Can't Iron My Birthday Suit

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            Two dozen Harlem High, Class of '63 grads, arrived at the Great Northern Lodge in for our 55th Class Reunion. Hugs, jabber, huge smiles: we provide instant love, just add self.

            I blurted, "We can no longer say, 'My, you have not changed a bit.'" I am not sure anybody appreciated my comment. Truth is, undeniably, we have changed. Life has its way with us. But we are still us. Maybe more us. Pretense and posturing fell away over the years. Better usses. We still say, "You look wonderful." We tell the truth.

            Because we, at an all-school reunion in 2005, committed to meeting annually, our depth of knowledge of each other, our feelings for one another, our acceptance of every wrinkle and wart has increased. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

            Undoubtedly the highlight of this trip has been the Red Bus Tour through the Park. Jesse arranged for us to have our own bus. The day could not have been more perfect. Or was the highlight Jesse and Jim banteering with one another in the way of two (older) men, better than vaudeville.

            Driving from the mountains onto the high semi-arid plateau of north-eastern Montana is like entering an alternate universe. I do love the Big Empty. Especially in the fall when the very air reflects golden, when the grains are harvested, when antelope dot the stubble fields.

            Ah, Havre, I see changes. You are a vital community, an anchor for a wide, wide area. I hope the seemingly negative changes, with three important stores closing, will be metamorphosed into new life, Phoenix out of the ashes, so to speak.

            My good friend Jane and I started our morning with breakfast at the 4Bs, for memory's sake. I ordered tomato soup and grilled cheese for breakfast. Used to be, when my Dad picked me up at the train station, that is what we did.

            Popped in for hand shakes and hugs with Tim and Pam at the news office. Walked over to talk with Rick at the Grateful Bread and pick up a couple loaves of the staff of life to take on to my cousin Shirley in Harlem.

            Some years the leaves turn from green to brown, seemingly overnight, no in-between. This year autumn is ablaze with color, the greens turning to shades of red and gold. Harlem, barely a blip on the map, is beautiful.

            I went with Shirley to play pinochle at Kennedy"s where laughter outweighed skill. I had my newly revised "last will" notarized at the library. Small towns do have advantages. One never knows where one might find an essential service.

            Lady Luck was by my side. The home-coming parade rolled and marched and pranced down Main Street while I stood waiting to cross, triggering  memories of past parades. My cousins, second cousins, once removed, Truth and Titan, marched in the band. Go Wildcats.

            Next week I will be in Glendive with my daughter and her family.

            Next year Harlem hosts an all-school reunion celebrating the 100 year anniversary of the school. That is the rumor I hear. Our class is making plans. This year our class celebrated our 55th. We all celebrated, if that is the appropriate word, our 73rd birthday.

            Karen said, "Not me. I turn the numbers around and celebrate my 37th."

            Lola said, "Well, for 37, you sure didn't hold up well."

            So much for fooling mother nature. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 27, 2018

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What’s In A Name

What’s In A Name

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            This morning, Ricardo, our waiter, kept track of us by name. Lu became, forevermore, “Hello, Mary Lou, Goodbye Heart”, accompanied by Ricardo not-Nelson, with Spanish accent, embedding the song in our minds for the rest of the day. Ha! Now try to get the tune out of your head!

The two couples were Jerry and “Jerry’s wife” and Jesse and “Jesse’s wife”. Lola threatened to stab Ricardo in the leg with a fork. Sharon just laughed. I began calling Jerry, “Lola’s husband, just to keep things even.

Karen, he renamed “Carmen” and she immediately became dark and sultry. When I said my name, Ricardo replied, “Oh, you same name as the owner.”

I said, “We must be cousins.” Thus I became “cousin of owner”.  

            For the hour and a half it took us to have breakfast, Ricardo had fun with our names. That personal touch means we will always remember both him and the restaurant.

            Names are important. When my friends arrived from the airport, we caused a hubbub in the lobby, hugs and talk and the usual commotion. That was no problem. But we tried to check in and encountered a “boulder in the road”.  

            When finally the desk manager, one whom I’d not yet met, got my attention, he asked for the copy of my reservation from Expedia, which thoroughly confused me. “I made my reservations in person with Amalia,” I explained. “I never used Expedia.”

            He insisted he must have a copy of the elusive reservation in order to give my friends their rooms.

            Obviously we had a communication problem. I tried using different words, sprinkling my explanation with Spanglish. Then I used the lobby phone to speak with Amalia, who said she would clear up the confusion.

            However, the strangeness didn’t go away until another woman approached the desk and introduced herself as Sondra Jean Ashton, holder of the Expedia reservation.

            This woman had my entire name. What are the chances of that? What are the chances of us converging on the same day in the same resort lobby?

With profuse apologies the desk manager straightened us out and set us up with our rooms. I never had a chance to talk with my “same-name stranger” nor did I see her again.

