My Million-Dollar Idea of the Day

 

My Million-Dollar Idea of the Day

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Years ago, a friend, I don’t remember who, told me that every day we have a million-dollar idea but that they skim by so quickly that we seldom catch one.

I don’t remember which long-ago friend posited this preposterous notion. I do remember that I said, “Hmmm. Um hmmm,” while nodding my head, wide-eyed.

I never forgot the notion. Now and then I catch a nodding acquaintance with one of my million-dollar ideas. Hence, the following.

Nostalgia is big these days. Grossly misplaced nostalgia, if you ask me, since I lived some of it and know the reality. However, nostalgia sells.

Conveniently, medical oversight seems to suddenly have fallen by the wayside.

At the same time, people, that’s you and me, gang, are bombarded with miracle cures, ancient, modern, invented, and imagined.

Bring these three threads together and you have it. Or, rather, I have it. I propose to revive the old-time medicine wagon and drift from village to village hawking my own brand of snake oil. Brilliant, eh?

What’s in the bottle of Cures-What-Ails-You? It doesn’t really matter, does it? I figure the base of most snake oil is alcohol. Here where I live the cheapest, most easily acquired alcohol is from the cane plant. Grind up some red chilies and one or two secret ingredients, and, no, I ain’t telling, because then they wouldn’t be secret ingredients, would they? Decant the liquid into old-timey blue bottles with a cork, and hit the road.

My friend Kathy’s husband Richard is a renowned retired doctor and he is willing to come up with the appropriate language for my spiel. Okay, he may not be renowned yet but by the time I finish my tour, he will be, yes, he will be renowned.

One product cures all, I figure. Richard can come up with the appropriate prescription, loosely called prescription, perhaps taking a page from homeopathy. Say, a drop for this ailment, two drops for that, and a slug for the really hard cases.

Brilliant, right? Do I figure to get rich? Well, no, not exactly. I’ve never been enamored of wealth, more’s the pity. Real wealth takes money to begin the process to generate more money. I have none. Wealth requires wealthy friends. Ditto. In today’s world, wealth takes devious manipulation through the internet. Ditto, again.

However, would I ever have a good time. I can easily imagine clip-clopping over the backroads with my mule and colorful-as-a-field-of-wildflowers medicine wagon, stopping by both isolated homes where I might trade a bottle of Cure for a meal or a clutch of eggs and in main-street squares, opening the back of my wagon, setting up a box on which to stand so I can see over the heads of the crowds and hawking my wares.

At best, I might make expenses.

As with all my other million-dollar ideas, you may have this one for free. You may get rich. I am sure to have fun.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

September 4, 2025

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When A Weed is More Than a Weed

 

               When A Weed is More Than a Weed

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My friend Vala from Harlem told me about her pitiful yield from her garden, hardly enough for a salad, in this summer of hail, flooding rains and stultifying heat. She said she mostly grew purslane and bindweed.

“Purslane,” I got excited. “Purslane is a wonder vegetable. You can eat it. It’s much like spinach only tastier and full of good nutrition. Here’s how I fix it. I steam it, add butter, salt and pepper and drizzle on a little vinegar. It’s delicious.”

Vala asked Larry to go out amongst the bindweed and gather her a mess of purslane. She followed my directions. “I love it,” she reported. “Larry said it was better than he thought it would be but he wouldn’t want it every meal.”

Nor would I, Larry, nor would I. I get hungry for it now and then but only eat it every couple months, or when I can find it. I don’t happen to have any in my yard.

When I was growing up on the farm, we called it pigweed. It grows prolifically. Here, there and everywhere.

A hundred years ago when I lived in Great Falls, a woman named Mary Missy taught me how to cook pigweed. I mean purslane. She also taught me how to use comfrey, another weed, as tea and as a compress for wounds. I wish I could have known Mary longer. I’ve never lost her memory.

This morning at the market in town I bought a bundle of purslane. It’s not on the shelf every day but I can find it often enough to keep me satisfied. I steamed the whole bunch and ate a large bowl of the greens. Tomorrow I’ll scramble purslane with eggs.

Since purslane is a common market vegetable in this area, called verdolagas, I asked Leo how his family cooks verdolagas and discovered that my way is boring.

First they fry costillas, which are bite-sized bits of pork rib (or one can use any meat), and set the costillas aside. Next chop tomatoes, onion, garlic and chilis of your choice in the blender with water.  Pour that into the skillet which fried the costillas. Reduce the broth, stirring frequently. Add the costillas and verdolagas to the broth (salsa roja) until the meat is heated and the vegetable is tender. Doesn’t that sound yummy?

My next thought, now that I’m jumped out of my boring (but still delicious) purslane rut is to try the costillas and verdolagas with salsa verde, made with tomatillos. Mushrooms? A bit of chopped carrot? Potato? In tacos. Oh, I can almost taste them just talking about them. Enchiladas with cheese and beans. Raw in salad. Hmmm, tomato sandwich with purslane?

My purslane-pigweed-verdolagas cup runneth over.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

August 28, 2025

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Why My Bread Didn’t Rise

 

Why My Bread Didn’t Rise

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I have amazing mechanical skills. If I contemplate a problem long enough, generally I can figure out how to fix it. When I was a very young mother and my daughter was in diapers, back when diapers were squares of cotton cloth, my washing machine broke down.

If you’ve ever washed 80 diapers by hand, you will understand why I lay on the floor beneath my wringer washer, the kind with the tub up on legs with a wringer attached to the rim of the tub, and looked and thought and looked and thought.

With only the most rudimentary tools, pliers and two screwdrivers and a couple wrenches, I took something apart down there that looked broken, fixed it, put it back together with only two small extra parts, filled the tub with water heated on the wood stove and washed a huge load of baby clothes.

Christmas Eve, year after year, I’ve spent hours on the floor putting together children’s toys made in China, directions written in Chinese.

For years my ability to take things apart and put them back together more beautifully made my house payments.

Mechanically, I’m good. Electronically, not so hot. At electronics, I’m rubbish. Electronics turn my brain into 3-days-in-the-pan, overcooked, congealed oatmeal.

The other day I finally got my new internet service installed. I was excited. I’d been piggy-backing off a generous neighbor’s services, gratefully. I got my computer, my kindle, my tablet all online. No problem. I know how to do that.

However, my printer refused to spit out a page of print. My computer refused to even recognize my printer. What is this, a grade school snit amongst electronic equipment?

I’ve a fairly new printer which I had managed to install with no problems and only minor irritation and sweat. I followed the directions. I should be able to find this problem and fix it. Right?

After a couple hours, I quit. Had a sleepless night, trying to figure it out while lying awake in bed. That never works but I keep trying, which I think is the definition of insanity.

The following day, with my daughter on the phone 2500 miles away, we worked another couple hours. No go.

Interspersed with my futile attempts to make my printer work, I mixed a batch of dough for bread. Baking bread is a mechanical process. I’m an excellent baker.

The dough didn’t feel right. Bread dough is sensitive. It responds to emotional atmosphere. I know that dough felt my frustrations and acted accordingly. Finally, it had risen enough that I could form loaves, which I almost threw away but, reluctantly, just in case, put in the oven.

One last attempt trying to hook up my printer. Remember the definition of insanity? When I quit, I was screaming. I was screaming for ice cream. I grabbed my neighbor, Crin, and talked her into sharing ice cream with guava sauce I’d made that morning. (Guava is not so sensitive.)

