Will you still love me, when I’m 96?

 

Will you still love me, when I’m 96?

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Michelle’s mother, and our friend, fell and broke her other hip. Jane is 96 years old.

It was only three or four years ago that Jane fell and broke a hip. Wasn’t easy but she recovered. Surgery is extremely high risk for this woman. It was risky then and is even more so now. Jane has been in the hospital several days, waiting while certain medicines leach out of her body.

Surgery is not our only worry. Our small hospital, which we are fortunate to have, is staffed by excellent doctors some resident, some on call from Guadalajara. Like many other places, nurses are in short supply. Presently, there has been only one nurse on night duty and all the beds are filled.

Family shuffles hours around the clock to be on night duty in Jane’s room, to help with nursing chores but also for language interpretation.

Rock and hard place comes to mind. What is the alternative? Is there an alternative? Jane understands the danger, as does her family, and all have agreed to the surgery.

I’m selfish. I don’t want to be 96. But, we don’t know, do we? Some of us friends, out here on the periphery, we think about and talk about the “what ifs”. We know we have today but tomorrow hides in the Great Unknown.

Recently (and frequently) I update my will and wishes. I don’t have much so that chore is relatively simple. I’ve purchased and paid for my entire death plan, all laid out in plain Spanish, on paper with a Funeral place in town.

Yet, I’ve hobbled around the block more than one wrap. I’ve seen what can happen. I’ve absolutely nothing of any monetary value, by choice. I have a list of designated recipients of this and that, should said recipients care.

As carefully thought out and as detailed as my plans are, I know that when I depart this earthly plane, my wishes will be thwarted.

It will go something like this.

“Mom said I can have this little blue plastic pencil sharpener.”

“You can’t take that. I gave that little blue plastic pencil sharpener to Mom for her birthday when I was nine. It is mine.”

“You did not, did not, you dumbhead. You always try to claim everything.”

“Did too. I paid ten cents. I bought it at the little store that used to be on the corner on Front Street. Mom said it was the best gift she ever got and just exactly what she wanted. So there!”

From this little imaginary scenario, it is a very short distance from name-calling to hair-pulling, to fisticuffs, to litigation, to the feuding Hatfields and the McCoys. All over items of no value, no sentiment. I’ve watched it happen. More than once.

Think not? That kind of ugly would never happen in my loving family, you say?

As my Aunt Mary, who lived just short of 100, used to say, “It’s pretty to think that way.”

By the way, the blue plastic pencil sharpener, that I bought myself years ago, is in my top desk drawer on the left, should you need to sharpen a pencil.

Michelle just phoned with good news. Jane is out of surgery. The doctor said everything went well. Now the hard work begins. Recovery!

We are breathing giant sighs of relief. My shoulders feel lighter. We all agree, Jane is a tough old bird.

Today is a gift. Jane survived the rigors of surgery. The air is full of butterflies. Dozens of baby hummingbirds are flitting between the bottlebrush tree and the lantana bush. My first hollyhock shouted into bloom with pink flowers. The jacaranda is unfurling its purple umbrella. We have a lot to love.

Next morning update: Jane is hungry.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

End of March

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Thing One and Thing Two and Thing Three

 

Thing One and Thing Two and Thing Three

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I have perfected English muffins.

What that means is that I got hungry for English muffins, not available on the shelves of any tienda in town. I made my first batch, which exceeded my expectations. Unfortunately for me, I made the breadly goodness on a social day and within a couple hours, had none left. I called that batch “Thing One”.

I’d eaten one hot off the griddle with butter and jam but wanted a breakfast sandwich muffin on the order of the classic from the Golden Arches. I would call mine a “Thing Muffin”. I had the egg, the cheese, the ham, but no bread.

What I did have was high praise. Every one of us, me included, had seemed to think that English muffins are made by some elaborate process. Nah, they are easy. Let’s keep that our little secret.  

Nothing for it but the next day, I had to make another batch. In secret. Which I called “Thing Two”. Before anybody had a chance to smell the bakery scent wafting through the air from my kitchen, I made myself a “Thing Muffin” breakfast sandwich, even better than my best memories.

I will never be able to buy another packet of English muffins, should they become available on a shelf near me.

As long as I’m bragging, I’ll put in a plug for Thing Three.

Here on the Rancho, we’ve had a lot of traffic from elsewhere, people arriving fresh off an airplane or from the beach or foreign lands. New arrivals, as well as those with whom they associate, have one and all been downed by a caustic cough. None more so than my friend, Carol.

After weeks knowing Carol was still coughing and not getting any better, I visited John on their patio and left with this advice, “She needs to see a doctor. Leo will arrange for a doctor from the Hospital Paris to make a house call.”

“But she doesn’t have a fever,” John rationalized.

“I had pneumonia and didn’t have a fever,” my rebuttal.

I returned home and sent over a batch of my homemade tomato soup. I’ve talked about my tomato soup previously. It’s only gotten better. Each batch is full of goodness from my bucket garden, starting with the tomatoes. I am generous with garlic, onions, peppers, handfuls of herbs. This batch had carrots too, simply because I had carrots.

The following day, Carol ate a bowl of my tomato soup. She also accepted a visit from a doctor from the Hospital, a shot in the posterior, treatments and medicines. Carol insisted that what made her immediately feel better and jump onto the road to recovery was my homemade tomato soup, which she knew was made with love. There you have it, a testimonial to “Thing Three”, the Best Thing.

“Thing Four” carries no bragging rights.

A friend gave me a linen tablecloth she didn’t use. Nor will I use it, not as a tablecloth. It is insipid pink and just doesn’t work for me. I tried to pass it on to another friend. “Insipid pink,” she said, “Won’t work.”

I cut it up into handkerchiefs, for which the color is perfect.

While ironing the hems into the squares of fabric, I realized that my new handkerchiefs wanted to be hand-stitched with contrasting thread. That will be easily done, I thought. Any color will contrast against this putrid, insipid, Barbie pink.

