Quirks and Vagaries of Life and Family

Quirks and Vagaries of Life and Family

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            When I was a child growing up in Indiana, I  loved Christmas for one reason. The mailman delivered the annual box of clothes sent by Aunt Ann, practically new hand-me-downs from cousin Nancie, a year older.

            Back then my grandma made most of our clothes. Back then, home sewn dresses were not “cool”. I lived for Nancie’s clothes. Attitudes are vastly different today. There is a world of difference between “homemade” and “Hand Crafted”.

            Each year Grandma sent me off to school with three new dresses, made in the same style her own girls wore during the Great Gray Depression. Nancie’s clothes saved me from the shame of being on par with the girl who only wore two dresses all year. Girls notice those things.

            Consequently, though I didn’t know Nancie, she was one of my favorite cousins. After all, I wore her next to my heart.

            Shortly before Christmas, Miss Naomi, our second-grade teacher, in a timely manner, taught us to write “thank you” letters, and “friendly” letters. I was hooked on writing.

Aunts Ann and Lucille lived in Port Angeles, Washington, Aunt Joanne in Indianapolis. Aunts Lucille and Joanne had no children. They sent me puzzles or games, books, soft woolen scarves and mittens.  

            After Christmas, I dutifully wrote and mailed “thank you” letters to all my aunts. Each responded. I wrote back, thus setting in motion years inked missives of connection. When my dad uprooted us and plunked us down in the middle of Montana, I added a roster of Indiana cousins and classmates to my voluminous letter writing.

            By the time I was in sixth grade, I had grown taller than cousin Nancie and the generous boxes of clothing no longer made the postal trek across the mountains. I continued writing letters to my Port Angeles aunts. I’ve no idea why, but Nancie and I never corresponded. Sometime in my late twenties, early thirties, my life took a tumble, and I abandoned letters to family and friends in favor of midnight scrawls of maudlin poetry which I had sense enough to keep to myself and destroy later. 

            Years later, I moved to Washington State. Aunt Lucille had died and I had lost touch with Aunt Ann. When Aunt Joanne flew in to Seattle, she and I drove to Mount Vernon where Aunt Ann now lived. We spent a delightful afternoon getting re-acquainted. One topic of conversation, of great importance to me, was our letters.  

            At Aunt Ann’s funeral, I finally met my cousin Nancie. Because of our early vague but distinctly real connections, I felt like I’d found a friend I had lost years ago. Since then, we meet at every opportunity. We even drove cross-country on a road trip to visit remaining Indiana family.

            Three years ago Nancie introduced me to Lani. In turn, Lani introduced me to Etzatlan, a farm/ranch village near Guadalajara. I, in turn, introduced Kathy and Richard, long-time Canadian friends, to Nancie and Pat, Lani and Ariel.

            In a quirk of life that has us still pinching ourselves, within a short three weeks, Nancie and Pat, Kathy and Richard and singular-unit-I, each bought homes in Etzatlan. Now we’re neighbors.

            Miss Naomi taught me well. She said, when writing, to act as if I’m sitting across the table from you, having tea. I don’t know that those were her exact words but that is how I took them to heart.

Dear Aunt Ann,

See what has happened in my life, all because I wrote a “thank you” letter when I was seven.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 3, 2016

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Shine On Me Sunshine, Walk With Me World

Shine On Me Sunshine, Walk With Me World

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            Back in the day, I loved that song. I suspect it was my “whistling past the graveyard” attempt. Believe me, I was anything but the “Happiest Girl in the Whole USA”. I was full of pretense and misery, unemployed and broke, a single mom, newly divorced.

            In those days women bore the onus and responsibility for a “broken marriage”. Men were simply labeled “single and up for grabs”. It was not a pretty place for a woman to be.

            So I had a bit of an internal giggle at myself when the words of my once-favorite song looped through my thoughts on the bus from Mazatlan to Guadalajara, and this forty some years later. The monster of fear I faced was an eye appointment, which turned out to be positive in all ways. I am cleared for cataract surgery, but…I’ll think about that later.

            My thoughts on the bus took me to a realization of how content I am. Who would ever have thought a farm girl from Harlem, Montana would one day live in Mexico? I could not have imagined my life, the places I’ve been, the experiences I’ve had and the people I’ve met and come to love.