Not being totally devoid of brains, in defeat, I asked for help. My neighbor Josue is trained in electronics and robotics. Go figure. You are right. I should have started with “HELP”.

I picked up a book and sat in a chair with my back to Josue. I hate someone looking over my shoulder when I am working. Ten minutes later, Josue asked me to come test the printer. Ten minutes! I was immensely grateful, but, a tiny contrary part of me wanted to brain him. Ten minutes!

My bread was not light and fluffy and full-sized, but Crin convinced me to keep it for toast. I gave her one loaf and kept the other.

This morning I made a batch of Grateful Bread for Josue.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

August 21, 2025

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It’s Pretty To Think That Way

 

               It’s Pretty To Think That Way

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Warning: Merrily mixed metaphors ahead.

I do like weather. While some might talk about the weather to keep conversation on a superficial basis, I talk about weather because weather is vital.

What a topsy-turvy year this is for weather. Montana. Mexico. Not much different down here where I live in Jalisco. In other words, it’s an unpredictable mess. I follow eastern Montana weather closely thanks to my daughter, Montana friends and the Havre Weekly.

I can’t help but wonder if this is the kind of weather set up, with all the surprising rain, that prompted the infamous flood of pamphlets that lured homesteaders to such inhospitable locations as eastern Montana with the promise that “Rain follows the plow!”

From our standpoint of distance and history, we might wonder how anybody could have entertained such unfounded, unscientific, unweatherific, illogical, irrational nonsense. But believe it they did, plows and kitchen tools and children in wagons, farmers along with plenty of neophytes left both workable land and inner cities by the hundreds, struggled across what later became several States, built drafty cabins or dirt hovels and plowed the prairies and waited for the rain which never fell and never fell and never fell.

Thinking that if one plowed the plot, dropped in seed, and waited, rain would follow, reminds me of the fairy tale of the Shoemaker and the Elves.

I do like fairy tales. When I had my little workshop in Poulsbo, Washington, I liked to prepare my worktable or station for the next day, set it up with cut patterns or springs ready to tie or whatever the next step required, in hopes that the elves might appear in the night hours and finish the job. In hopes, tongue in cheek. Every morning I had a good laugh when the elves neglected to show. Not even one time.

The difference is that I knew it was a fairy tale, I wasn’t a shoemaker and knew the elves would not come but used the story as self-entertainment.

Not for one moment will I try to tell you that I can’t fall for my own fairy tale. Just a year ago this month, I began preparing for a move ten miles west and further into the mountains and part of my reasoning, this is true, is that it rains more there than here at the Rancho. It does. The water is better, not so super-saturated with minerals and the water system is more reliable. It is so.

Blithely, I managed to ignore other “weather” signs. Some I couldn’t see until I lived under, around and inside them. My decision to move back I made entirely on my own, based on storm clouds mounting on the horizon of history if not geography.

I do like weather. I’m crap at reading weather signs, especially in these turbulent conditions and interesting times.

Rain does not follow the plow. I won’t set out flowerpots with seeds and wait for the cloud elves to drop water. I have pared down my garden considerably, to herbs and a few flowers because flowers are important. I will gladly drag hose from pot to pot on the days when no rain falls. I will revel when the rain drops from the lowering sky.

When I wander into fantasy fairy weather land, I will remember my Aunt Mary telling me, “It’s pretty to think that way.”

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

August 14, 2025

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The Horse Runs Faster to the Barn

 

The Horse Runs Faster to the Barn

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Having all my stuff back at the Rancho doesn’t mean I’m settled down and done.

There is a lot to be said for staying put forever. Stability. Knowing your surroundings and, whether or not they are close friends, knowing those around you intimately. Comfort.  A sense of permanence that rolling stones don’t get to have. Moss. I like moss.

It took me two months to move to Oconahua. It took twelve days for Leo to move me back, complete with bamboo, herbs and my little dog, Lola. There must be a moral or a meaning to this story, if only I can figure it out. The horse runs faster.

We’ve worked hard to get my belongings back into some kind of order. We? Me point, Leo grunt. Leo has been a trooper, putting up with my extra jobs along with taking care of several other houses and yards on the Rancho.

In at least one instance, I got a little carried away with creating spaces differently arranged than when I lived here previously. The differences are part of my fun. Poor Lola. I moved her dog dwelling closer to the front door. That night we had a rather daunting storm. Water everywhere. Soaked doggy bedding.  Back to the tried and true and dry.

I’m bleeding money but that is all part of moving, necessary expenses.

My plants made the move without going into severe shock. Constant rains help. I’m loving them and they are loving me.

My house is in order, bodega mostly settled, patio sort of sorted. The horse is in the barn, so to speak, munching oats, or soon will be.

Today I made a nice batch of granola. Harvested a clutch of limes from my key lime tree and juiced them for the freezer. I’ve ingredients on the counter to make a pizza for dinner. It’s an ordinary day, a restful day, a day of peace.

Now I’m off to mop, mop, mop and then to flop, flop, flop. An ordinary day.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

August 7, 2025

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I didn’t go to kindergarten.

 

               I didn’t go to kindergarten.

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Since we didn’t have kindergarten in the rural school in which I began my education, I missed the chance to learn everything I needed to know in one fell swoop of a year.

I have had to learn everything I needed to know the hard way, life’s lessons over time. I’m still enrolled in that particular school.

Smashed flat beneath a bundle of notebooks I no longer need but hang onto for looking back at names and memories, is a small bundle of flyers for plays at the theater I helped build from nothing but scratch and desire. I’m quite proud of that chapter in my life.

What I want to do, without the expense and fuss of frames, is to paste these flyers to a piece of card stock or something similar and preserve the fronts, crumples and dings and all, and hang my theatre memories in my bodega sewing room where I actually have usable wall space.

When I was in first and second grades, art consisted pretty much of paper and coloring crayons. Pitiful, but, hey, it’s a start. I’m not sure about the best materials to use for my “art” project, but I know who has the answers.

My friend Crinita, who will be here in three weeks for a short stay, is a teacher, a primary teacher. Retired, but at her core being, a teacher through and through.

I could figure out how to put together my project, but when one has an expert next door, why not use her skills and knowledge.  Crin is also a lot of fun.

I’m not without artistic skills. When I was 8, 9 and 10, I used to make my own paper dolls and design their clothing.

No scrap of paper hit the burn bin without my scrutiny. I remember removing the turquoise and silver paper covering from the Ajax Cleanser. Do you realize the possibilities of beauty with a scrap of turquoise and silver?

Armed with nothing more than a ruler, scissors and crayons and white paste, from piles of these papers I created entire shoe box rooms with furnishings. Lamps from scraps and a sucker stick. Windows with a view from scraps of cardboard and my Dad’s match book covers of birds and flowers.

Kindergarten is important. I wish I could have gone. Instead, I had unstructured time and imagination. Also important.

Next month I’ll let you know the outcome of my kindergarten “art” project. I wonder if they still make pots of white paste?

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

July 31, 2025

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Positively Giddy

 

        Positively Giddy

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I wrote a short note to my friend Sandy in Washington to let her know I am still alive, busy unpacking, cleaning, placing, creating different livable spaces in my familiar old home, back in Etzatlan. (The first night I tucked in with only a bed and stove, my dog and myself.)

Then came the first load of boxes and furnishings. Followed by . . .

One of my favorite things is to create areas of functional beauty in my home. Perhaps I waxed a bit bombastically when talking with her about how much fun I am having.

Sandy wrote back, “You sound positively giddy.”