When I was a child, my Grandma taught me to sew, starting with simple embroidery and hemming handkerchiefs. My hand-stitches have deteriorated since those long-ago times. I’ll do these with a running stitch which will be uneven in both length and pathway and would never have passed my Grandma’s inspection.

No matter. I’m the only person who will notice. For me, hand-stitching is meditative. That makes the extra work worth the time and effort and imperfections.

“The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.” RLS

And a tip of the hat to Dr. Seuss.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Well into March Spring Thing

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Spring is Sprung

 

            Spring is Sprung 

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The wolf-whistle bird is back. This sharp-voiced bird returns every spring. It has two very distinctive calls. When I hear its voice, I instinctively jerk my head around to see who is either trying to get my attention (Hey you, over here!) or is teasing me with admiration (Wolf-whistle, I kid you not.).

Then I laugh at myself. Foiled again!

The wolf-whistle bird doesn’t sound anything like a love bird, does it? This avian character sounds more like the kind of birds your mama warned you about, the birds standing on the corner outside the pool hall, ciggies dangling from their lips, jeans hanging dangerously on hips, greasy hair slicked back in perfect duck’s tails.

The ones who populated our fantasies.

Ah, love is in the air.

Our little gringo community consists of a small cluster of homes, only eight or nine. Next door to us on the rancho, is a campground. For me to walk to the campground, if there were a direct path, I would trek through the yard of only one other casa.

Last Saturday night, at the campground, the owner-family hosted a huge wedding reception party celebration of the marriage of the baby of the family, the youngest son, respectably in his fifties. Perhaps it was the bride’s first marriage. I know nothing about his chosen one. Who would not love a wedding?

When I lived in Mazatlan, I saw some fancy wedding parties on the beach, but not one came close to the elaborate preparations, the all-out-gung-ho-no-holds-barred-blitz-and-bling of this wedding, with not a beach in sight.

I was not a guest so I speak from descriptions, photos, and reports of peepers.

When it comes to knowing how to truly celebrate any occasion, Mexicans do it better. Take my word for it. My word, with admiration.

Louder, too.

When the bands began to play, I closed my house and went to bed with my Kindle. It’s not warm and romantic but it is entertaining. Remember when I told you how close my home is to the campground? This is why.

A good celebration requires a bank, a virtual wall of speakers. The most important speakers seem to be the ones which blast out the deep tones. I’m not sure the others matter. Or even register on the ear-consciousness.

What I rather quickly became aware of, is that each boom of the bass hit me on a cellular level. After an hour or so of feeling battered, I physically hurt. My muscles hurt. I did not have a headache. My entire body throbbed. Not like that—with pain.

Sunday morning, I told my friends that I felt like I’d been attacked and beaten up. John told me about an experiment, done years ago, with sound levels, confirming that how I felt was not my over-active imagination.

Sound can and does affect our bodies in more ways than simply losing the upper ranges of tones with age, forcing us to become adequate lip-readers.

I listened closely, watching his lips, as John recalled details (in a nutshell) of an article about an experiment using submarine, or was it subsonic, or is that a football team (?), wolfers. John is a careful researcher and has a memory like a steel trap. He said these sub-wolfers are the ones that carry the bass tones.

John said that at a concert event, the researchers, using huge speakers, cranked the wolfs up to 80 mega hurts. This particular level of sound, heard or unheard, caused a mass evacuation of audience to the restroom facilities.

Oh, my, I said. That explains a lot.

I don’t know about you, but loud boom-boom-boom noise does not put me in the mood for romance. If there is ever another wedding or party in the campground, I’m renting a hotel room for the night, three towns distant.

I hope the newly wedded couple live many years in bliss.

Me, I’ll stick with the wolf-whistle birds, reminding me of old times, past fantasies.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Middle of March already!

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The Uneventful Life

 

The Uneventful Life

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“Have an exciting evening,” my daughter wished at me after a phone call over the weekend.

“No! No! No!’ I cried vehemently. “Not an exciting evening, Never! Wish me a calm and peaceful and uneventful evening, please.” One never knows what energies one might release with a casual word or two. I’ve had enough excitement in other periods of my life.

Today I sit in front of my blank page with absolutely nothing to say. Life is good. Quiet. No waves. No storm clouds. No drama.

I go out into my yard looking under lettuce leaves for inspiration. Uninspired, I harvest some lettuce seed, harvest the last decent leaves for salad, pulled the stalks for the compost pile. I won’t plant more until the rainy season begins. April and May are much too hot. Lettuce bolts overnight and the leaves are bitter. I’m learning.

With no ideas, I sit myself at the sewing machine to alter a blouse I’d made from beautiful India cotton, pieces of an old sari. I had found myself putting the blouse to the back of the line, too fussy. The colorful pattern is fuss enough. I try on my new-to-me-minus-fussy-details blouse and wear it the rest of the day. 

Back out to the garden. I gather tomatoes and limes. No inspiration, no lightbulb moments in the garden.

You might wonder if I feel bored. I am never bored. As far back as I can remember, I’ve never been bored. If I was, it had to have been when I was quite small and my Grandma would have quickly disabused me of that notion with a list of things to do. I used that page from Grandma’s book with my own children, who will affirm, after that one memorable day, they are never bored.

Often, if uninspired, I might poke around my neighbors and see what runs out of the underbrush. One and all, they have housefuls of guests. One and all, they’ve been sight-seeing, to the beaches, living the good life. One and all, neighbors and guests are back in casa, hacking and honking with that awful cough, hoping to recover in time for guests to catch various flights home. I’ll keep my distance.

I take the broom to the floors, examine the sweepings and dust bunnies, same as I would peer at the tea leaves. All they told me is the season for daily sweeping has arrived. I come from a long line of women who were burned at the stake. Don’t examine that statement too closely. I never said it was logical.

The jacaranda tree is losing leaves. The leaves form a beautiful green canopy but the umbrella is made of a million-million-million tiny leaves and this time of year they fall like rain.

Walk out and take the laundry off the line, shaking the jacaranda leaves out of every item, especially pants and shirts. Iron and fold clothes, shaking stray leaves onto the clean floor.