            If I were Billy Bob Smith, I might expect to find entire phone book sections devoted to my name. But Sondra is unusual, a British name, and Ashton isn’t overly common as a last name. I’ve only met one other, Steven Ashton, from when I lived in Poulsbo, Washington. What I remember most is that he and his wife (I want to say Arlene but I’m unsure.) were square dancers.

I regret not talking with the other Sondra. We were rushing in different directions, which is a bit sad, when you think about it.

But, my, what a time! We hit the ground running and haven’t stopped yet.

I love being “tour guide”, introducing a group of friends to “my Mazatlan”. My list of things to do, places to go, is long. Time is short. And, true to form, we don’t always end up where we aimed. That is a good thing. Like the night we landed at the Shrimp Bucket (not our original destination) for, yes, shrimp, and a jazz/rock-n-roll band, accomplished musicians, who played music we all knew and loved.

            An advantage of having lived here is that I know what is “tourist” and what is “Mexican”. My friends have gotten to see the working Mazatlan, the shrimp boats, the tuna factories, the docks,  and  along with the Mercado, the Plazuela Machado, a day of exploring the Golden Zone, tourista central. We went north to La Noria and El Quilete, south to Concordia and Copala. We’ve eaten meals on the street and in fine-dining establishments. We’ve purchased beach junk and quality art, jewelry and clothing.

            Tomorrow we begin the second half of our Class of ’63 Reunion with a bus trip to Zapopan on the edge of Guadalajara.

            There is only one problem: not enough time. There is a solution: this is my friends’ “first” trip, but not the last.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 23, 2017

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The Richest Poor Woman In Mexico

                                                The Richest Poor Woman In Mexico

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            Rich? Poor? By which stick do we measure? It is no secret I chose to play house in a small village in the mountains of Jalisco because I can do so and live well on my bare minimum pension.  I live quietly, unobtrusively.  By diligently shuffling pesos into my bottom drawer savings bank, similar to under the mattress, I can spend a week now and then on the beach.  I am rich.

            Sometimes I lose sight of how wealthy I am.  The other day I was walking down Calle Del Pulpo, the street where I used to live in Mazatlan, turned the corner and Jorge jumped up from his chair.  We both lit up like Christmas trees and threw our arms around each other.

            What makes this a worthy event is that I would have told you Jorge meant nothing to me. When I lived here I saw the man nearly every day. Jorge washes cars for a living, probably runs errands for people at the Solamar Hotel, where he parks his own car, where his black Lab, Rocky, sleeps and waits for handouts. Rocky is always sleek and well-fed. I’m not so sure about the care and feeding of his owner. Jorge always greeted me, often with a kiss, a cultural politeness.

            We had not seen one another for nearly a year. Obviously, we had forged a bond of sorts. A bond of recognition, connectedness, respect? A bond. That is true wealth.

            Moving on down my street I headed straight for Reuben and Sylvia’s Loncheria, ate quesadillas de marlin, the best in all Mexico. Again, hugs, greetings of delight.

After lunch I sat in the courtyard behind my former apartment with Ted, Teresa, Vern and Laurie. Ted and Teresa I’ve known for almost three years, neighbors. Vern and Laurie and I had made an immediate connection when I turned my apartment over to them, let them know its secrets, where it turned cranky and where it ran smoothly.

For me, it is a comfort to see a home I have loved, made beautiful for its new people. I had a part in making that happen and it pleases me well. See what I mean. Maybe it is subtle, but I am rich.

I still feel selfishly sad that Denise and Don didn’t get to spend the week with me. Denise says to make every vacation a trip, not a tumble. Don calls it his “pre-flight to Mazatlan”. He doesn’t recommend it; the flight is short, bumpy and with a hard landing. Don is recovering nicely from his fall downstairs on the very day he was to fly here.

Words are magic to me. This morning I experienced what I have come to call the “shuffle off to Buffalo” pass. I went to Pueblo Bonito to see if I needed reservations on Valentine’s Day for Cilantro’s Restaurante. The man at the front information desk shuffled me off to the Concierge, Denisse, who shuffled me off to whomever I could find at the restaurant (early in the day). Carlos sent me back to Denisse, who after several phone calls, said, “Come back in an hour when the manager is in.”

The “shuffle” comes from an ingrained politeness. Nobody wants to say they “don’t know” and leave you hanging. Such politeness might send you up the street when the place you seek is across the street. We do the same thing—we nod and smile that we understand, when in actuality, we haven’t a clue what was just said.

I notice I began using the phrase “my people”. “When my people are here . . . or let’s go to the flower market and get room bouquets for my people, or, I’ll go there when I can go with my people.”

The bond we small-towners have, the bond of that shared experience of school, a “survival” of experiences, that bond is tighter than glue. The Class of ’63, Harlem High, meets again, a smaller group this year. My people are here. We are wealthy.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 16, 2017

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