Perhaps I am just a bit giddy. I find pleasure in simple things, in accomplishments, and this work gives me great pleasure.

Just the same as I wrote to Sandy, this is a short note to you. I hope, and hope does seem to spring forth eternally, I hope to be more sane and able to write in a sensible manner by this time next week.

I will add one very short and scary story. With all the ins and outs and all around the house, full box in, empty box out, walk the dog, full box in, as though I’m on a merry-go-round, leaf and other tree debris walk in on my shoes and some bits decide to stay.

This morning I almost picked up a quite large centipede, in clever disguise, with my fingers, when I remembered to poke it with my cane first. It looked like a curly leaf, until it didn’t. In this subtropical country, it is amazing how many tiny critters mimic leaves and grasses, almost invisible, until they aren’t!

Oh, wait, one more little tidbit. In my bedroom I have a beautiful print of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a sandalwood statue of Quan Yin, a female Buddha from my trip to China, and a sandalwood carving of Ganesh from my India trip. It’s not really a shrine. Okay, it is a shine to remind me of my connection to Great Spirit, to God, however you understand God.

Alongside these, I hung a bedpan from my last surgery, which I had filled with an arrangement of silk flowers, a flower pot if you will, to remind me not to take myself so seriously.

Adios for now, from Giddy in Mexico.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

July 24, 2025

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A Rolling Stone?

 

A Rolling Stone?

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Some decisions are so obvious that it is easy to say “yes” or “no” or “in the barrel”. Others take time and some are painful. I made an extremely hard decision this week. I am moving back to Etzatlan to my empty casa there from this beautiful home I’ve lived in the past eight months in Oconahua.

Last week we had a barbeque for the 4^th, we being three gringos and four Mexicanos. Ana told us about a niece and her family from the States who were moving back and needed to rent a home until they found a place to buy or build. My first cringing thought was that I am living in their perfect transition home.

More than once Ana and Michelle have talked about the possibility that friends or relatives might be needing an interim place to live. Those discussions were theoretical. Now they were talking about real people with names.

Ironically, my empty house, which is on the market, immediately, last week, garnered two offers of purchase. I turned them down. During the last week of June, I had accepted a lucrative offer for a 6 month rental. I took a deep breath and notified my agent that, oops, with regrets, circumstances changed and I want, I need, my house for me.

That’s my story in a nutshell, minus several toss-and-turn nights.

Moving here took weeks. Moving back will take weeks. I’ll return with memories and regrets. I won’t get to see that little mule colt grow up. Both places have their own distinct advantages. It’s not like I’m leaving the country. Ana and Michelle are good friends. We will visit. We probably will meet for coffee more often than we do now, living next door!

When I get moved back into my place, I will make changes. Change seems to beget changes. Little things. For example, I’ll move my herbs and geraniums back with me and my dog, but I will not replace the 130 pots I sold last fall in which I had an extensive garden. I’ll hang up my farmer’s hat.

During the days I mulled over my decision options, I consulted friends, friends with no skin in the game. I asked them to make any comment, any criticism, even if they needed to tell me I’m crazy. I did not say a word, however, to my friends on the Rancho. I already know what they would say. They are selfish. They’d say, “Oh, good, come back. We want you here.”

Some might say, “Oh, you made a wrong decision when you moved to Oconahua.” I disagree. These months here on the mountainside have been precious to me, an extended vacation.

Long ago I came to believe that there are no wrong decisions, just decisions.  This decision has these consequences. That decision has those consequences. Consequences come in a mixed bag, joy and pain together. This is my belief, with my experiences. Mine. I would never try to convince you that this is “truth” or that you should think my way. Shudders.

I make mistakes. Of course, I do. My big mistake in this situation was to ignore that tiny niggling concern I had back before my move to Oconahua, a shadow of concern that my friends might need this new house for their friends and relatives who, given political uncertainties, might opt to either relocate or return to Mexico.

That was a mistake, but, a mistake I made for which I have no regret. Consequences, right? My time here has been wondrous. Now I shall step aside for others to enjoy this special place.

I’ll return to my other special place, make some changes to make living there easier for me. It is a win-win, all the way around.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

July 17, 2025

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Tractors and Horses and History

 

Tractors and Horses and History

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What I really want is to talk about tractors and horses. But, I’ll start with history.

I almost got in a fight over history the other day. I came so close. I managed to stop my mouth just in time.

I’ve always liked history. Back a thousand years ago when I went to Northern, one could immerse oneself in one’s field of study, no minor, just lots and lots of history. So, I did just that.

In terms of the job market back then, it was pretty much a worthless field I plowed. In terms of learning to see the world around me, it was invaluable.

 One learns to take nothing at face value.  What you see is the surface. Black/White?  Either/Or? They don’t exist. Every person, place, thing, event can be, should be, looked at from several points of view.

What happened the other day that got me in hot water was just this. My friend, who is an astute thinker in most cases, made one of those dangerous black or white statements, concerning historical events, one sided. Immediately my mind flooded with a hundred points of both history and science with which to refute her words. I, foolishly, started with my first example. She cut me off, “I know I’m right. I read it.”

Well, shut my mouth. I know not to argue with that. Mostly, I was surprised. Astonished. I also am aware that we all have one or two narrow-minded tunnels and that I have my own.

Being able to see 82 different points of view around XYZ surely makes it hard to see my world in definitive, cut and dried statements. I wouldn’t trade my awkward multi-viewpoint ability for the apparent assurance that others seem to get with more simple points of view.

In a different field, out here on the outer edge of town, most plots of land have a tiny section for growing corn or cane or agave. Compared to a Montana wheat field, you might say, “Oh, you mean a garden plot.”

I do not spend my day hanging out the window to see what’s happening along the street. A diesel engine idling outside the window will draw me over to see what’s going on.

The latest tractor to catch my eye was not nearly as old as the one pulling the two-prong harrow in the lot across the street a few weeks ago. This one was old, minus most of the original color, had obviously never been sheltered in a shed, but still had discernable print.

I took the make and model number to my computer and found the tractor to be a 1975 Ford. Only fifty years old. This tractor had hydraulics to lift the harrow at the end of the row rather than a rope to pull it out of the ground. As soon as the field to the north of our wall was suitably tilled, the tractor took off, returned with a corn planter. At the speed things grow here, I figure next month I’ll see corn tassels pop over the wall.

I don’t know if anyone here in Oconahua still plows with horses. Probably so. I have only the limited view of part of my street. But many men ride horses to work. And, to the bar. And, for romancing.

The dappled gray, the brown mare and the burro across and down one lot have cleared that plot of every blade of green. I noticed a young man, about ten years old, at a guess, who moves the horses to a different place when there is nothing left to eat. With the rains, grass grows quickly. Three or four days later, the horses are back, mowing every leaf and blade.

Up the street two plots, there is a beauty of a bay mare, I’m fairly sure it is a mare. She’s awfully round so I expect to see a babe by her side soon.

I love that I get to see glimpses of the past. I cannot romanticize the past. When that Ford tractor was new, most of the men here worked up at the mines. When that young boy who moves the horses from plot to plot comes of age, he will probably go to University in Guadalajara. Everything changes. With change comes what we label good or label bad as well as 82 points between.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

July 10, 2025

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Perceptions

 

       Perceptions

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While mopping my floors, I escorted an ant out of my house and set it free. Do not get excited. I don’t know why I did not squash it underfoot as I usually do. Ants are the bane of our lives here. So many sizes. So many varieties. A never-ending supply.