            Take this week, for example. Ariel met me at the bus and became my guide through the streets of Guadalajara, to the doctor’s office and back to the chickens-and-goats bus station, around the corner from the station with the posh cross country buses

We boarded the bus to Etzatlan, a small farming village, to be met by his wife, Lani, my cousin Nancie and her husband, Pat.

            The very next day Nancie and Pat made a decision the buy the house in which we were staying. That’s exciting stuff. It is a beautiful brick casa, built in the old Mexican style. Lani has been trying to talk me into buying a casa here these last three years.

            Life is not all business. The following day we women drove to Tonala for the tianguis, a huge open-air street market. Tonala is known for handcrafts, especially pottery. With a new house to furnish, Nancie geared up to poke around every stall. It is simply not possible. Four hours of shopping filled Lani’s car. I wanted a clay tea pot. I have a specific pot in mind, found it, but left empty handed since the pot came only in a set. Still on the search.

            Every village celebrates Carnival, the Mardi Gras. There is no lack for activities. We’ve watched the dancing horses, the bull riding, fancy roping, precision riding with the young girls in full regalia, the “ugly women” contest, and, ah, the parades, the bands, the costumes, the clowns. We’ve listened to music and munched crispy churros in the plaza. Much of the fun is watching people, especially the children.  

We drove to a mountaintop restaurant which overlooked the valley, sampled churros in the evening at the plaza, bought chocolate croissants from our favorite panaderia. Each village has a day for the city tianguis or market which can take up several streets. After Friday market we ate birria in that special place along the highway. Not that the place is so special but the birria, a goat soup, is the mouth-watering best.

            Now Lani is leaning on me from one side and Nancie from the other, trying to convince me to move to Etzatlan. Being the ultimate tourist is great. Carnival Week and visiting friends and family are only a tiny piece of life. Everyday living is another matter.

            I told Nancie and Lani that moving here would be like moving from Seattle to Harlem. Big city—small town. I’ve done both.

            I’ve lived in enough places to know that place isn’t as important as the person living inside the body I take with me. Most days I’m content with her.

            Most I get out of bed and I can say, Hello, sunsine. Good morning, morning. And if I look in the mirror and see an old grump, well, she is part of my life too. Meanwhile, it’s a skipped-doo-dah day.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 11, 2016

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Carpe Diem and full speed ahead

Carpe Diem and full speed ahead

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I was half listening to my radio. The woman’s voice said something like this: “I’m retired. Retirement isn’t the end. Retirement is another phase. I worked hard all my life. Now I can live.”

“Whoa,” I responded. “I’ve worked hard all my life too, but it would be a crying shame if I had to wait for retirement before I could live. What’s that supposed to mean?”

The past few days, every time I turn around, a reminder to live fully has popped up smack in my face. I suppose we all have a different definition of “living fully”. To me, it doesn’t mean life is all fun and games. We each experience a measure of pain and sorrow. For myself, I want to be aware of every moment, no matter what.

This week in the obituaries I read that a friend from thirty-one years ago had died. Ed was eighty-one. I know that he lived a good full life. Until I met Ed, I was a rowboat who’d lost her oars, battered about in a stormy ocean. Ed dragged me onto shore and kindly kick-started me onto on a different path. He was one of several friends who taught me practical rules for life.  I regret that I didn’t keep in touch with him. I often remember Ed with gratitude.

I was talking with a friend, both of us without a sweet anchor. We agreed that we are incurable romantics who somehow had hooked up with people who tried to erase us. I told him that, in my opinion, most of the men I meet now are already dead. They just forgot to quit breathing. They want a partner to sit with them on the barstools of life and watch the world go by, preferably on Fox. I want a different channel. I want to trek along the uncharted cow path, even if it ends in a gopher hole.

“That’s kind of how I felt last winter,” said Steve, a friend from Washington, here helping me with a couple projects that require man power. “I was sitting in my recliner with a beer in my hand. I wondered what had happened. Theresa was seriously ill and I couldn’t leave her. But I wasn’t doing anything. That man in the chair didn’t feel like he was really me.” The good news is that Theresa is better and sounds like her old bubbly self. Steve is out of his chair and active. That intermission in life might have been necessary but it was not comfortable for either of them.