When I get up in the morning, whatever I put on must be shaken again. Those tiny little leaflets are pointy and poky. They cling.

Shaking clothing is a defense mechanism here in Mexico. Especially shoes. I don’t want to poke my foot into a shoe shared with a scorpion.

I shake the mop vigorously, an anti-scorpion shake, before I bring it indoors to mop the floors. All manner of wildlife might fall out. Crickets. Centipedes. Silver fish. The occasional lizard. The critters scurry off, into the grass or the bamboo. I don’t want to be the cause of death by mop bucket.

And so goes my day. Another walk with my dog. I make a lettuce sandwich for dinner. Wonder if I should call my daughter and ask her to reconsider upping the excitement level when she greets me tomorrow with a cheerful, “Good morning, my Mom.”

But, then, all in all, this is a good life. Quiet. Peaceful. Uneventful. I’ll take it as it is, thank you.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

A Peace of March

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Miles to go before we plant

 

Miles to go before we plant

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It is interesting to contemplate that a mere two month old baby has accumulated more frequent flier miles than I have in the past five years. The comparison is easy. My mileage is 0.

More astounding is that little Marley’s flights cost more than the sum total of all my flights, domestic and foreign, inclusive of but not exclusively: multiple domestic flights, Hawaii, Alaska, Mexico, China, Japan and India. Who could have imagined this farm girl could have visited so many far places!

Marley spent last week in the all-inclusive exotic resort, Hospital St. Vincent’s in Billings, via her second life-flight, treating for a return of pneumonia. I was too upset to even talk about it.

I learned something. When a person we love is dangerously ill, we, not just me, tend to distance ourselves from the pain by referring to them as she or he, the baby, her mother or his son. When I realized that, I changed my language to Marley this and Marley that, keeping her close in my heart.

Marley is back home again today. Our little Marley has officially spent exactly one-half of her life in St. Vincent’s NICU. My little great grand-daughter has accumulated a whole world of people who ‘own’ her, as my friend Kathy said.

That is the update on my Montana life, which I live vicariously, via telephone.

Since I write about whatever is happening in my life, and I don’t pretty it up, I’m going to tell you what ‘almost’ happened today. I ‘almost’ got in a snit with a friend. It was my snit. Not hers.

Yesterday I sent out a photo of my azalea, planted in a garbage can, to my high-school girlfriend-group. It is spectacular, more flowers than foliage, perfumes my entire front garden.

My friend Karen replied that she wanted an azalea but thought it might not grow in her new home in Nevada. I wrote back, why not, the winters are milder than in Floweree.

Ellie wrote.  Azaleas need acidic soil. Nevada soil is alkaline. Don’t plant it. Won’t grow. Those are not her exact words. It is how I heard the words. Like a slap. I felt dismissed.

I removed myself from the keyboard before I plink-plink-plinked-send. Got a glass of water, took a hike, calmed down.

Ellie is a serious gardener. She researches every flower and bush and tree she plants. Karen is a Master Gardener. Both women are much more knowledgeable than me. I’m simply lucky to live in Jalisco, the Garden State of Mexico where if you spit, something will grow, because you probably had a tomato-guava-jalapeno-some-kind-of-seed stuck in your teeth. Ask the birds. They know.  

My friend Ellie researches her soil, how much water the plant will take, how much debris the plant will make, how long it will flower, shade or sun needs, what the plant wants to eat and when to burp it. She is thorough. Proof is manifest in her beautiful low-water-needs garden in Central (dry) California.

When I finally sat back at my computer to respond, I thanked Ellie for the information. But, I couldn’t help myself. My ego reared her ugly head and I went on to say I have no idea whether our soil here is alkaline or acidic. It is volcanic. Everything seems to want to grow, whether or not I want it to grow. However, my beautiful azalea sits regally in a large trash can filled with planting soil from David’s Vivero Centro. (So there!)

My gardening style is hit or miss. “Oh, I like you. I’ll plant you here. If you grow, good. If you don’t, off with your head.” Having admitted to my ignorance, I do tend to stick with plants that are easy, plants that I see thriving in gardens all around me.

I don’t know why I got in a snit, short lived, but it was definitely there. There had been no real provocation. 

I have a colander full of tomatoes that want to become soup base, so I’d best get on with making soup happen.

I wonder, do tomatoes want acidic soil or alkaline soil?

I’ll keep that wonder to myself.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March already!

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To Tapir or Not to Tapir

 

               To Tapir or Not to Tapir 

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Michelle called. “I need to take Blue to the vet in Tala tomorrow. Ana can’t come with me because she is overseeing the work crew building our new guest house. Would you be able to come along with me?”

“What time do we leave?”

Michelle picked me up. Blue, tucked in his kitty carrier, never made a peep the whole trip. Michelle and I filled the air with words covering multiple spectrums.

Background: Blue is an elderly cat, not in the best of health. Michelle feared this might be his last trip, yet, there were signs he wanted to live.

More background: Tala is an old factory town. The sugar cane processing plant pumps white steam into the air from October through May. Somewhere off the highway there is a Coca-Cola plant. In town, and it all seems to be ‘Old Town’, the streets are narrow, not laid out for modern vehicles.

Even more background: This veterinary practice specializes in small animals, mostly dogs, but will see cats too. Michelle said one time when they came, the vet was treating a horse, in the courtyard, I’m sure. The man who started the clinic had three sons, all of whom went to veterinary school and joined the thriving practice. Vets in Etzatlan mainly see to the health of cattle and horses, farm animals.

We had no more than settled down to wait our turn, when, trailed by two large dogs, in walked a man, cuddling a scruffy, long-snouted creature in his arms. Our eyes grew large as dinner plates.

“Is that a tapir?” “I think so.”

The man must have had an appointment because he was shuttled directly into a room. Michelle and I tip-toed to the open doorway, trying to get a peek. The man stood with broad back blocking our view. Reluctantly, we backed off before we became rude and intrusive. Wow, a tapir!

We left Blue in the capable hands of the vet hospital persons. His problems are being treated.

