Birthdays and Other Afflictions

 

Birthdays and Other Afflictions

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I’ve never made a big deal of my birthdays. In childhood, my birthday presents were always books, which was exactly what I wanted. Coming from family raised during the Great Depression, a gift was a Big Deal. I’m pretty sure my Dad never had a birthday present.

For decades, beginning in my forties, I began skipping the “9” years. Instead of forty-nine, I became “almost fifty”. I did not see 49 as a positive gain. Almost sixty. Almost seventy.

This year, a “9” year, I turned almost 80 as the moon crossed over the sun.

I doubt that has any great significance. There are such things as coinky-dinkies, thank you, Jimmy Durante. You have to be old to remember that man. Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are. In my defense, when I watched Jimmy Durante on television, I was really young and he was really old.

My birthday night was also a night of no moon. Make of that what you will.

I appreciate that young people today talk about everything, big and little, stuff my generation was not allowed to even think about—nor did we have the basic information to allow us to think. It might seem the young ones talk too much, but, hey, talking, talking, talking the forbidden is new experience and the new will wear off. Conversations which were taboo to people of my generation will become common.

One of the items on that long, long list of things nobody told us would happen when we got old, one among many of the dreaded, dreadful taboo topics, hold your breath, is hemorrhoids.

Guess what I got for my birthday.  Yep, that “H” word as one of my friends calls it. She still cannot let the forbidden word slip past her lips.

I determined years ago that I will talk about whatever crosses my path, painful or not. A little research showed me that hemorrhoids are common in older people, a natural, (painful), progression, so to speak. Cripes.

Since most of the people I’m in touch with are aging and/or aged, when I visit, I announce my new affliction with gusto and a big smile, “Guess what? I’ve got a hemorrhoid.”

After the bug-eyed looks of shock wear off, most of my friends then share their stories of how they dealt with said affliction. Medicine works. I recommend medicine.

On the way to the Farmacia for my medication for hemorrhoids, I noticed every other building in town is plastered with political posters. This is an election year in Mexico.

While not everything in Mexico is wonderful, and I do tend to wax lyrical about what I find wonderful, like any country, Mexico has big faults, some Grand Canyon big.

Let me sing goodness about the election process, at least this part of it. Campaigning is limited to two months. Two months of loud and predictable and tiresome promises and lies. Two months. June 2, people will head for the polls and vote and that is done. Done. For six more years.

Speaking of falsehoods, excuse me a moment to talk with my editor.

Tim, if it is not too shaky or fuzzy, I would like to change my photo from hollyhocks to a birthday photo Crin took of me on my patio. Could you also have your photo person do a little, what do they call it, photo shop? Air brush? Remove glaring defects? Make me beautiful?

Just kidding. I know they can’t do the impossible. However, could they take some of the worry away from my face? Oh, and I had not combed my hair. If it doesn’t work, keep the hollyhocks, please. Thank you.

All in all, I had a good birthday. My daughter called and sang me the birthday song. A friend left me a basket of fruit on my patio table. Others took me out for breakfast. Another friend made me an apple dumpling and gave me a rock. Friends are good. (The rock is a pumice stone for cleaning lime scale, a last minute, thoughtful, “we gives what we gots”.)

And, true to history, I bought myself a book.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April birthday week

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Happy Secret Birthday, Me

 

Happy Secret Birthday, Me

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Remember when you couldn’t wait? When each additional year brought joyful anticipation, jumping up-and-down glee? What? When you were six. Then ten. Eighteen. Even, in a different way, twenty-one. That was then.

I have a dear friend who still gets that excited. For years she has extended birthdays from The Day to The Birthday Week and celebrates herself every day. She’s healthier than I am.

Me, I skulk around hoping nobody remembers. I don’t want any fuss. So I keep schtum.

I also have friends who keep track of everyone’s birthdays. This is good. They let me know when to send best wishes. We are scattered distances. No fuss, just good feelings. I enjoy their birthdays. I enjoy their greetings to me. Makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

Last week I turned a daily calendar page and grew another whole year older. It is no secret. But, I didn’t run around singing “Happy Birthday to Me”.

In a way, this birthday which sneaked up on me is a surprise. It won’t make sense to say I never thought I’d get to this age. Here I am. Fortunate and blessed. I don’t take any medications. Most of the friends my age gulp a daily dose of pills the size of a packet of M & M’s. My blood work is good. My problems are mechanical, annoyances, like a flat tire or the left back wheel locked up. They slow me down.