Don’t even think that I’d gotten Zen over that ant. I didn’t even give it thought. Simply picked it up in my fingertips and flipped it out the screen door.

If I had been going Zen about anything, I should have been concerned for my newest house guest, Pierre, the lizard, around which I had just swished my mop, one of the small variety, quite capable of startling me several times a day. It is not a gecko. I don’t see gecko feet.  I’ve not heard the gecko bark and we’ve shared space this past week. My discarded ant could have contributed to Pierre’s food supply. Lizards eat bugs. Ants? Spiders? Bugs of which we have plenty, outside, not in my house. Okay, some in my house.

I am quite capable of reading deeper, esoteric, meaning into any situation and being utterly wrong. Perhaps over-thinking is a form of self-entertainment. No Zen this time.

Yesterday, mid-afternoon, the sky suddenly loomed low and black. I went outside and looked up toward the top of the mountain. I swear I could hear the rain coming. I, quick, wrote to my daughter, Dee Dee, “I hear the rain hitting the tree leaves, looks like a huge storm. I want to let you know we might lose power.”

At our elevation, most of the trees are broad leaf types. (We have some pines, which I call frothy pines because the clusters of needles look frothy.) When the rain hits the broad leaves, it is noisy like hail falling.

Swoosh, down the mountain the storm roared. An hour later I wrote my daughter. “Well, that went over in an instant. We had gusty wind, a light sprinkle, the black clouds rushed over and beyond in mere minutes. The noises I heard? Wind rustling the leaves, not rain. Not rain. I was wrong.”

A couple of weeks ago our rainy season began. Rain daily, rain nightly, with hardly a pause. I like rain. No complaint about rain. This year we have a different pattern to the rain. Since living here in the sub-tropics, what I have known, what I expect, are sunshine days and rainy afternoons and evenings. What are landed with this time around are gray, gloomy, wet days, all of them. I’m not saying this means anything. It just is the way it is.

I will say that with a solar water heater, a good day is a day when we have enough hot water that I can shower, even when the water is not scalding hot like I want it! I like my solar water heater. However, it does require significant patches of sunlight. My water is cold. My house is cold. Last night I went to sleep with my wool socks on my feet, thinking about sliding a pair onto my hands.

Oh, well. Ants are not important. Rain will fall. Sun will shine. People are important.

A couple weeks ago my daughter went to Great Falls to attend the memorial for her Aunt Lois. She met up with, connected with cousins she had not seen in too many years, not since all the cousins were curtain climbers.

A sad element of divorce is that relatives get displaced or misplaced. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we, with one judgment, cut off half our family? These young men are my nephews. I wish I could have gone with her. I have some stories I could have told. Lois was only a year or two older than me. Our lives split off in different directions.

Speaking of different directions, Where, oh where is my Pierre. I hunted here. I hunted there. I looked around most everywhere.

I’d become enamored with my little companion. He was no longer afraid of me though I must have loomed large in his life. Maybe he left family out in the rock garden. Maybe he’d only come inside to explore. Maybe he discovered that the grass was not greener. Maybe he wanted his mommy.

Pierre the Lizard has done a flit. He has escaped the confines of domestic life and is once more at loose in the wilds. I feel bereft. I kind of miss him.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

July 3, 2025

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Plans and Other Silliness

 

               Plans and Other Silliness

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This is the fifth named storm of the hurricane season, heading straight for our little town of Oconahua, like an arrow shot from a giant’s bow. Erick is its name.

Oh, wait. I was just reminded there is no such thing as a hurricane season.

How silly of me. I forget a lot these days, as it seems many things I thought I knew or could count on are being declared null and void. Silly me.

In my daftness of mind, I make plans, which truly is a silly thing to do. Nevertheless. I do.

My master plan to wait out two days of forecast non-stop rain, which no doubt, will include loss of electric power, loss of internet and loss of phone service, begins in the kitchen.

My dough is resting in the refrigerator. I mixed pumpkin pulp from the pumpkin Michelle gave me from her garden into pie filling. Pumpkin pie will be Phase One.

Phase Two will be another pie, made from my 15-Bean Soup, which I load with veggies. Years ago, I discovered this thick soup makes a yummy pie. Pies are good keepers for those “just in case” times. Such as, just in case I don’t want to open the refrigerator because the power is OUT.

Phase Three is to mix a slurry from ciruelas and mangos, both from local neighboring gardens, which will make aqua frescas enough for four days.

Phase Four, to be activated tomorrow, since we are assured, despite bigger brains than mine saying there is no such thing, that tomorrow will bring an entire day of non-stop rain, courtesy of Erick, beginning around 5:00 this afternoon, through the night and on and on and on, is a much-needed and thorough house cleaning. Personally, I think my plan is brilliant. Cleaning, washing, mopping and such require no electricity, no phone, no internet. I gladly put it off until tomorrow, a rainy-day chore.

Meanwhile, my E-Reader is fully activated and fully booked.

No woman could ask for more.

Updated report: Rain to begin in one hour. Wait, it’s only noon!

Further update: I still have power. I have no patio, such slab being underwater. Cilantro drowned. All else thriving, including my own self.

Rain continues, forecast for more into Monday. Then, woohoo, Guess what! Another tropical storm ramping up in the Pacific, forecast rain.

Silly of me to make plans. Nothing in my life up to and including now has gone to plan. Yet, I continue in hope.

Perhaps “plan” is the wrong word. Maybe a series of words would be better, such as Maybe I can do this, go here, accomplish that. Add a codicil: Might or might not happen.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

June 26, 2025

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Spoof and Other Observations

 

Spoof and Other Observations

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Last week my article garnered surprising comments. The older women seemed to get a hearty chuckle. The younger women were horrified. The men were silent.

It was a spoof! I thought that was obvious. I also know that when I speak I have such a serious face that people often mistake my humor.

The important point though, the only important point, is that I know that the only person I can make happy is myself. And that is a full-time job!

Meanwhile, see the smile on my rainy face. Last night the rain poured, plunged, out of the stormy clouds, our first full-on, hard rain of the season. Never mind how happy a few sprinkly showers made us feel. This is pure joy.

The hot season is over—daytime temperature dropped 20 degrees. Rain is a daily do. I will not have to drag hose for five glorious days. I can say that every day.

Without that daily chore, what will I do? Let me tell you a little bit about living here in Oconahua. I love living in Etzatlan. I love living in Oconahua. The first time I came to Oconahua, it was to tramp over the ruins, talk to the on-site archeologist, to learn about the digs.

The second time I drove through the town deepened my fascination. This trip was to visit new friends, Ana and Michelle. Driving out of this little town of maybe 2400 people, I remember thinking, I could live here. Each time I came that feeling gained a little more weight until decreasing mobility gave me the impetus to make the move to a smaller home.

I miss my wrap-around windows. I miss my Etzatlan friends, all within a short walk. I miss my extensive garden. I make the most of what I have, my herbs, five pots of geraniums, my papaya tree planted in a large garbage can, my two containers of food plants.

No location is perfect—or every location is perfect. My choice. My grass is greenest.

The other morning I cut off seven non-bearing squash blossoms, stuffed them with a sliver of cheese, dipped them in egg, dredged them in masa, fried them in butter. I make the most of what I have.

The next day, for entertainment, I rested my forearms on a window sill and watched a prize-winner of a tractor pull a cultivator over what will become, once again, a corn field. I say a prize-winner tractor. It would garner admiration and acclaim in any antique tractor show. At a guess, I’d say this one is vintage 1930s. Same with the cultivator.

