?  I glance at tee-shirts on computer side-bar ads, and see that phrases from when I was young and innocent, or at least oblivious, our phrases are making a comeback.

So go with the flow even if you’ve no idea what it means.

I remember during a particularly tough few years when my mantra (I didn’t know the word mantra back then.) was “acceptance is the answer to all my problems today”. I thought if I said it often enough the words would magically seep into my hard head with complete understanding. To me the two phrases mean much of the sameness.

Crin told me early this morning that her day is filled with “maybes”. Maybe she and her sister Kathy would go to Guadalajara to pick up the car they are buying. Maybe the paperwork would be ready. Maybe the insurance would be in place. Maybe the work items would be finished.

In other words, a day like any other. Go with the flow.

We sprang forward with the dread time-change Sunday so this week I’m indulging myself in a few days of grumbling. There is never enough time.

My own plans today are rather nebulous but include baking a batch of bread and mopping the floors.

But before I start any project, I can see that I absolutely must harvest lettuce from one of my buckets.

On the way to the lettuce bucket, I have to stop to allow the jasmine to permeate every cell of my being. I know if you close your eyes, you can smell the sweet jasmine all the way where you are. 

The bucket of recently planted zucchini will be giving me first fruits by the weekend along with a treat of fried squash blossoms. A tiny lizard has resided in the bucket for several days now, so I give it my blessing. “Eat bugs; eat plenty bugs,” I suggest.

Then I have to fuss over the rhubarb, now several stalks strong. Instructions say don’t harvest any rhubarb the first growing year but I don’t know if I’ll be disciplined enough to obey that order. Just the thought of making a sauce with even three or four crisp stalks and pouring the sauce over a bowl of vanilla ice-ream makes my mouth water.

Mmmm. Ice-cream. I’ve not indulged my sweet longing for the cool treat all these weeks. Easter is a mere few days away. I can do it. I like the discipline of denying myself a few pleasures for Lent. It’s not a religious thing with me. I’m not holy nor assured a place with the angels. I like the discipline of Lent. I’m selective about my disciplines. Aren’t you?

Obviously I haven’t eaten breakfast yet so salad for breakfast seems to be in order. I cut enough leafy lettuce for a huge salad. I grab two small tomatoes from my perpetual-tomato bucket.

A peek in the refrigerator gave me the rest of the fixings, an apple and cheese still good for today. Onion, sweet red pepper, a smidge of cheese and chopped pecans filled out the rest of the salad bowl and my stomach.

I’ve hardly blinked, it seems, and the time fast-forwarded to mid-afternoon. My bread dough has transformed from a mound in the big blue ceramic bowl to nicely shaped loaves in the bread pans, waiting for the final step into the oven.

Now I get to make a choice. I can mop the floor or finish this hardest-jigsaw-puzzle-in-the-world which I’ve been working on for three weeks. The picture is an owl swooping over the shores of a marsh. Sounds simple, right? The entire puzzle is composed of lines with variations of three colors. Each piece is shaped the same, two innies and two outies. In early days, four pieces in place were cause for celebration.

In Spanish a jigsaw puzzle is called a rompecabezas which roughly translates “breaks my head” and the word is apt. I love puzzles, the different space my mind occupies when indulging, and I’m good at color and space. This one broke my head. I’ve about a hundred pieces left.

Which would you choose? Mop the floors? Finish the puzzle?

There it is, puzzle finished. I’ll wipe off those little drips of butter from the warm bread which smeared the last five pieces. I’ll mop tomorrow. That’s discipline. That’s the flow.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 7, 2022

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