“Slow down” is a good thing for a woman who approached life most of my years “like killing snakes”, so I’ve been told by those close to me.

In my own little ways, I celebrated my birthday. My party began with a huge dish of steamed asparagus, seasoned with butter, salt and pepper. A dishful. Not two spindly spears like one gets as decoration in an upscale restaurant. I love asparagus. 

Mid-afternoon John came by to share some news. He left my place to go see Kathy and Richard. I said, “I’ll tag along.” I filled Lola’s dog dish but left early, took my dog; left my gate open.

Crin was in her garden, dragging a fallen palm leaf, so we hailed her and said, “Join us.” On her way through her gate, Crin saw Lani and said, “Let’s go to Kath and Rich’s.” “Be there shortly,” Lani replied.

We got settled. Kathy brought out glasses and a pitcher of water, which is the perfect drink on a day in the 90s.

Sure enough, shortly, Lani and Ariel appeared. Ariel carted in a beautiful chocolate cake.

All I can say is that it was perfect. It’s my birthday. And my friends gathered for an unintentional celebration complete with cake. I kept my secret close to my heart. No focus, no fuss. Just good cake with good friends and it was all the more special to me.

Let me tell you the side story. Lola used to sneak into Josue’s yard and scarf up Snowball’s dog food. Snowball is like her name, a little bitty thing. Lola liked Snowball’s brand of chow better than her own. There was nothing to do but change my dog food. So I bought a bag for Snowball and a bag for Lola.

Snowball has a new friend, a four-month old pup, Hunter. Hunter has paws the size of saucers, so you get an idea how big he will grow to be. Though taller than mid-size Lola, Hunter is a pup. 

When Lola and I got back to our house after having chocolate cake at my secret birthday party, I saw first thing that Lola’s just-filled bowl was empty. Not just empty, but licked slick and shiny.

I did laugh as I refilled Lola’s bowl. Hunter had come bounding into our open gate, sniffed out the bounty and helped himself. Retribution.

I think the Universe does like balance. I turned 78 and got an unexpected party with friends and cake. Hunter ate an extra meal, payback for all the times Lola ate little Snowball’s food.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April, after birthday, after Easter

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To the tune of, “Will you still love me, when I’m ninety-five!”

 

               To the tune of, “Will you still love me, when I’m ninety-five!” 

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I went to Oconahua to Jane’s birthday celebration for cake and homemade ice-cream. Ninety-five full years. From the stories Jane has told and from stories her daughters told with great glee, that woman was a pistol. She’s still a pop gun.

She lived fully and outrageously, a Registered Nurse, from NCY to Alaska to Washington to Mexico. In what order, I don’t know. There are chapters I’ve not heard.

Jane is Michelle’s daughter and has a casita on Ana and Michelle’s land a short ways from the Big House. Michelle is her primary care-taker. Ana is taking nursing classes, in order to be a better-educated helper.

I enjoyed an enlightening talk with Ana. She explained how Mexican culture doesn’t see anything wrong with senility. It is a natural part of the life cycle and is treated as such. That is refreshing.

The party was a small gathering compared to what Michelle and her sister Susan, in Mexico for the event, had envisioned. They had wanted all of us, everyone who knows Jane, to be there, a catered dinner, a mariachi band, the whole big blow out with fireworks and all things glittery. With all the various plagues in the land, the family chopped the party back at both ends and in the middle.

Meanwhile, back at the Rancho, Josue, checking in at a youthful and invincible thirty-five years old, seems to be trying to foreshorten his days. Picture this: Josue was working at a friend’s hacienda, up six meters (that is about 20‘ high) on a ladder, swinging a paint sprayer attached to the air hose, when the ladder slipped.

When the ladder slipped, gravity took over, the ladder hit the ground, the man came down, broke arm and leg but saved his crown, so he said, barely coherent through the pain, “At least my head is okay.”

“Josue,” I said, “If your head was okay, you would never have been that high on a ladder without a harness, with an air-tool in hand.”

I must explain that when one needs a ladder that tall, here in Mexico, one takes two or more ladders and ties them together end-to-end. Just picture that.

Josue laughed, so we knew that even though he wasn’t ‘okay’, he will be. After surgery and three months recuperation.