Maybe one would have to have grown up with tractors to understand my fascination. We had older tractors on our farm. I don’t recall that we ever had a shiny new sparkly tractor. But none as old as this fine specimen.

One of the joys of living in the Garden of Mexico is the variety of fruits and vegetables I’ve never seen before. I make a point to try everything and certainly have my favorites. I like to explore their various uses.

Ciruela, trust me, it is unpronounceable. In Spanish every syllable is pronounced and don’t forget the Spanish “r”. Cir-u-e-la. And vowels are pronounced with different sounds than ours. (Seerrr-ew-((long)) a-lah) Now put it all together with speed. Ha. Enough of language lessons.

This lovely native plum is delicious. However, much like the chokecherry we know, it is more pit than pulp. Ciruelas are the size of marbles to ping-pong balls. Common use is as an agua fresca, a delicious drink, refreshing and healthy.

Ana brought me a nice bulging bag of reddish-yellow plums.  Given the similarity to our own fruit of comparable pit-pulp, I wondered if ciruelas would make a good jelly.  

It was a hot and steamy day in the kitchen, worth every salty drop of sweat in a hot kitchen, and, yes, ciruelas make the best plum jam ever!

I’ll end my rambles for today with a dog story. On the far corner of my concrete patio area, overhung with a plumeria tree, there was a 4’ x 6’ area of weedy dirt. I decided to grass it over. My friend Leo brought me the sod and created my small “lawn”. My mutt Lola immediately claimed it as her own. She rolled and rolled, joy evident in every muscle, the biggest smile ever on her doggy face. If she’s not wriggling, she’s perched in the grass, overseeing her kingdom, making sure all is well in our world.

Don’t try to tell me I don’t have a full life.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

June 19, 2025

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How to keep your man happy in bed.

 

How to keep your man happy in bed.

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The following imaginative scenario contains no provocative material. More’s the pity.

Let’s begin with full disclosure. I am 80 and have been on my own recognizance for a goodly number of years. No man in sight. I live in such a place that I am unlikely to garner one of those plum prizes. Or is it prune prize? After all, I am the only single gringo woman in this little cow-town. I am amenable to partnering up, but, let’s face it, that is highly unlikely to happen.

I like men and am not lacking in knowledge. Let me share what I know with you.

What do men love most? Easy question. Football. Go Team!

Me, I’ve never understood football. Hide the ball under a pile of bodies, kill and maim. Where is the fun in that? Baseball, now that is sport. Basketball, I get it. I like it. A game centered around a ball and scoring without blood.

Since this is not about my personal aversion to either football or television, that monster thief of time, thief of thought, thief of . . . you get the picture, the first thing I would recommend is to hang a big screen thief, I mean television, on the bedroom wall opposite the bed. This is advice about what your man likes most. Suck it up, cupcake.  

Otherwise, let him clutter up, I mean, arrange the room to suit his needs in his way. A man likes his space to be his space. You might want to make sure the gadget that controls the television is within his arm’s reach and can be easily located by him at all times. Otherwise, stay out of the way.

After football, what is the next thing closest to every man’s heart?

No, no, no, no. Age, remember. We are addressing needs of men of a certain age.

Food. Yes, food. My suggestions are completely optional, not to mention notional, of course, but football and food go together. What could be more thoughtful and loving than a small fridge for cold drinks and small snacks and perhaps a mini-microwave tucked into one of the corners of the bedroom. This may seem a bit over the top to you, but remember the word “happy”.  At this age what might have formerly seemed decadent, now seems “why ever not”!

Football + food = Happy Man.

What about the female, part in this “part”nership, you ask. I’m getting to that. Yes, my next idea also involves a marriage of television with food. Periodically, not so often that the shared experience becomes mundane nor so seldom that it becomes anniversary material, I suggest that you pop up a huge bowl of popcorn, liberally buttered, to share. Tuck into the other side of the bed next to your man, bowl of popcorn balanced on your laps, snuggle hip to hip and stream a rom-com, something of your choice.

After the movie, after a goodnight kiss or two, if it were me, I’d stroll down the hallway to my own television free, popcorn free zone, to my own bedroom on the opposite side of the house, for a good night’s sleep.

*Back massage and foot rubs optional and reciprocal.

**I have been told I have a rich fantasy life.

***I also was told I’ve been single so long that I’ve lost touch with reality.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

June 12, 2025

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Gleeful in our wet dirt shirts!

 

               Gleeful in our wet dirt shirts!

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We did it! We single-mindedly pulled in our first rain yesterday (Friday) with a little help from Alvin the Chipmunk out in the Pacific swirling stormily.

Would you believe that the wet dirt here in Oconahua has a decidedly different odor than the wet dirt just up the road at the rancho in Etzatlan? As collector of wet-dirt smells, I am amazed. I love the scent of wet earth, especially after the first seasonal rain.

While talking about how the rain turned out to be a delightful mood changer for me, my friend reminded me that that rain train runs both ways on the tracks. Immediately I was back on the Kitsap Peninsula in Washington in February, after months of daily rain, wondering if the Arc would be ready to float in time.

Fickle I am and easily turned, I admit it.

I took a holiday from morning hose dragging chores for a couple days. I went out and stuck my fingers down into the dirt in a few of my neediest pots to find that the moisture held. More rain will come, maybe today.

Then our sadness. Paco died. Ana and Michelle have rescued several dogs over the years, and Paco, Monkey and Dude keep company with my Lola while she alternates between my area and the common area. (There are two more dog areas but my Lola and I don’t socialize there.)

If Paco stood upright, I’m sure he’d be as tall as me. Big and black with white markings, lolloping ears and tongue, a leaner. Paco was just big and dumb and loving and leaning into me was his way to show me love. Unless I sat down. Then he wanted to be my lap dog. Which I don’t allow!

Paco took ill suddenly, refused breakfast and went downhill throughout the day. The Girls took him to the vet in the late afternoon. While there, Paco’s big heart simply quit beating. His death came as a shock.

Paco was never sick. Dude, who had been ill for a long time, seems to have made a miraculous recovery. We just don’t know as much as we imagine we know, do we, especially about the Great Circle.

Sometimes feeling sad makes me want to get creative in the kitchen. Sometimes feeling happy makes me want to get creative in the kitchen. Sometimes other feelings, well, you get the gist.

I like muffins. I’ve not made muffins in years. Since paring down my kitchen tools to bare necessities when I moved to Mexico, I no longer have a muffin tin. You know how the best part of a muffin is the top? I took a basic muffin recipe, gussied and fussied it and made a tray of muffin tops.

Is that genius? I assembled the ingredients, gave wet and dry a quick swirl, added a small, very small, handful of flour since the batter was not going into tins to shape it, scooped spoonful by spoonful onto a baking sheet, cut down baking time from 25 to 15 minutes, and forgive my brag, muffin tops are the best!

I’d love to claim this idea as my own but that is not honest. There is a woman with a food truck in Glendive who whipped out a batch of these and my daughter told me about muffin tops and I thought it a great idea. So I whipped up a batch with great success and now pass the notion on to you.

Clouds are stacking up over the mountains. There is a good chance for rain this afternoon. I have only a couple empty garden pots to fill so I’ll crowd together a few seeds of lettuce, cilantro and spinach.

In the spirit of “Build it and they will come” and  “Rain follows the plow.” Oh, the folly.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

June 5, 2025

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Can’t beat the heat!

 

Can’t beat the heat! 