My grandson, Tyler, is a rescuer of animals and has his own rather exotic collection with their various care requirements. Tyler is set on his own pathway to become a vet. I must tell him about the tapir.

Yes, wow, a tapir! This man held the animal close in his arms, his hands comforting it. The animal was not struggling to escape, though it was moving about. So, how do you get one? I’ve never seen a tapir at Pet’s R Us. But, then, I’ve never looked.

How do you care for a tapir? This one responds to petting. Would it enjoy being brushed? Do you keep it in the house? What does it eat? I’ve never seen bags of Tapir Food at Tractor Supply or the pet supply aisle of IGA. Then, again, I’ve never looked. My Lola would never agree to such an adoption. Share her doghouse? Never, no way.

This particular tapir, if tapir it is indeed, must be a toddler. I had to look them up. These animals get quite large, are similar to wild pigs. Some varieties are bigger than others. This looked like a Mexican tapir.

On a whim, I looked up anteaters. No, I think it was a tapir. I can imagine a tapir as a pet. Not so much, the anteater. Although, feeding an anteater would be no problem. “Here you go sweet pea, a large yard. Have at it.”

I do wonder how one comes to be cuddling a tapir.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Still February

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Here a Little, There a Little

 

            Here a Little, There a Little

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Why do the little changes take up so much space? I should qualify that with an addition, “in my head?”

Really, most changes hardly make a dent in my consciousness. Change is constant. My favorite bowl slips from my fingers and shatters on the tile floor. Blip—gone. The rubber tip on my cane wears out. I replace it. Lola The Dog celebrates her birthday (Okay, I celebrate her birthday). I notice she has quite a few more white hairs. Change, like a river, always moving.

Other changes. I give them  big space, make them important.

Over the years while Julie lived next door, we’ve slowly come to know each other. Julie is married to Francisco, whose family home is a thirty minute drive northwest of here, where they will make their new home. “We will visit often,” she assures me. I nod and smile, knowing that her life will zoom a different direction. New home, new neighbors. Yes, we will visit, but, with decreasing frequency. It’s the way of life. It will not be the same as chatting over the gate, in the back yard or on the patio three or four times a week. Change. Neither good nor bad. Simply change.

Then there is the weather. Just when I’ve gotten used to the patterns I’ve observed the years I’ve lived in Etzatlan, it goes slop-sided on me, big time.

As expected in February, days began warming. I took one of the covers off my bed yesterday morning. I’d been tossing it off at night for a couple weeks. I’ve been using my heater only sporadically, an hour or two if I felt chilled.

As usual, I walked my dog at noon. Sat in the shade a while. Chatted with a neighbor. Warm and comfortable.

Lola The Dog got antsy around 3:00, insisted we walk again. Okay, I grumbled under my breath. The wind had come up, stolen all the heat in those couple hours. I put the quilt back on my bed, turned on the heater in my suddenly cold house, made a cup of steaming tea to heat body and soul. Watched the clouds threaten rain, a few drops here but real rain in towns around us. It “never” rains in February. A rare shower in March, my neighbor assured me, never in February.

Just for giggles I checked the forecast a week ahead. Colder. Rain every day. “What do you mean, turning colder?  Rain?” Lower numbers 20 to 25 degrees, sun-up and sun-down, which may not be cold in Montana but it means cold where I live. What’s with the rain? Welcome rain! Go away, cold!

You’d think by my reaction that I had been personally affronted. I turned up my heater, resigned to another big power bill. Lola and I walked again around 6:00, bundled in my winter-wear. Should I make Lola a doggy coat?

While walking, my thoughts turned to physics. Not the high school physics of 1963. Or maybe it was. I had pretty much day-dreamed through physics, slouched in my seat, “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” tucked into the pages of my text book.

I wondered if air hurts. This was not a new wondering. I remember racing Sputnik the length of the hay field after the hay had been stacked, huge billowing storm clouds behind us, crackle of electricity in the air, feeling the air part around us. That was long ago, still in the 60s, when I first wondered if air hurt or noticed or cared.

I’d think about that airy notion, time to time, on the open Montana highway, parting the air at 80 mph. Or on the airplane over the Pacific, on the way to China, or on I-5, Seattle to LA, maneuvering through more vehicles than surely should exist. Or the water, while on the Ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island. Does water hurt? Does it make a difference, what we do without thought, at such speeds?

Without doubt, it makes a difference to bugs and fishies. If air or water are contaminated, we hurt. But what does it mean to continually stir the air? Nothing? Anything?

I certainly do not advocate we return to horse and buggy days. That would be a change too far.  I like cars. I’d quite happily own a gas guzzler if it were not cheaper and easier for me to pay someone else for transportation.

Julie will move. It will rain in February. I’ll part the air carefully while walking the lane. I think I’ll read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” again.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February, still winter (with rain!)

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All My Noisy Neighbors

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First things first. Our Baby Marley is home. She is home, ready for the hard work of getting healthy and growing and looking at everything around her with those big eyes. We are so grateful. And we are so grateful for all the friends and strangers who cared, who in small ways took our baby in their arms and into their hearts and helped her heal. Thank you.

That dog of mine has put me into the habit of greeting the rising sun on our first walk of the day. Believe me, before Lola came to live with me, I did not leave the house at first light.

I’ve no problem anthropomorphizing non-humans around me. This morning, in my meditations, the birds, in all their great variety, inhabiting the wide-spreading trees, took on characteristics of people living in high-rise condominiums, maybe without quite as much fuss as we humans.

Kiskadees prefer the upper floors, the penthouse suites, noses high in the air, a bit above the rest of us, more colorful, louder in their opinions. Let me tell you, those Kiskadees, they are loud! And insistent that you hear their opinions. Over and over and over. They would be great radio personalities, you know the kind, ones who host phone-in talk shows.

Tanagers and Palomas seem to furnish the middle units quite happily. These characters are softer voiced, more musical, more space between their words.

Rainbirds like to hang out, separate but connected. They are private types, tend to listen before they sound off. (I’m making this up, of course, you know that.)