After a meeting later that night Linda told me about a conversation with Bev. Bev told her, “I plan to go to Mexico with Sondra next year.”  “You can’t do that,” Linda said. “You can’t go to Mexico with Sondra. That woman is crazy. She goes all over the country by herself. She isn’t scared of anything. Sondra, you are braver than I am.” 

“I doubt that. Look, Linda, I’ve been alone a long time. I figured out that I had choices. I could sit home by myself and slowly die or I could get out there and do things. At first it was hard to pry myself out the door. Even today it is not always easy. I’d rather do things with someone else. But if I have to go alone, I go. I might not always have a good time, but at least I have an interesting time.”

“When you explain it, it makes sense, but I couldn’t do it.”

 “Linda, if something happened to Duane, you would be surprised at what you can do.” The truth is that Linda is a strong and courageous woman.

The next day Dick phoned to see if I was back home. I told him about the radio ad that triggered this whole line of thought. “I’m glad I didn’t hear that woman years ago,” he said. “I just might have climbed right down into the grave and told them to shovel on the dirt.”

I had to laugh. Dick is my hero, a man who frequently steps outside his comfort zone, a man who many years ago learned to live each day to the utmost.  

That same night Steve and I watched a silly feel-good movie, about two crazy old coots living adventures, encountering African lions and lost treasures in exotic lands, fighting Arabian sheiks and rescuing kidnapped princesses. I think the movie was telling us to believe in ourselves, to get out and do it, crazy or not, scared or not, true or not.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 24, 2012

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Like a pig at the trough

Like a pig at the trough

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My friend Kathy invited me to be her guest at her swank condo on the beach in Mexico. I would even fly on her companion ticket. The whole trip would hardly cost anything. I said the only thing I could say—YES!

Yet, as the day to leave approached, I felt strangely ambivalent. I wanted to go and I wanted to stay.

I could imagine how the breeze wafting off the ocean would smell as I climbed down the ramp of the airplane onto the tarmac. Hugs from Carmen and Ana would await our arrival, warm greetings from Rui and Susanna. As soon as we could shuck our clothes and tug on swimwear, Kathy and I would hit the beach. I could close my eyes and almost feel my toes sink into the warm sands of Mazatlan. I packed my bags a month ahead.

Remember back in the day when the thick Sears catalog arrived in the mail? Our mailbox was a mile down our country lane. I would walk back to the house slowly, thumbing through the pages that interested me most, toys, bicycles, and clothing. As I got older I used that time alone to surreptitiously study women’s underwear. I wondered if I should ever get to wear such mysterious garments. A few years later I graduated to memorizing pages showing young male models. They looked so debonair compared to our local louts. The catalog spread a cornucopia of delights. It little mattered to me that the only things I ever ordered were new shoes and school clothing. Every page was mine.

Most times my life is like that Sears catalog. Every day I have pages of delectable activities from which to choose. But here’s where my simile falls apart. Unlike the catalog orders which arrived promptly, my life is a bit sloppy. Sometimes items arrive that I didn’t order. Other times the order is damaged in shipping. Most days bring me bits of happiness spiced with bits of sadness. What is life if we don’t laugh a little and cry a little. Oh, so many choices.

Despite my packed bags, I felt blue about all the events I was going to miss.

Along with Anne and Ralph Schneider who teach music at the North Harlem Colony, I had been helping with a portion of the graduation and the Mother’s Day presentations.  We worked with Adrian and Royce, the two graduating boys, on a series of musical numbers.  I was excited to see the growth and the talent of these two young men and was proud to do my part. I would miss both celebrations.

Then there was the first swimming pool fundraiser, a dinner and auction at the VFW Club, and I felt torn to miss that important event. (By the way, I heard the group has garnered over $15,000 dollars to date. In little Harlem, this is momentous.)

Every May for the last several years I have gone to Billings for the annual MMIA training for elected officials. Not only is the trip fun, but I have always come back with useful information to help me in my civic duties. I look forward to greeting friends from all over the state, to meet new people, to share ideas, experiences and frustrations. Ah, next year.

Along with everything else, I had arranged to host the Missoula Children’s Theater directors in my home. They drove in as I drove out so I handed over the keys. I missed getting to know a team of dynamic young women. I missed our Harlem kids play “The Tortoise and the Hare”.