Not to be outdone by others’ drama, my bank card quit working. I bank at Bear Paw, now called something else. At first I wasn’t worried. It happens. The bank machine is maybe out of money. Three tries in town later, three weeks, plus a denial in Guadalajara, I figured panic was appropriate.

Finally, I called the bank and after waiting in a long queue, got a voice I’d not heard before. The young man was quite nice, explained that my bank card would never work again. I explained that I live in Mexico and that is my only access to money.

I knew there were changes at the bank because I saw an article in the Havre Daily. I know changes never go smoothly as envisioned in an office somewhere else. The nice young-male voice assured me that he’d issue a new card and new checks to be sent to my daughter at my Montana address, her house.

Bank cards are not allowed to be shipped across the border. So if my daughter receives my card as assured, she will have to then mail it to the next person coming here from the US. Whenever. Do you see all the opportunities for disaster?

Lent is around the corner. I confess that I have not seriously observed Lent in a whole lot of years. However, when in the trenches, one calls on Greater Powers. I’m going on short rations, not from a renewed sense of devotion, but from a severe shortage of pesos.

Which brings me back to Jane’s birthday party, a sweet affair at which we all agreed, none of us really want to live to ninety-five, not unless we can still have all our physical and mental functions. Of course, we also want to die peacefully in our sleep, a dream as likely to happen as me getting my bankcard without a hitch and a hiccup.

We know that Josue will, in a few months, be back up high on a make-shift ladder.

Jane is planning to make ninety-six years.

I’ll let you know how Lent goes for me and if I live to enjoy my own next birthday in April.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Three weeks into February and warmer

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Tempus Fugit

            Tempus Fugit

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            Time flies and the older I get, the faster it fugits. As I contemplate yet another birthday, that mean ol’ tempus is fugiting at the speed of light.

            To add injury to insult, this weekend we will set the clocks ahead in Mexico. I know, you up north are already over the shock of change.  In a few days I will struggle to remember what time it really is, whatever that means, since “time” is but an arbitrary measure.

            Before I wax too philosophical, let me change directions and note that my snowbird friends are flying north at jet speed.

            Crin left for Victoria last Sunday. Julie flew back to Minneapolis yesterday. Jim leaves for Missouri next Sunday. John and Carol are heading out in another two weeks. Pat and Nancie have been gone for three weeks. Kathy and Richard leave again the end of April.

            Like kiwi birds or emus, Lani and I will be left, summer-time flightless birds. Oops, Lani plans to sprout wings in May and fly north for an extended period of time. Woe is me, alone and abandoned.

            Try as I might, I am unable to squeeze out even a crocodile tear since Saturday four of us are sneaking off to Cancun for a week of fun in the eastern sun. At last, I will get to see the Caribbean, unexplored territory. Happy Birthday to me.

            When my friends go north, they leave a hole in my soul and a hole in my daily life. We don’t do all things as a group but our paths criss-cross with frequency. Just this week I had lunch with two different friends. Plus, one afternoon six of us women drove up the mountain to Restaurante Don Luis for a three hour meal that was more laughter than food.

            Judging by stories I am told, the original folks who built these homes we now inhabit, had common ground. They were travelers with campers and RVs, were retired military, and liked to party hearty. Oh, we here are so different!

            The other night, sitting on my patio, Julie and I agreed, our present conglomeration of residents, whom I have come to love so quickly, have absolutely nothing in common. We come from quirkily diverse backgrounds. At times we act on one another like sandpaper. Whatever our roughness, we smooth it out. We share food, borrow ladders and trade plants.

            We are all mature enough to know to look inside our own guts first when we have a problem with another person.

Time. Time is a great helper, a revealer, more often than not, replacing petty snarls and sniffs with understanding and respect. Sandpaper or time, we interact with varying and shifting degrees of tolerance, acceptance and downright liking.

Perhaps it is no accident we were each drawn to be here at this time in life; perhaps there is a strange, unknowable, purpose in grinding our rough edges. Or not.

One by one, we arrived to fill the empty houses. I came to visit my cousin. Others came to visit me. Some were in the adjacent campground and ended up staying to restore a trashed house. None of our stories connect through common ground.

So sometimes we grind against one another. Some sand paper is fine; other paper is coarse. We seem to smooth out any bumps. I’ll miss my friends when they are all gone. But I am easy with my solitude.              

Before I’m alone again, I will move forward the hands on the face of my clock. I will fly with friends to Cancun in yet another time zone and be totally confused. What time is it? Time to celebrate my birthday with chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. Skip the candles, please.