Partridge doves and warblers nest in every limb of the lower units. These inhabitants of the numerous condos, apartments and high-rises around us, provide the background music of life, always there, always singing.

Of course, this is my own silliness, a silliness that sprang from thinking about how much the birds need the trees and the trees need the birds. That’s what I think, at any rate. And we, or I, need the trees and the birds.

When I leave the house in the morning I walk beneath a ring of trees, full of birds singing the sun up. If the birds go silent, I look around to see what and why. They pay no attention to me. This morning I saw a hawk, a rare sight.

Vultures are always circling the air currents. Vultures don’t live in our ring of trees but they have habitations in a particular group of trees in town. The birds give no mind to the vultures, knowing they are looking for riper prey. Once my birds deemed the hawk of no danger to them, they resumed song.

But is it song? Maybe they are arguing. My nest is better than your nest. What about that slovenly bird-brain on branch 23? Birds of that feather shouldn’t be allowed to live among we-are-better-than-thems. Deport that bunch back to Missouri. Take away their visas. Those lower-caste birds on the bottom tiers, can’t we boot them to the slums? They are surely nothing but troublemakers.

In my world, silly or not, I’ll call bird voices song. Or prayer. Or blessing.

This morning I noticed a flock of yellow Tanagers. I love the Tanagers. (The Western Tanager is red-orange, a glory of feather-dress, and likes to hang out in the Bottlebrush.) These yellow Tanagers, or they might be Orioles, were riding the air to the height of the tallest pines. We have a type of pine tree that tends to loom above the spreading-branches trees.

The tanagers this morning perched on outside branches of the pine tree above Julie’s house, arranged themselves as if they were Christmas decorations. The sight so delightful, I had to stop in my tracks with admiration for so long that Lola, who’d pranced ahead of me, came back to see why I had not followed her back to our house.

I’ve come to believe, personal experience, youth is wasted on the young. When I grew up on my Dad’s farm on the Milk River, my get-away place was a cottonwood tree, trunk and branches leaning over the water. I’d climb that tree to sing, to cry, to celebrate, to sulk, to dream, to tell God of my understanding back then, what I wanted and how I thought my life should go. Amen.

I remember the texture of the cottonwood bark beneath my fingers, the solid branches holding me in the air, the mottled shadows of sunlight through the leaves, the tortured twigs of winter. But, I don’t remember the birds. I know there were birds. There had to be birds.

Where were the birds?

Where was I?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February, still winter

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Making My Retreat Center in the Kitchen

 

            Making My Retreat Center in the Kitchen

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Life is tough. At times, life is tougher. I’m on the periphery of that tough life but I feel it just the same.

Baby Marley is still in the hospital in Billings. She’s not out of the woods, but slowly on the right path, healing from RSV and Pneumonia and detoxing from the drug that kept her paralyzed during the worst of her personal storm. Mom and Dad still camp out in her room.

Meanwhile, back home in Glendive, Grandma Dee and Grandpa Chris and Uncle Tyler are taking care of the other children, in ages, two and three, six and eight. Grandma came down with a horrible cough, ear and throat infections, and is medicating the best she can while continuing work and child care.

Sure, I could hop a plane. And be one more person needing care, not being currently winterized, among other disabilities.

Me, I’m 2500 miles away but next door to the whole rumpus. I want to run away. I want to go on retreat. A three-day retreat would be better than any vacation. I’m serious. I’ve given this a lot of thought, edging into overthink.

The solution, obvious, is that I live in my own retreat center. I could hang a sign on my gate: “On Retreat. Do Not Disturb”. My problem is that I don’t want to unplug my phone. I want to know. I want to stay in touch with family. Goes against retreat rules, right? Rules such as no phone, no computer, no contact, no talking.

When Baby and Grandma are back to health and their own homes, I will make my retreat, sans phone and computer and talk.

In the interim, I find retreat in my kitchen. My kids used to say, “Watch out. Mom’s making bread.’ That was shorthand code for “Mom’s upset. Stay out of the way.” I’ve always found comfort in pummeling bread dough.

Baking bread doesn’t mean I’m upset. I bake bread because I’m out of bread. Because I want to do something nice for a neighbor. Because I’m stressed. Because I’m happy.

I find comfort in my kitchen. Instead of my usual honey whole-wheat bread, I decided to try a different bread roll recipe, new to me. Oh, my. I found the queen of all breads. Instead of baking cookies to eat with my morning coffee, and I had cookie dough in the refrigerator, ignored, I broke off a bread roll and delighted in the goodness.

I shared these rolls with a couple other people, suggested they try them with morning coffee. They have metaphorically lined up outside my gate waiting for me to bake again.

Figuring I had to make sure the recipe wasn’t a fluke, I made a second batch. Plain dough that good just might make sweet rolls. I divided the dough into sandwich buns, dinner rolls and cinnamon rolls.

When the cinnamon rolls cooled slightly, I broke off a taste-test. These are better than my usual cinnamon rolls. The bread is softer, more delicate, carries the flavors well.

Immediately I contacted my friend. Michelle, I know you and Ana are taking your sister Susan to the airport tomorrow. If you have time, stop by for cinnamon rolls and coffee. I knew their schedule would be tight.

They came. We ate, we drank, we had an unspoken communion. The plate of rolls disappeared. I shooed my friends on down the road.

That is one of the joys of a kitchen retreat center.

Several friends bake bread. We compare and share recipes. Most of my friends bake bread without ever touching the dough. This I do not understand.

We all use recipes. A recipe is a guide, right? We grew up, each with a slightly different guide or recipe for how to live. Circumstances might change, a difference in ingredients, an addition here or a subtraction there. That’s life.

Same for bread. The flour here is less refined but ground to a fineness that makes me smile. My butter is different than your butter. Honey or sugar? Sea salt or the stuff from the blue box with the girl and umbrella? Do they still sell that? Potato water? So many choices. Same for life.

