Ode to
Spring and The Nesting Syndrome
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Spring lurks around the corner
patiently waiting to burst forth into kaleidoscopic glory. Down here in Mexico,
while daily temperatures peak in the perfection of the lower eighties and
bougainvillea weighty with color drape over every upright structure, who can
tell from spring! Not much to go by but a calendar.
If one has a calendar. When the New
Year approached I could not find a new calendar. I’m an old hand at making do.
My much-scribbled 2013 calendar is filling the gap. For example, January began
on a Wednesday this year. I flipped through last year’s calendar to May, where
the first of the month fell on Wednesday. I’ll conveniently flip the page to
June to represent February but the months are muchly messed up thereafter.
In the sub-tropics, familiar clues
to the approach of the magical season which unlocks the icy grip of winter are
sadly lacking. (The icy grip of winter is also lacking but that breaks my heart
not one whit.) In mailboxes all over Montana, garden catalogs are showing up,
luring Montana gardeners to order seeds and seedlings which never have and
never will grow in our too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry country. But along
with green beans and beets, we order the more exotic with all the faith of
parishioners who perennially put their hopes in the “next-year” basket.
What is going on with me? I’ve been
here three months, a notorious “red flag” time for those who’ve signed up for
any major life change. I wanna go home. Oh, not permanently. I want a “Montana fix”, a shot of perhaps two weeks.
Spring seems like a good time for a visit. I could migrate back with the
robins.
My daughter tells me that since I
obviously don’t have cabin fever, I must have spring fever. She says things
like, “Get a grip, Mom.” She thinks it makes perfect sense that I want to
migrate. “After all, Mom, you are a nester. Fixing up your nest has always been
a priority for you. Concentrate on your nest where you are.”
It is true. I am a nester. This is the
first time I’ve moved anywhere and did not immediately fix up my house to suit
myself. The studio is temporary, I told myself. I’ll find a house in short
order and let the fixing begin.
I’ve not yet found the house I want.
I am re-thinking the whole house thing. This studio, which I found on my very
first day in Mazatlan, is quite adequate, or would be if I finished unpacking
the boxes that line the walls. Maybe my landlady will store some of the
furniture. I already know what I want to have built.
Ouch! That reminds me of an
embarrassing financial faux pas I nearly committed in the interest of
feathering my yet-to-be-found nest. A woman I met on the street told me that a
man who works for her told her that a woman down the way had a houseful of furniture
she was selling at outrageously good prices and I should at least take a
gander.
The very old Concordia style
furniture (a style which has been made by craftsmen in Concordia, south of
here, for hundreds of years) was just what I had in mind. When I went to see
the furniture, I didn’t have money with me. But, after a few minutes of
requisite haggling over the price, I said I’d take it. The woman on the street,
the man who does jobs for her, the woman selling the furniture, all assured me I
was getting a great bargain.
That night Common Sense dropped by
for a chat. “You don’t have a house sweetie. What if that pile of furniture
doesn’t suit the place you find, for find it you will. What about those two
rocking chairs you dreamed of having made in Concordia?”
So I did what I should have done in
the first place. I took Lupe to see the furniture. I knew instantly that I was
in trouble. Lupe just shook his head. I backed out of the deal, glad to leave
with a little dignity and no hard feelings. When the time comes, I’ll go to
Concordia and order exactly what I want at half the money i nearly shelled out
for old dry twigs and me with no nest in which to put them.
Spring is around the corner. The
orioles on my back patio are exhibiting disgraceful behavior. I might or might
not make that migratory journey north. Or I might finish unpacking boxes in the
nest I’m in, temporary or not, and arrange to gather my own twigs.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
January 30,
2014
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