When I return home, I shall remember that time has a very special grit of sandpaper for we who live alone. Meanwhile, tempus fugit.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 4, 2019

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It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To

It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To

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            Setenta tres. Seventy-three. I bought a fancy chocolate cake yesterday at my favorite pasteleria. I’m invited to dinner at John and Carol’s house tonight. Nobody knows it’s my birthday and I ain’t telling.

But I’m taking my cake to share and will get great and secret pleasure from having a party when nobody else knows it’s my party.

Day on top of day, the years have a way of rolling past. Getting older doesn’t hold the same pizzazz and crackle for me that earliest years held. Remember the day you turned six? That was a real landmark.

Ten is another for me, and I’m not at all sure why. Twelve was a disappointment. Sixteen, for all the hype, was neither sweet nor remarkable. At twenty-one I was two weeks away from having a baby girl.

I have photos of myself when I was thirty-four in which I look to be an old, old woman in her sixties. Photos don’t lie. That was the emotionally most painful, lowest point of my life.

At thirty-eight, my photo shows a young woman who likes herself and has hope. I’d like to say every year got better but life holds too much variety and we all know that would be a lie.

Forty-nine was a blur. All I could think was ‘almost fifty’. When fifty came, I’d already lived the angst. A lot of foo-foo-rah for nothing. What is one more day?

Seventy-three I am and living a life I could never have dreamed at sixty-three. Fortunately, my body is relatively free from pain and that is a huge happiness factor, believe me; I’ve been in the other camp and I know the difference. Emotional pain is every bit as debilitating. When pain is present, celebrating the good stuff takes guts and a heaping helping of denial. My opinion.

Last week I met a woman from the near-by campground. She asked where I lived. I described the location. “Oh, you’re the garden. I walked by your place.” That’s as good a description as any I’ve heard. I’m the garden.

One of my red geraniums is so vividly red that it looks like liquid. I want to dip a paint brush into the flower and paint the world. This morning that cheeky squirrel ran over my naked feet as though I were not attached. Amaryllis, though only a few are yet to bloom, still stand tall in the garden, this their fourth month of show-off trumpets on stalks.  

Magnolia, jasmine and roses mingle their scent with a purple flower that has a cinnamon-like tang. Every day I see something new. A tiny seed settled onto my palm, a gift from the wind, propelled by a feathery plume. I’ve no clue what it is; a mystery seed bearing life.

My five-dead-trees are in full leaf. Again, this year, I insisted, “They are dead. Look, twigs are dry and brittle.”

“No, just wait. They will leaf in March, remember,” Leo said to me. I shook my head, negating the possibility. I am wrong. Buds in March. Leaves in April. Flowers in May. Is that a kind of birthday?

Seventy-three.  Tonight I eat dinner with friends. I share my chocolate cake. Next week Steve and Theresa from Washington will arrive to visit. The dead trees might be in flower while they are here. I can hope. Leo shakes his head, “May.”

No matter. Have you ever seen a mother-in-law-tongue in bloom—beautiful yellow flowers on a tall stalk? Jade and asparagus ferns are flowering. There is no shortage of beauty.

Leslie Gore sang her song of tears at her party and I can cry at mine if I want, but maybe, instead of tears, I’ll have my cake and eat it too.  

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 12, 2018

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The Diner, The Witch and The Birthday Cake

