Summertime, and the living is dusty

 

               Summertime, and the living is dusty  

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That may not be how the song is sung but that is how we sing it in Etzatlan this summer.

We juggle the procession of seasons, winter flips into a few days of spring, which gets dropped on the floor and immediately flames into summer, temps in high 90s up to 100 this week.

Dry and dusty. What little breeze we get brings cane ash and field dirt, right into my casa where I can enjoy it at leisure.

I yearn for what I now think of as normal times, when the rains come in June, bringing two and a half months of spring. Ah, spring. Will we have spring this year?

Meanwhile, we have no water. The entire town of Etzatlan is without water. Just outside city limits, we still benefit, not the word I would always choose, but, benefit from delivery of city water.

Gravity pushes water from ground pipes to the rooftop tinaco. My tinaco is not empty. Yet. I use water judiciously, knowing my tinaco may empty at any time. When I moved here, I bought a small tinaco, perfectly adequate for one person. Today is the first time I’ve revisited that decision. Done is done.

I change my ways. Wear clothes longer, hope they pass the sniff test, yours, not mine. Towels will work a few more showers, sheets soak more dreams. Hand wash laundry as necessary. Few flushes. Hoard every drop of water as best I can.

Leo and I chose which plants to let die but the choice may not be ours.

We are in the middle of the two month campaigning for government of country, states and municipalities. Rumors abound that the sudden water shut-off has political implications. I hear things. I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who works for the water department. I know too  much.

Well. Or should I say wells. Strange that a city using several wells suddenly runs dry, all on the same day. But, what do I know? Nothing. I know nothing. See above.

Jane, my friend Michelle’s 96-year-old mother, has passed on. This is one of those days which bring on a soup of emotions, relief that she is out of pain, sadness that she is gone, a soup seasoned with anger, grief, emptiness, stories outrageous.

It has not been an easy three weeks. Jane was delirious most of the time, refused to eat, refused to move, needed basic care, needed her surgical dressings changed daily. Fortunately, Ana had taken an intensive nursing class a year ago and stepped in to handle that part of the burden. Medications eased the pain and delusions. Jane died at home, in her own bed, surrounded by family, peaceful in her final hours.

Early the following day Ana arranged for the medical sign-off for natural death and registered the appropriate paperwork with the government. The tasks of finality move quickly here in Mexico. Leo and I drove over to say our own good-byes and to be with Ana and Michelle while they awaited the hearse to pick up Jane’s body for cremation.

Several of Ana’s family were there, people who had gotten to know Jane and appreciate her wit. It was a sweet time and I’m glad I got be a part of it. Most of the time we sat or stood or moved about under the trees around Jane’s wee casita, talking quietly, or quietly contemplative. Ana and Michelle let us love on them without any need to play hosts.

When the hearse backed down the drive, we said our final goodbyes, then stood in respectful silence while the two men went about their work. When the hearse left, heartfelt hugs all around, and we each dispersed to our various homes.

One of the stories Michelle told us was that when Jane lived on the coast above Puerto Vallarta, every Friday night she went to a particular bar for karaoke. Two songs, she sang, without fail, “Summertime” and “Danny Boy”.

This morning, the lazy summery tune meandering among my thoughts, I sat beneath my mango tree, pondering the vagaries of life, remembering Jane, unable to ignore three large green mango fruits hanging in front of my face, green but will be ripe to pick next week. April.

Yes, our summertime. However, the fruit of this particular mango tree, branches already laden with hundreds of babies, ripens in July. July! We live in a topsy-turvy world and must stand in awe.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April Summertime

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What You Gonna Do When Your Well Runs Dry?

            What You Gonna Do When Your Well Runs Dry?

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Three weeks and counting. Two deep wells supply the municipality of Etzatlan with water. One of the city well pumps quit working. Died the good death after a life of service to his community.

Down on the lower edge of town, we in my neighborhood experienced an extreme decrease in water pressure.  We had no idea or thought of concern to what was occurring up on the hillsides.  A week passed before we were aware of a problem. Until our own water ran out.

I took immediate measures to conserve. Short showers every other day. Laundry piles grew high in the bodega.  Flowers gasped with thirst.  My green grass faded to brown. I flushed only when necessary. I stacked dishes in the sink for the once-a-day wash. My insular world is coated with dust. But I have lived with less water.   

Here’s the background story. Etzatlan snuggles tightly in the foothills against a mountain. Water from the two city wells is pumped up the mountain to a huge tank. From there water flows by gravity to the maze of water pipes and to the tinacos or storage reservoirs on every business and household roof.

I am fortunate. There is enough water coming down the hill in the evening while I sleep to replenish my tinaco. I’ve not gone dry one single day. Yes, flowers will wilt and some will die. Most will recover. Laundry will eventually dance on the clothesline. Living with less water is inconvenient for me, no more than that.

Water runs downhill. We at the bottom might have little water but generally enough to keep the tinacos full if nothing else. Those in the foothills have no water whatsoever. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

I am fortunate. I repeat, I am fortunate. What I did not know until a few days ago, is that entire sections of town have no water. Miguel, who works on the ranch for Josue, is one without water to his home. Miguel has five children. I quit my whining in an instant when I heard. So, a few flowers die, so what.

The city hired an independent business to fix the pump.  When the pump was determined to be unsalvageable, a new pump was ordered from Monterey. By this time we were two weeks into the water shortage.  In installing the new pump, somebody with fumble fingers, imagine that, dropped the pump into the well, Whoops!  Days pass as attempts are made to retrieve pump. Days.

The “fixer” company ordered a crane in from Guadalajara, which also failed to reach the drowned pump, now in permanent residence in the bottom of the well. Did you notice the water tastes metallic?  More days slide by.

The schools have issued a request for teachers to go slack on the uniform requirements for students. Many families are unable to launder uniforms. Let the children wear whatever is clean and available. It is these little details that let me know how fortunate I actually am.

How do people in town get water? Some walk to a public faucet and fill buckets they lug home. Neighbors put containers into a pickup truck and drive to the water plant to get enough water from the public spigot to get along another day. I quit whining immediately on hearing these stories.

Etzatlan is a small city. We do not have unlimited funds, no spare half a million pesos or more lying in the coffers to order another pump when the city already paid for the first one, which city workers did not drop. I’m telling it like I heard it.

Going into the fourth week, the outcome between the city and the “fixer” company is uncertain. The president of town, an office similar to a mayor, is an astute rancher. Citizens with no water are predictably angry. If I were a gambler, I’d bet the city will scrape together funds to buy a new pump and it will be installed on arrival, even if it takes all night.

News Flash: At 10:00 last night the mayor announced that the city purchased a new pump and it is installed. By tomorrow, everybody should be back on full water service. Who paid? The city.

Listen to the rattle of sinks full of dishes. Every washing machine in town is swishing school uniforms, every clothes line full. In my own yard, hear the small gulps of gratitude as flowers drink heartily.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 21, 2019

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