I want my hands in the flour, to bring the ingredients together just right, to knead the dough until it is smooth and elastic and slightly blistery. How can I pour my heart into the dough without getting messy? The dough talks to me. My fingers understand the lingo. My fingers know when the dough is just right, ready to rise in a covered bowl, ready to shape and bake.

Bread of life with love and worry and frustration and goodness.

Don’t bother me. I’m in the kitchen.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February, none too soon

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I’m all shook up!

 

I’m all shook up!

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No, that does not refer to an earthquake.

If you are of an age, you will recognize this as a song sung by Elvis when he was a youngster himself, around 1957. “I’m in love. I’m all shook up!”

Love manifests in many ways and early last week my world and the world of my family was all shook up. My great-granddaughter, Baby Marley, was diagnosed with RSV and pneumonia. Along with Mom, Jessica, Marley was transported from Glendive to Billings on a life-flight. Her family immediately came together with plans for how to cope. Of course, all the plans fell apart.

By the end of the day, revised plans in place, Jessica and Marley were safely ensconced in the NICU at St. Vincent’s. Damon (Dad) was en route with instructions to drive mindfully on the snowy, icy roads to Billings. Christopher (Grandpa), Dee Dee (Grandma) and Uncle Tyler stepped in to take care of the other four little ones, schedule to be revised as needed, which pretty much has meant daily restructuring.

Several hours passed that first day before we learned that Marley was in NICU, hooked up to various lines to support her life. Life lines. Sounds better than tubes. Semantics, I know. During those several hours of knowing nothing, I was a wet, sopping mess.

I’m an old hide, as my friend Dick used to say. I’ve lost my parents, my aunts and uncles, my closest friends and many, many people close in other ways. Each death left a scar on my heart. Nothing hurt like losing my baby. It is a different kind of pain. Too many women in our part of Montana can attest to what I say. Many, many women stepped out of their path to comfort me that winter in 1964.

This little Baby Marley, one I haven’t held in my arms, took over my heart in an overwhelming way. Part of my feeling was from fear. I do not want Jess and Damon, my whole family, to go through that loss. Don’t tell me that fear and love cannot live side by side. Love is bigger but I would be lying if I told you love pushed out fear. I wish it would.

The latest news from the doctors is that Marley will probably be in the hospital another week. My family “on the ground” in Glendive are exhausted, juggling child care for the other four children with their regular jobs and responsibilities.

We all have hope. The second night Marley was in the hospital, I had a dream in which a tightly swaddled baby was thrust into my arms. This little baby was a boy. Throughout the night’s dreams, I held that baby snug to my chest. I wondered if I had carried Marley through the night.

My friend asked, “Did you carry the baby or did that baby carry you?”

“Ah.” I said, as I recognized another truth.

I respond to soppy, sappy old love songs. We’ve all been bit by the bug. Baby Marley is our little buttercup. We surround her with a puffy pillow of love. Her whole family is carried on a puffy pillow-clouds of love.

At this point, week two in the hospital, it looks like another week ahead. Exhausting. But hopeful. We are all shook up. All of us. We know what matters. Love matters.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January soon over

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I Am A Plaid Flannel Shirt

 

            I Am A Plaid Flannel Shirt

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My friend Jerry wrote me this week. Skipping the personal stuff, he asked, “Is it possible for you to create a 501 3C to raise money in U.S. to help people in need in Etzatlan?”

Once I picked myself off the floor still hooting, I wrote back something like the following.

A 501 3C? Oh, Jerry, I thought you knew me better than that! You ask me to do a suit job. I am not a suit. I am a well-worn flannel shirt.  I am a lot of things, my friend. I am an artist, an inventor, a mechanic, a poet, a farmer, a dreamer, a leader. I am a friend. But I am not a suit. I am not even one sleeve of a suit. Oh, how I wish I were. My life would be so different.

Let me interject that I’ve known Jerry since school days. Jerry helped me with Algebra and I wrote his term papers to his specifications. He’d say, “Give me a C+ this time. I think Mrs. Hunter was suspicious of that last B.”

Jerry is a suit. We both went to school in little Harlem, Montana. Jerry got further away than most of us, not geographically, but in other directions. Jerry is still one of us. He just cleans up really, really well. Jerry knows which fork to use. Jerry is a financial investor for a major bank.

When I sold my house in Harlem, and compared to housing values throughout the country, we don’t even ping the scale, I asked Jerry if he would invest my wee landfall for me. Jerry kindly explained the smallest investment he handles, and he named an amount that I cannot even count that high. I was mortified, humiliated, wanted to crawl into a cave. I survived. We are friends.

Jerry and his wife visited me when I’d lived here in Etzatlan only a couple years. And they returned every year until the Pandemic. I don’t know if he fell in love with Etzatlan but he definitely has an affinity for our town. Every year he sends me a generous amount of money for the old-people’s home which is run totally on donations and always in need. Leo and I scurry around town and buy food supplies and personal items for the people. The store owners always generously adjust the costs downward when they learn where our purchases are going.

So you can understand why Jerry thought I’d want to help. I had to decline the job. I said, Jerry, I have neither the experience nor the expertise to do such a job. Numbers and money are beyond my ken. (Sigh.)

In my former life, I was leader of a group that built a theatre, from nothing, after paying off a huge debt left by the former administration. One of our first priorities was to obtain a 501 3C. It took a lot of doing and would have been impossible without Kathleen. And without Al, our bean counter and the man who made sure our feet stayed on the ground, and without David who described himself as general dog’s body but we couldn’t have done without him and without the handful of other volunteers, all extremely important, all adding their bits of experience and passion.

Emphasis on “group”. We were a small, emphasis on small, handful of volunteers and from a near ten thousand dollar debt, we emerged and built a one-hundred seat black box theatre. We did what couldn’t be done. We.

When our theatre became successful enough to fill the seats every weekend, I was smart enough to step down and seek someone with suit skills to carry it forward. I am very proud to say that the Jewel Box still puts on plays, still serves the community and is thriving.

I blathered on to Jerry a good bit about my own personal stuff and ended my missive with “much love from the plaid flannel shirt”.