On the morning I left, I walked around my garden to check the progress of the budding tulips, the leaves popping on my chokecherries, the rhubarb already up and running, the iris and lilacs, the herb garden, hollyhocks, and everything else I knew was going to explode into full growth the minute I turned my back and headed for Mexico. I wanted to be here to celebrate every baby sprig and green of spring.

Now I’ve gone and come back home again. My cat greeted me with purrs and refuses to leave my side.  The garden is beautiful. Lilacs are blooming. Raspberries show promise of a good crop. I breathe deeply and smell Montana.

Already I miss sleeping to the sound of surf. But in Mexico I got a jump start on my farmer tan, ate sea creatures every day and added to my burgeoning vocabulary of mangled Spanglish. 

Self knowledge is a good thing. What I’ve learned is that I am a pig. I want it all. I want the truffles in the forest and the hog slop in the trough.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 17, 2012

Dear Tequila Worm

Ah, sunny beaches, shrimp platters and a cold drink with an umbrella.
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Dear Tequila Worm





Soon I am flying to Mazatlan on the western coast of sunny Mexico . Since, in my dream life, I secretly write advice columns for travelers to different parts of the known and unknown world, I share with you some of the most frequently asked questions from my “Mexico” column, written under the pseudonym of “Tequila Worm”.



Q: Dear TW:

My girlfriend and I are going south of the Border, down Mexico way. She insists I buy new trunks. I have my heart set on something sexy.

The problem is that she also demands to go shopping with me. How can I pick my own trunks?

Next Size Larger

A: Dear NSL:

Thank your Sweetie, preferably with flowers and wine, and perhaps a lovely piece of jewelry. Very few men over the age of four should appear on the beach in a Speedo. To paraphrase the poet Robbie Burns, we are unable to see ourselves as others see us.

Q: Dear TW:

What should I do when hounded by a pesky beach vendor who will not take no for an answer?

Souvenir Sally

A: Dear SS:

Go ahead and buy those oversized crepe paper flowers. Once you get back home all your envious friends will know you have been to Mexico .

Q: Dear TW:

When I go to Mexico I cannot resist buying sleeveless T-shirts printed with “One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor”.

However, once I return home, I would not be caught dead wearing the disgusting things. What can I do?

Red-faced in Renton

A: Dear R-f R:

What happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .

Q: Dear TW:

We have noticed that people whom we deal with every day don’t seem to recognize us. We feel slighted. What should we do?

Jason and Jennifer in Pomona

A: Dear J&J:

We need to remember that to people of another culture, all of us from the United States look alike.

Q: Dear TW:

When I am on the beach lounging under the palapa hut, I offen cannot get the attention of the waiter when I want more beer. What should I do?

Restless Rick from Chicago

A: Dear RR:

In Mexico , as elsewhere, it is the custom to signal politely. It is not the custom to wave your arm, snap your fingers and yell, “Hey, Taco.”

Q: Dear TW:

Should I take my camera?

Shutter-Bug

A: Dear S-B:

Be sensitive about what you photograph. When someone from Mexico comes to your town, would you want them to treat you like a curiosity at the other end of their lens? Scenery is good. But remember, when taking memory photos of your group, what happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .

Q: Dear TW: When on vacation next month in a romantic Mexican resort , I hope to meet the true love of my life. How will I know if he is the real one:

Phyllis from Cleveland

A: Dear PfC:

If he is wearing Speedos and a Tequila shirt, look elsewhere. Good luck.

Q: Dear TW:

How do I get past the language barrier?

Lip Locked

A: Dear LL:

Learn Mexican Spanish. A phrase book is helpful. Speaking slowly and louder will not make you more easily understood. Remember that everybody is eager to please. When he says, “Si, si,” Or you say, “Yes, yes,” accompanied by vigorous head shaking, that does not guarantee either of you understand the other.

Q: Dear TW:

My friend says all the water in Mexico is bad, even for bathing. Is this true?

Paranoid

A: Dear P:

Not necessarily. If you want to be truly careful, boil the water or wash with beer.

Q: Dear TW:

How do I order food when I don’t understand the menu?

Starving Stella

A: Where there is no picture menu, remember, your trip is all in the spirit of adventure. What happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .



Sondra Ashton

Home Again: Havre Daily News

Published October 29, 2009