When a surprise is not a surprise is a surprise! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Diner, The Witch and The Birthday Cake __________________________________________________________________________________________ I have been looking for any excuse to get out of town after being held hostage by winter. I especially wanted to see my friends Ron and Sharon in Watson , Saskatchewan . Also, I didn’t trust winter to stay gone, so it would be a comfort to have a friend along to share the eight hour drive north. Steve, a good friend from Silverdale , Washington , arrived for a visit on the Empire Builder last Tuesday. I jumped at my opportunity. “Steve, did you bring your passport? Good, let’s go to Canada .” I wanted to surprise my friends, but I wanted it to be a pleasant surprise. So I emailed Sharon : Do you like surprises? Sharon replied: I love surprises. That’s all I needed to know. So early Thursday morning we quickly pack our bags and leave. Ten miles out of Harlem , we hit the snow fields. Not fields of snow: snow fields. There is a difference. In the valley, the snow has melted into the thirsty earth. In the hills, snow is deep and creeks run swift through the coulees. Our day is sunshine bright and our spirits run as high as the creeks, out of their banks with excitement. After crossing the border at Turner/Climax we stop for a farm-style breakfast in Shaunavon, one of my favorite towns, continue north to Gull Lake, east on Highway 1 to Regina, through the beautiful city and north on Highway 6 to Watson. Snow and high water, geese and deer, hawks, coyotes and a wolf flank our journey. We pull into the parking lot at the Quick Stop Diner at 5:30. Sharon flies across the parking lot and grabs me in a hug. “I knew you were here. One of our customers saw you drive in and said, I see your friend from Montana is here.” I introduce Steve and we hustle inside. I sneak back to the kitchen and surprise Ron with a big hug. Lilia, the other member of the Quick Stop team, spots me and rushes over to wrap me in her arms. In the diner I recognize several customers, all of whom grin and wave or nod to me. “You’re back, eh?” “How long are you staying?” “Good to see you.” I planned a surprise, but I am surprised in turn by how warmly I am received. “We’ve come to help,” I announce. “And to celebrate my birthday. I brought our own aprons and Quick Stop tee shirts. I’ll bus tables.” “And I’ll do dishes,” Steve said. And so we do. Friday the little diner bustles with customers all day long. Everybody is responding to a sunshine day with easy-going talk and laughter. Sharon, Ron and Lilia incorporate us into their little operation. I deliver orders from the kitchen, pour coffee and clear tables. Steve helps both on the floor and in the kitchen. For me, the highlight of the day comes when a woman arrives with a three year old daughter and her two sons about fourteen and sixteen. The little bright-eyed charmer watches me come and go, smiles at me and gives me little waves, so I make a point to stop by their table frequently with a word or two. Finally the toddler motions me over and announces loudly, “You are funny. Are you a witch? I think you are a witch.” “Why, thank you. I do believe I am.” I laugh, pleased. I recognize praise when I hear it. Her mother, however, is mortified. I can tell Mom wants to crawl under the table, hopefully to disappear through a hole in the floor. “No, no, no, she gave me a compliment,” I assure Mom. “Your little girl knows happy magic when she sees it, like that of the good witch, Glenda, from the ‘Wizard of Oz’.” The boys grin and nod their agreement. I cherish that compliment all day. As the last customers wave good-by, Sharon locks the door. Sharon, Steve, Lilia and I finish the closing chores. In the kitchen Ron grills lamb chops with all the trimmings. We sit down to the feast, tired and hungry. We bask in the satisfaction of a good day, well worked, with good friends and the magic of hearts at ease. And then another surprise appears, a birthday cake with candles flickering. Ron had baked it for me first thing that morning. My friends urge me to make a wish. I close my eyes and wish the love and the joy that surround us this moment be with us every day all year long. I blow out the candles and cut the cake. It is a magic birthday, the best birthday I ever had. Sondra Ashton HDN: Looking out my back door April 14, 2011 _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When One is Invisible