This morning I had coffee in town with a friend and told her about Jerry’s request and how I had had to turn him down. Her eyes lit up. “Let me think about this. I do know how to go about obtaining a 501 3C and this sounds right up my alley.”

I wrote Jerry back and told him that his idea did not die on my vine. We need to get together. I envision much dialogue. Who knows but the impossible might be possible, not with me, but with we.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January, spring side, more or less

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Scratching the Seven-Year Itch

 

                        Scratching the Seven-Year Itch

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I have lost three entire nights of sleep this week, misplaced where there will be no finding, scratching the seven-year itch.

You could also name my malady the Grass Is Greener Syndrome.

The grass is never greener. It just looks that way from across the fence.

This is not an unusual occurrence for me. Something within me likes the challenge of new experiences. Frequently over the years while I’ve lived out on my little chunk of quiet, peaceful Paradise, I’ve cast my eyes around town and had the thought that I’d like to live in town, smack dab in the middle of noisy things happening.

I think about getting increasingly less mobile with age. Living in town would be easier in some ways. Cheaper, too.

My neighbor is negotiating to sell her little bit of Paradise. She won’t be moving far, a half hour drive to the village of her husband. These last few years the couple has split their time between here, La Mesata and her home in Minnesota. She talks with me about these changes, her fears and her excitements.

That was all the trigger I needed. I can justify any move, any change. If I moved to a wee rental in town, I wouldn’t have the constant upkeep I have here. I ain’t gettin’ any younger. And so on  and so on, my mind goes gadding about.

All in the comfort of my bed, eyes refusing to stay closed, I located a casita, fronting the sidewalk, like every other house on the block, warmer with every casa sharing walls on each side. In back, just enough room for a clothesline and my few herb pots.

I packed. I discarded, made piles, gave away, saved, and made arrangements for all to be dispensed, disposed or moved, all with my head on my pillow, all while telling myself to shut up and go to sleep.

My Lola The Dog had to learn to become a house dog, content to lie on a rug. When we walked the neighborhood, she had to learn the leash again, no more roaming free. She got pudgy, more rounded.

My new neighborhood had a tiny grocery around the corner, easily located, as tiny groceries dot every block. The tortillaria was conveniently across the street. My neighbors included a few other elderly women as well as the usual young men with loud cars and louder parties. Boom, boom, boom went the Beat! I am realistic, even in my imaginations.

I watched a parade of things I miss by living out on the edge, in the countryside. Street vendors carrying buckets of tamales, trays of doughnuts, carts of hot sweet potatoes. Reluctantly I added the propane trucks slowly passing, loudspeaker announcing their coming and going; the cars with speakers over the roof, telling us of events in the Plaza, coming election news, specials at the new box stores, relentless.

All of this activity, all the energy expended, all night long, left me worn out by day. The next night, I hit rewind and played it again.

Reality is that nobody is queued up at my gate wanting to purchase my casita. Reality is that I have created a unique and beautiful haven. (Reality is that I do this wherever I go because that is who I am.) Shhh, I tell myself. Quiet. Breathe. All will be well.

Today I am sitting out in my back yard, in the sunshine, surrounded by greenery and flowers, and birds and butterflies, all manner of color and blossom and brilliance. After three nights of work, I fired myself from the job of relocating, no workmen’s comp coming to me except that I shall sleep tonight.

This is my today, my salve to comfort the itch. The grass may not be greener but it is my greener.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January chilly, frost up the mountain

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Animal Stories

 

            Animal Stories

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It was a dark and stormy night. Oh, wait! Different story.

It was the day before New Year’s Eve. Leo and I were sitting in the sun chatting after he had mouse-proofed my washing machine with a length of screen and duct tape.

Mice are on the move every year during corn harvest when they temporarily are forced out of their home and well-stocked grocery. My washing machine sits tucked away in the back corner of my patio, outdoors. This is not the first time mice thought the machine makes a good dwelling place. It’s only a short scurry to the Dog Dish fast-food restaurant.

Take my word for it, you do not want mice to set up housekeeping inside your washing machine. Our solution isn’t pretty, but aesthetics don’t matter or is it that I make it oblivious to myself?

So we were sitting in the sun just chewing the fat, satisfied with outwitting a horde of stinky mice. (That sentence is technically wrong on so many levels but I’m an old woman and I no longer care.) Leo asked me if I had enough drinking water to last until Tuesday morning or did I want him to go fill my empty jug now.

That question was code for, “I’m a young man and this is New Year’s and all my friends and I will be partying and I won’t return before Tuesday.” Then he asked about my New Year plans.

I laughed. “Oh, Leo. I’m such a party animal. I will be kicking up my heels on Sunday night too. I will. In bed with a good book by 7:30, that is. Asleep by 9:00, no doubt. The noise of fireworks might wake me, but I’ll roll over and go back to sleep. I’m a bear-ish kind of party animal.”

Then Leo asked, “What age were you when you no longer wanted to party?” This was code for “I’m 36 and party life is no longer as fun as it used to be.”

I gave thought to his question. “Everyone’s different, Leo. Drinking and dancing and all that was fun, but, for me, partying always carried a cloud of fear. I’ve looked back a lot. Drinking and dancing, for me, was an excuse for the ‘all that’. I kept trying though. It was a relief when I could finally say, ‘I’m done.’”  I’d always had to be on guard from my own actions, always scared, afraid of what I might do or say or cause. Most people aren’t that way. Most people don’t count their drinks and wonder why stopping at two didn’t work.”

As an example, I told Leo about my first New Year’s Eve party, welcoming 1964, in the Cowboy Bar in Dodson. I was only 18 but it didn’t matter. This was ’63-’64 in Dodson. I was with my husband. The bar was packed. This bar served two kinds of drinks and I sure wasn’t drinking whiskey. I might have had two beers but that didn’t keep me from trouble.

I remember saying something horrible to a neighbor. Maybe nobody heard. He probably wouldn’t remember. But I do. I spent many nights awake in humiliation and self-loathing, reliving my actions. That may sound like a small thing but it was huge to me. I’ve spent time re-living every party.  I do not miss those nights afterward, swamped in guilt and fear and embarrassment.