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The other day I got excited. Movement catches my eye. I was near the window, sensed happenings, looked out and saw that I had a new neighbor. Oh, my, he was so handsome, black, with stunning confirmation.

Here in our little town, populated by women much of the year, husbands, brothers, son and other family working up north, there is an unprecedented number of houses under construction. The land around, tall with unkempt wild grasses, makes the structures look abandoned. No. Houses are awaiting the return of the owners to begin the next phases of construction.

Across my street and down one is a house under construction where I spotted the movement and my beautiful new neighbor. In my mind I was already crossing the road the next morning to talk with my new friend.

A couple hours later, I looked out the window and saw a white pickup truck with stock rack hauling away my beauty. In the yard, almost hidden among the grasses, was a sweet little brown mare and a black burro. What!

“Oh,” I said aloud. “I know why Black Beauty came to visit.” Well, at least I have the mare, the burro and a baby to look forward to visiting.

In the nine plus change years I’ve lived here in Jalisco, I cannot get used to spring being the hot season, summer the cooler rainy season. It’s backwards.

And hot it is! I briefly flirted with buying a portable swamp cooler. What? To use for two months and store the remainder of the year. Store where? Every inch of my space is in use, functional and pleasing to the eye. I have that gift, to create order and beauty. Soon we will have rain, early this year. So say the old-timers, of which I am one.

The cicadas have been yammering on for an entire month, early this year, which is how we know the rain will follow their song, as always. Folk lore, yes, but lore which seems to be imbedded in reality. Funny, how we welcome cicada “song” with joy when first we hear it. Funny, how at the end of a few weeks, the screech seems to rip tears in my mind, it is so loud and so harsh.

Michelle and Ana, neighbors and landladies, have a lovely pool which I can use. Just about the time we could get in the pool comfortably, early spring, we all came down with Covid. Well, that set us back several weeks. I used the pool a few times. Hurt my hip pulling weeds. The bending over thing, you know. Then my back went on the yip. It’s been probably three weeks since I’ve dipped.

Every time I’m ready to go to the pool, and this is coincidence, my friends drive out the gate. Or the young  man who cleans the pool comes a day early. Or, what happened yesterday is that Ana and Michelle, on the spur of an inspired moment, decided to head out and spend a few days in and around Ajijic.  

So no pool for me until they return. After all, I am 80, count them, a lot of years, old. My heart is healthy but one never knows when the reaper comes. I’d hate for my friends to return and find my body floating in the water. As I told them, I won’t go in the pool unless they are home. I don’t need anybody else to be in the water. I just want them nearby.

So how do I beat the heat? At pool time, I turn my shower on cooler than I normally like, and bask under my rain shower. Can one bask in a shower? I do. What can I say? It costs nary a peso and it works, cools me in the heat of the day.

My rain-shower keeps me sane under the shower of cicada song. Think of an old-fashioned blackboard scratched by a hundred long fingernails, over and over and over. Cicada song.

Time to go pet the brown mare across the street before the sun swings around. She could use some consolation after being loved and left. I leave the burro alone. It has huge teeth.

Bring on the real rain. I’m ready.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

May 29, 2025

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Out of my mangled mind.

 

Out of my mangled mind. 

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I wrote my title and immediately saw two meanings of “out of my mind”. Let’s just let both apply and be happy.

My mind goes weird. Yesterday I woke up singing a mangle of Mighty Mouse:

“Here I come to seize the day!”

I sat down to write John and Carol, who have left or are leaving for Duluth, driving their vintage blue and white Vincent Van Go, any hour:

“Are you on your way,

Won’t be back

For many a day?”

Remember Calypso?

John’s reply:

Sad to say, we’re under weigh

Cruising along in our Vincent sleigh,

We’re in Jimenez, without Jose

And tomorrow we’ll be entering

The you ess ay.

At my home, halfway up the mountain on the west side of Oconahua, the skies have a different energy today; the air smells like rain, the rain that will be here soon.

Cicadas are out in full force, singing down the rain according to ancient folklore, singing welcome hope, singing until the sound becomes nearly unbearable, rains flow from the sky and the singing mutes, stops, until next year.

Rain birds have flown back and are inhabiting their nests, eggs tucked into the sack-like nursery purse.

“Just a singing

Down the rain.”

It will splish-splash early this year. It will. It will.

Speaking of mangle, Kathy sent this quote this morning, don’t know from whom she snitched it, which I scoochied around a bit:

“Give it twelve hours and the undo of the redo of the previous undo of the un-implementation of the delay of the redo will be undone.”

No explanation necessary.

Lee contacted me to be part of the memorial service for his father, one of my very best friends ever. Al, David and I built a 100 seat black-box theatre with no money, no grants, nothing but our wit and determination and a handful of volunteers. That experience built a depth of friendship which death cannot break.

Our theatre has grown, is strong and in better hands today. Forgive my pride.

I declined Lee’s invitation to join my friends. It might not be raining here just yet, but if I went to Al’s Celebration, my tears would cause a flood.

Like an unrepentant thief, I stole the next bit from long-time friend Sandy. In the seems-distant past, Sandy and I shared the good, the bad and the ugly. She always made me laugh. Life happened. We lost touch.

Recently, and gratefully, we reconnected. Again, we share the deeps of our all too-human stories. Age and physical miseries and our opening awareness of all manner of things dominate our talk.

As Sandy said, “We are on the last plane out of Saigon.” If you don’t “get it”, that’s okay. It’s unlikely that we will be around to clean up the mess.

Let me leave you with this thought:

If you are not part of the solution . . .

Then you must be part of the . . .

Sediment.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

May 22, 2025

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My Mothers Day Retrospective

 

My Mothers Day Retrospective 

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At 3:00 in the morning on the Mexican holiday of the Dia de Madres, I startled awake to the blast of a band playing outside my bedroom window.

Naturally, I was out of bed in a flash and over to the window to see what brought on such music in the night. Despite the fullish moon, the sky held just enough clouds for the night to be dark. My window is high from the street and nobody ever looks up. I was invisible in my perch.

In front of the house next door, a pickup truck had parked. In the truck bed and around the truck were possibly a dozen, maybe more, band members, playing every kind of instrument. And, they were good. I mean, really, good. I watched as lights came on in various rooms of the neighbor’s house. Eventually, someone came to the door, undoubtedly Mom, walked outside and stood at the entry gate.

The band played at full heart. I didn’t eaves drop at the window long, climbed back into bed and enjoyed the twenty minutes or thereabouts of wonderful music, claiming the splash-over of the Mother’s Day serenade for myself.

In Mexico Mother’s Day is a Big Deal. It is celebrated on May 10 every year, no matter what day of the week that happens to be. This year it was Saturday.

I’ve no pretensions to be a musician but I do know when music is good, when it is tolerable, and when it can be dreadful.

At 3:00 the previous afternoon, I happened to be at my kitchen window and saw the young neighbor boy leave the house with a beautiful clarinet in hand. Ah, that answered a lot of questions I had about the mysterious (to me) musician in the neighborhood. Frequently, I listened to somebody practicing, often solo, but sometimes in company with other instruments, usually traditional but often jazz. For a practice session, he or they, was/were amazing.

What I found delightful is that the practice sessions were lovely listening. So this young man, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, is a good musician. No matter where life takes him, he will always have that.

On our Mexican Mother’s Day, I learned that people here in Oconahua hire musical groups to serenade their Mothers. They move from street to street, from house to house, bringing music and love and fun and surprise.

There are several bands, formal and informal, in our town. This seems to be quite the musical community.