To be or not to be . . . -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When One is Invisible _____________________________________________________________________________________________ Two weeks ago I was at Sweet Medical in Chinook for my annual Woman’s Exam. My doctor asked me a series of routine questions, and concluded by asking my age. I’ll be mumbly-mumble in two weeks,” I said. She looked up from her paperwork. “Happy Birthday, Sondra.” “I’m getting older grudgingly, not gracefully. I dislike aging. Brown spots, papery skin, this one long white hair that sprouts three inches overnight on my face. And why can’t we sit down or stand up without sound effects matching every move?” She laughed. “Would you like to go back to when you were younger?” “Not on your life—or my life.” “Not even if you knew all you know now?” “I’d probably do the same foolish things over again. With the knowledge I have today, life would be even more painful. But the thing that makes me angry about being an aging woman is that sometime in my fifties I became invisible. I don’t know how, but when I became an older woman, I vanished.” My doctor’s eyes sparked fire. “I know what you are talking about. I experience it all the time. It happens whenever I transact business. My husband and I were shopping for new floor coverings. We spent hours in the store looking at samples. The clerk talked to him the entire time. I made the choices, not him. I paid the bill, not him. But I might as well have not been there as far as that clerk was concerned.” “Yes, sometimes it seems like we don’t exist, like we are vague shadows. I remember one time when I went to buy a cargo van. The salesman insisted that I didn’t want a cargo van and he had the perfect mini-van for me and I needed to bring my husband to make the deal. I told him, look, I need a full-size cargo van for my business. And I don’t have a husband. He didn’t even hear me; he repeated it again, bring in your husband and test drive the mini-van. I stomped out of that place steaming and never went back. “I went down the road to the next dealership, smoke pouring from my ears. I told the young salesman that I’m single, I know what I want, and if you even hint that I need a man to seal the deal, I’m walking right back out that door. Whew, he brought me a mug of coffee, sat me in a chair in his office, closed the door and said, you just came from up the street, huh. An hour later I drove out of there behind the wheel of my new cargo van.” We had a good giggle. My doctor then said, “Frequently a female patient wants her husband in the room so that he can hear the information first hand. I make sure I address most of my comments directly to her with good eye contact. I talk to him too, but most of my discussion is with her.” Invisibility still dominated my mind when my daughter Dee Dee, a family counselor, phoned. “It’s not just women who are invisible,” she reminded me. “Add to your list the physically or mentally challenged. Old people don’t see young people. Young people disregard the elderly. People with dark skin or those with light skin, both can be invisible. Or people who speak a different language or wear unfamiliar clothing. Some people erase those who have green hair, tattoos, or body piercings. Almost all of us avoid looking at the homeless. It’s easy to become a non-person.” We humans are talented beyond belief. We make people disappear who are not carbon copies of us. We forget that every human being is unique. Each one of us has a compelling story. What would happen if we stopped, looked for the humanity in her eyes, and listened to her story? Or his story. Think about it. Sondra Ashton HDN: Looking out my back door March 31, 2011 _________________________________________________________________________________________________

When Giants Roamed the Earth

Happy birthday to Me, Happy Birthday to Me, Happy . . . you get the idea.

My phone rings. “Happy Birthday, Grandma.” It is three year old Annie and her teen sister Nadia. “How old are you today, Grandma,” asks Annie.

“I remember the dinosaurs,” I reply.

“Oh, Grandma, you must be reee-ally old,” said Annie. They are on speaker-phone. I hear sophisticated Nadia snort and leave the room. “Tell me, tell me all about them,” Annie demands.

I’m a poet, not a scientist. I describe giants roaming the earth, green and brown and purple. Then I contemplate that scientists also must be poets to be able to flesh out in color the look of the beasts, beginning with nothing more than a pile of bones. “I’ll show you what it was like in the dinosaur days when you visit,” I promise.

When they arrive, we head out to the ranch owned by a young man from my high school days. I had phoned ahead for permission to take the children out into a field where cattle grazed. I carry a thick blanket folded over one arm.

We slip the wire off the post and go through the gate. The barbed wire gates braced with diamond willow stays have not improved in design in fifty years. I struggle to get it closed. “Those are cows,” Annie crows. “Where are the dinosaurs?” Nadia rolls her eyes.

By luck, we have chosen a balmy spring day for our scientific expedition. I spot the perfect slope for the experiment, neither on the crest of the hill nor in the bottom of the coulee. I spread the blanket on the grasses and we lay down. Immediately Annie jumps up and wanders off in exploration of buttercups and rooster heads. She gathers a fistful of wild flowers, a gift for her Grandma. With promises of dinosaurs and cookies, I induce her to stretch out with her big sister and me on the blanket.

I string together stories of dinosaurs, inland seas, and glaciers building huge moraines of gravel. I’m being nine parts poet and one part scientist. We cover a lot of geologic ground, when Annie tugs at me, “Grandma, the cows are coming. We need to go home.”

“Goodness no, child. This is why we are here. Rest your chin on the ground and watch the cows. Pretend we are as small as those little gophers popping out of their burrows. See how the cows seem to get even bigger as they come closer.” The girls settled into the game. They hardly breathed as the cows in their curiosity wandered right up to us, snuffled at our heads and then went back to grazing. Nadia’s eyes were as full of wonder as her little sister’s.

“Whoa. Grandma, he sniffed me. I’m scared.”

“Nobody said being a scientist is easy. We are lucky. Our monsters are plant eaters, so they didn’t want us for dinner. Now let’s eat cookies.”

That afternoon we visited our famous local dinosaurs, Elvis and Leonardo, at the museum and the field station in Malta . Both kids were entranced with the exhibits. The next day we drove to Eastend , Saskatchewan to see Scotty , Canada ’s most complete T. rex. Where are the dinosaurs? Dead ahead.

Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
April 9, 09