If you want to know how to really party, watch the Partridge Doves. Those little feathery fluffs know how to have a good time. A whole flock has set up housekeeping in my Bottlebrush tree. They paint a Christmas card picture, sitting on branches in pairs in the early morning chill, huddled, preening, fussing, being worshipped by the rising sun.

One could do with a worse model. The night of New Year’s Eve, 2023-2024, sure enough, I was in bed before eight, snuggled in my Christmas bed jacket, my replacement addiction, a book in hand, Amazon my pusher, party animal that I am.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Welcome to 2024

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My Magic Bed Jacket

 

My Magic Bed Jacket

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My bed jacket. It is a sign. A portent of things to come.

Christmas Eve I went to Oconahua for a traditional Mexican feast of tamales and hot chocolate with my friends. When I returned home, a gift bag stuffed tightly with something rather heavy, sat on my patio table. I reached in and pulled out . . . a jacket.

This jacket is made of that plush, fluffy stuff, like a baby blanket. Thank goodness it is not a pale pastel. I’d have to gift it onward. No, amazingly, the jacket is patterned in a boxy red and brown cowboy-type plaid. And, it has a hood. I love it.

When I first held the jacket, I pictured myself wearing it while walking Lola. I put it on for size. Nice fit. Hung my new jacket on the coat closet, which in my limited space, is a pole with prongs for six jackets or sweaters and a hat.

As I prepared for bed, somehow the jacket skewed its way into my thoughts. Hmmm, I said, removing it from the coat stand, and putting it on over my night shirt. A bed jacket. A perfect bed jacket. I climbed into bed with my book.

Understand, I’ve never had a bed jacket. Bed jackets appear in British novels and Hollywood movies from the 30s and 40s. Bed jackets are filmy, wafting, woven of air and a few silky threads, pastel and pretty, for the rich and privileged. Not that I would ever admit to being limited in my thinking. I certainly never imagined myself in a bed jacket. Not me.

I didn’t allow myself to realize until that very moment I put it on that I had actually wanted a bed jacket, perhaps subliminally I had always wanted a bed jacket, and that this plaid bed jacket was the perfect gift for me.

No matter how warm my main room is, my bedroom is always cool. On cold winter nights, while I read a few chapters, I carefully tuck the bedding around my shoulders and snake one hand outside the covers to hold the Kindle. That was then.

Now, I sit in bed, covers around my legs, my new bed jacket keeping my top half toasty warm. Ah, such comfort. Such luxury. Such privilege.

As this year comes to an ending (Thank you. I never thought you’d leave.) and the new year is born and toddles into January, it is fitting that I consider my new bed jacket a sign, a portent of changes to come.

I like signs and portents. Tea leaves. Chicken intestines. Clouds in the sky. Oracles. They are all good. They all work.

Several years ago I was complaining to a dear friend about a situation in which I need to make a choice. “I don’t know what I want to do. Either option looks good to me and I just can’t choose.”

This man, a Harvard Law graduate, mind you, not a woo-woo bone in his body, dug a coin out of his pocket. “Heads is Option A and tails for option B. You call it.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t believe in that kind of magic.”

“Just call it,” he replied.

“Tails.”

He flipped the coin, it landed on my choice. “Okay, does that make you feel happy with the decision or do you wish the coin had landed on heads?’  

Ah. I got it. Flipping a coin is just one way of letting my silly self see what I really want when I can’t make up my mind because both options look great and my head had gone into over-think.

That’s how I see my new bed jacket as a sign of changes to come. If I can jog my attitude toward a simple article of clothing out of the historical box into which I had locked it, what other attitudes might I be able to change in the year to come? Oh, the excitement! Oh, the anticipation.

Thank you, Dear Crinita, for the gift which is changing my winter life.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking Out My Backdoor

December 27, 2-23

The World Is My Apple

 

The World Is My Apple

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Or, one might say, this week, apples are my world.

Every year I put a lot of thought into my gift giving for Christmas. Grandchildren are easy. Gift certificates. They are of the age where money is the better choice. Gold, right? For the babies, my grandchildren, my daughter handles that chore for me. She knows best what they want, need, and enjoy.

The hard part is for us few who are here this holiday season in Gringolandia. We are old. We already have everything we want. If I never see another scented soap, special candle, or crocheted bookmark, I will be a happy woman. That’s me. I speak for myself only. Maybe for others, those items would satisfy their hearts’ desires.

My first thought was to make round tuits. Okay, so maybe I’m stuck in eight-year-old humor, but I think it would be fun to “get a round tuit”, artfully custom made, of course.

However, we are a multi-cultural community and I’m not sure the humor would translate.

So, as often, the solution to my quandary came down to something we all like and will use, with the added benefit that I enjoy making and baking . . . apple pies.

A trip to the market for extra flour, sugar, butter and a half-bushel of apples, on with my apron, and I’m ready to roll. Roll dough, that is.

Apples. This is not apple-growing country. Oh, for the crab apple tree that used to grow in the corner of the pig yard on our farm on the Milk River. Those apples took a lot of work, but fruit of any kind was precious in those days. Anybody who messes with choke cherries and huckleberries knows what I mean. Those crab apples made the best jelly and apple pies of any apple ever. Tart and juicy.

Trial and error led me to the ugly apples. They are grown in Mexico. They are not pretty. They are not always uniform. Look a little warty. But they are tasty and make a good pie. (Other apples are shipped in and the flavor is lost in refrigerated trucks. My opinion.) Most of us gringos call them, you know, those ugly apples. So ugly apples it is.

While peeling applies, rolling out the dough, I like to think I am pouring love into my pies along with sugar and spices and everything nices.

Tomorrow is delivery day and I have one more pie to bake. This one is for my own self. I get gifted too.

May you all have a most wonderful Christmas, whatever your beliefs, no matter how you celebrate, celebrate life and love.

Sondra Ashton

Looking Out My Backdoor

December 20, 2023