When I talk about the group who showed up outside my window, I call them the “young band” only because I could see two young men with clarinets on the north edge of the group, my neighbor and another young man. Our band could have included all ages. It could have been a neighborhood youth group. It was too dark for me to take a census.

The following day, another Mother’s Day, I enjoyed a visit with friends, John and Carol, soon to head out for Minnesota. I served scones and iced tea on the patio. A good time was had by all.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

May 15, 2025

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Down and Out in Paradise

 

          Down and Out in Paradise

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You know how sometimes you can be thinking about a friend or an acquaintance and the phone will ring and suddenly you are talking with that person? This is sort of how my last few weeks have been but with a wry twist.

I have been hearing from people with whom I’ve not spoken in a while, friends and acquaintances. Their words mirror my feelings.

“I don’t know if it is the long winter or all the horrible news and strife in our country but I can’t seem to find my balance. My equilibrium is out of whack.”

“I turned 70 and my body betrayed me. Macular degeneration in both eyes and some days my hips won’t let me walk. My use-by date seems to have come and gone.” (Wait until you hit 80, I thought, but am too kind to say.)  

“I want to lose myself in gardening but I can’t even seem to be able to do that.”

 “We’ve lost another friend. Did you hear that Terri (or Mike or Bob) died last week?”

I could go on and on but what every example, said and unsaid reveals, is that we, my friends and I, have all found ourselves mired in the murky bottom of a slough of depression.

My friends are my mirror, so I’ll speak of myself.

I don’t feel exactly the same way every day. I’ve mild depression with variations on the theme. Some days I’d tell you I feel discouraged, down in the dumps, flat. Other days I might say I’ve no strength. Go away and leave me alone. My energy has up and gone.

Clinical depression is an entirely different matter. My malady is plainoldnormaleveryday depression. It is sad that we all feel so dejected at the same time. Usually, one of us can bring the other out into the sunshine of hope.

Which leads me to a really weird postulation. What if this is the way I’m (we) should feel? Look at it this way. I’m in one of my latter cycles of physical change. Some days it seems nothing works the way it used to work. I read the obits just to make sure my name isn’t listed. I’m grieving lost family, lost friends, lost chances, lost functions, lost country.

For example, last night Michelle and Ana and I climbed the stairway to my roof to pick guamuchil pods, here known as Mexican candy. This is the week of a special celebration local to the peoples of this area. While extracting one of the legume-like white fruits and popping it into my mouth, I looked across to the adjacent mountain. A long line of folks dressed in bright costumes trooped up the mountain in procession.

“Ten years ago, just ten years ago I could walk that pathway,” I said to my friends. I might still have been walking up while they were coming down, but I could have done the trip.

What I’m struggling to say is that maybe mild depression is simply a reaction to all that is around me, my present circumstances, not good, not bad, just the way it is.

Rather than fight it, why not accept the feelings and do what I always do anyway. Talk to my geraniums. Prune the oregano. Talk with my friends. Read. Watch the birds. Eat ice cream. Let Lola bury her slobbery muzzle on my white pants and look into my eyes, tail wagging.

I’ve even got a new therapy. Now that we are well entrenched in our hot season, I’ve begun walking the swimming pool, end to end, turn and back. I’m doing this for my knees and hips and back. Walking the pool (I never learned to swim) seems to be good for both body and soul.

Whatever I feel today, this I know: tomorrow I will feel differently. I may not feel better, but I will feel different.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

May 8, 2025

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Don’t know where I’m going but I’ve been here a while.

                Don’t know where I’m going but I’ve been here a while.

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That line came to me as if in a song. Nobody ever accused me of being musically inclined. Like most of us, I too have music in my soul. Sing along with me and let’s see where it takes us.

Yesterday, armed with a bundle of flowers, we attended the burial of our friend Leo’s grandma, who at 96 said she felt so very tired and went to sleep the long sleep. The ceremony touched me deeply.

I was surprised at the number of folks there whom I’ve met. I garnered my own bouquet of hugs and tears and waves along with a few of “Wonder who she is and why is she here?” I forgot to bring a hat, ended up standing in blazing sun, when one of the aunties scooted over to my side and held her sunbrella over both our heads.

Every woman in Mexico owns a colorful sunbrella and uses them. I just wrote “sunbrella” on my shopping list. I never felt the need for one until now. A hat will do, but what if someone next to me needs shade?

In the rainy season, this colorful device doubles as an umbrella but I’d rather be wet than scorched.

I’ve been here long enough to attend a burial, two viewings (similar to a wake), a baptism, and a first communion. That might mean I’m well entrenched. At least I felt so when the auntie shared her shade without a qualm.

In my collection of pleasurable connections, add in one zoomer of a birthday party for my best friend in high school, Charlotte. Her best friend, Karen, now living in England, was present also, along with Charlotte’s siblings, children and extended family. We all had two hours of stories, recollections, memories revived, meeting family we’ve not met. Two hours of warm fuzzies. I confess that when I said my good-byes, I was crying, tears of pure joy.

 I’d no more than zoomed out of the birthday party when my email pinged with a most surprising blast from the past, another thread of connection which I’d thought long cut asunder. Sandy, a friend from former years, mid-80s through the 90s, found me. We lost each other years ago when she went on the road with her husband.

Sandy and I had shared many adventures and a few mis-adventures but the thing I most treasure from her friendship was her ability to shake me out of taking myself too seriously. What a gift to be reconnected!

I truly never know where my day will take me. I’m along for the ride and glad to have a ticket.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

May 1, 2025

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Fire on the Mountain

 Fire on the Mountain

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Not on my mountain. Not the mountain on which I live. But over toward the east, far enough away that the glow was huge, lighting the sky scary. Far enough that I could not smell smoke, even though wind was blowing from the east. This event occurred a week ago but I cannot get it out of my mind.

Night. It was night. When dark descends, I retire to bed with my current book, propped on a huge “reading pillow”. The pillow doesn’t read; the pillow allows me to read comfortably in bed. Generally I read until my eyeballs fall down.  

I got out of bed to put away my book, and out the window, saw the fiery glow behind the horizon to the east. I stared at the phenomenon for several minutes. I couldn’t see leaping flames so with my keen logical mind, I determined that the fire must be several miles away.

I climbed back into bed, snuggled myself into comfort for sleep.

The committee decided to convene. “Oh, no, you don’t.”  “Fire, silly. Headed this way. And you want to sleep? Dumb, dumb, dumb!”

Another voice queried, “Don’t you think it might be wise to rouse the neighbors. In fact, why is the neighborhood so quiet? Fire is not to be ignored.”

“Fire races like, well, like wildfire, through the dry grasses and over the hills and before you know it, fire will be licking at your feet.”

Obviously, sleep was out of the question.

“Don’t you think you should organize a go-bag, just in case you must run?”

I decided that if I needed to evacuate, I’d take a spare set of clean underwear and socks. I’d wear my hiking boots. Passport. Water. Why would I want to lug around more than I could easily sling in a shoulder bag?

Then, with the help of my various friends-of-the-night committee, I wondered if I’d be safer closing all the doors and windows of my house and waiting for the flames to pass by. Surely there would be enough air in the house to keep one set of lungs happy. We are surrounded by a cobbled street and lots of concrete driveway and patios, and we live in brick and stone houses. I should be impervious to fire. Right? Maybe? Possibly?

Sure, it is the dry season, lots of tall brown grasses, groves of trees further up the mountain but not so many trees close by, not like a forest, here, just normal yard trees. (Never try to reason with the committee.)

“But the big danger with fire is that it sucks all the oxygen from the air, right? You’d be a goner before you ever saw a flame. You could die and never be singed.”

Now I’m getting sweaty, nervous. I can feel the flames out there eating the miles.

In the quiet of the night I continued to entertain this conversation, or it held me captive, a full half-hour. Finally, wondering why the night continued to be muffled beneath a blanket of quiet, why I smelled not a whiff of smoke, why I heard nary an alarm, I got out of bed and went to the window.

Lighting up the entire sky, my raging, leaping flames of fire, the gigantic full moon.

Perception, you deceiver. You surely fooled me.

It took so little to trick me. An awareness of our extreme dry season, an awareness hiding at the very back of my consciousness. A glow in the night sky that had not been there an hour previously. Knowledge that this time of year grass fires are a constant danger. Help from the voices of fear and anxiety and what if.  One plus one equals fire. So simple.

I’m glad I didn’t sound the alarm. I’m glad I didn’t wake my neighbors. I’m glad the joke was on me. I’m glad the fire was nothing but the mountains of the moon, that big dead rock in the night sky, reflecting other fires.

Fooled me. I forgot the maxim: Where there is fire, there is smoke.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

April 24, 2025

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Back to the Whole McGillicuddy

 Back to the Whole McGillicuddy

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Last Sunday Ana, Michelle and I had breakfast out, the real Mexico way. This, in itself, is not important. On Saturday, Ana had gone to her Uncle’s 90^th birthday party. This is important.

Tuesday was my birthday. Michelle and I drove to Etzatlan, masked and gelled with gloppy hand sanitizer, for a treat at a coffee shop. Ana stayed home, feeling unwell. Ana’s symptoms made me frown. I had, a mere couple of weeks ago, recovered from the latest covid variant and many similarities popped up.

When we returned from cake and coffee, Michelle had Ana do the coronavirus test. Ana tested positive. I isolated behind my fenced area. Michelle hitched up her mask and took on both women’s chores. At this point, Ana was very ill.

The next day Michelle hollered across our patios that she tested positive. Now I am in full worry mode. They have dogs and cats and chickens and sheep to care for in addition to themselves.

Michelle assured me that she was asymptomatic and able to do chores for now. She reminded me they have a town full of relatives to call for help if need be.

Me, I’m not worried for myself. I had two weeks of recovery behind me so figured I was graced with at least three months of immunity. Right?

Meanwhile my email was pinging and dinging with notes from friends afar who were also stricken. I would tell you what I think of this Covid virus but you might be inclined to dent my tin hat while I’m wearing it so I shall restrain myself.

Ana had been sick three or four days when I woke in the night thinking about immunity and what that means. Not the least bit worried, just to prove a point to myself, the next morning I reamed my nose and tested. I must have stared at the result a good ten minutes, stunned. Positive. How could that be? I’m immune. Right?

I waited a full 24 hours to repeat the test. Just in case I’d stuck my big toe in the test kit or in some other way compromised it, I tested again. I’m not feeling sick. I am testing positive. Thankfully, Michelle and I both are asymptomatic but that also means that while we are positive, we are carriers. I could infect you and I’d rather not.

I alerted our friends from the rancho to stay away, let them know that we are not entertaining guests at present.

Over the past couple of months I had noticed that more people in town were, once again, going about their business masked. Since my own bout with the disease last month, I  began masking when in the car or in tiendas. But not always. My guard, like most everyone else’s, was down.

We three have reverted to the whole McGillicuddy of precautions. I don’t like it. I doubt my friends are thrilled. Masks are irritating. Hand gel is gross. Isolating defies every instinct. Distancing, same. I want to touch, shake hands, see your smile, (read your lips).

We three here are in agreement about our actions and precautions. You do what you want. I understand. I have absolutely no advice. I don’t know enough to give advice.

At any rate, there is a lot of sickness out there. A lot of people are asymptomatic with Covid. I got sick the first time at a party in which nobody was feeling ill, yet someone carried it to me. We had all let down our guards. Lots of hugs, touches, closeness. Same for Ana at her party. Even people who have been recently vaccinated can get it but not feel ill and share it widely. Allegedly. How fun!

I’m okay. Don’t you worry about me. I’m appalled, not that I have the Covid virus, but that I could so easily and unknowingly give it to you.

Just in case, I’m writing this masked. I am isolated, 2500 miles away. I disinfected my hands. You are safe from me.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out 

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Eating Out in Real Mexico

 

Eating Out in Real Mexico

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Real Mexico is where I live, rather than in resort Mexico. No beaches, artist colonies, high-rise resorts with all-inclusive services, time-share sales goons here. Just us folks.

Ana said that all the restaurants in the area used to be open air, palapa style with palm or bamboo roofs, just like the place where we went to enjoy breakfast Sunday morning, on the edge of San Marcos.

The kitchen is over at one end beneath its own bamboo roof, a counter island between the half dozen long tables and the stove. We diners can watch the woman patting out tortillas, and, oh, such good tortillas, or be mesmerized by the young girl running baskets of carrots and bushels of oranges through the juicers.

Behind the eatery, across the fence, are pastures with cattle grazing, up into the far hills. Across the highway, fields blue with agave stretch almost to the mountains.

There was little traffic on the highway, so near to where the pavement ran out. Dirt roads cross the mountains into Amitlan de Cana. There were hundreds of bicyclists, a group of whom crowded around two of the tables.

We shared our table with a pleasant young couple.

We had invited friends to join us that Sunday morning. They chose to go elsewhere. In the choosing, according to an email they sent me, they kindly did the thinking for us, listing in bullet points, the reasons each of us would rather they didn’t join us. None of the reasons listed applied as often is the case when someone else decides what we think.

In all fairness, when I think I know what someone else thinks, I, also, am usually wrong.  

Our friends, and they are friends, have relatives visiting and decided to go to the Hacienda del Carmen, a completely understandable destination, one of the tourist highlights, of which there are few in the vicinity.

The restored ancient Hacienda is a lovely site, grand old Spanish buildings, on acres of landscaped grounds, complete with artistic gardens, ponds and pools and swans and peacocks, posh hotel rooms and a spa where one can be treated to massage, facial, pedicure, manicure, mud bath or salt scrub and such delights. 

I’m not being sarcastic. It is a wonderful place with a real indoor restaurant serving delightful food, with a choice of seating indoors or out. Mimosas. Did I mention mimosas?

We could have asked to join our friends for breakfast. They could have easily added three to the reservation. I confess that part of why I didn’t explore the option to eat with our friends was a tiny sliver of resentment that eating here or there was not explored voice to voice to choice.

We will be seeing our friends within the next week. I will explain that it is not nice to do my thinking for me, thank you very much. There will be a lightbulb moment of “Oops”. An apology and a laugh at our foolishness.

We three enjoyed our relaxing meal, without the option of mimosas or other fluffy drinks. I watched my orange/carrot juice being made. We didn’t get to wander around opulent grounds. I know our friends enjoyed their meals, without our option of slipping treats to the brown dog resting in the shade of the palapa, keeping an open eye for any bit which might slip from my plate.

Yeah, Real Mexico. Think about it. Which would you prefer? To eat with the cows in the pasture across the fence or with peacocks strutting the lawns? A choice of four items or an extensive menu with an even larger wine list? Our total bill for breakfast for three was half the cost of a meal for one at the Hacienda, not counting mimosas.

Okay, okay. When you come to visit, I’ll take you to the Hacienda.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

April 10, 2025

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