A Rolling Stone?

 

A Rolling Stone?

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Some decisions are so obvious that it is easy to say “yes” or “no” or “in the barrel”. Others take time and some are painful. I made an extremely hard decision this week. I am moving back to Etzatlan to my empty casa there from this beautiful home I’ve lived in the past eight months in Oconahua.

Last week we had a barbeque for the 4^th, we being three gringos and four Mexicanos. Ana told us about a niece and her family from the States who were moving back and needed to rent a home until they found a place to buy or build. My first cringing thought was that I am living in their perfect transition home.

More than once Ana and Michelle have talked about the possibility that friends or relatives might be needing an interim place to live. Those discussions were theoretical. Now they were talking about real people with names.

Ironically, my empty house, which is on the market, immediately, last week, garnered two offers of purchase. I turned them down. During the last week of June, I had accepted a lucrative offer for a 6 month rental. I took a deep breath and notified my agent that, oops, with regrets, circumstances changed and I want, I need, my house for me.

That’s my story in a nutshell, minus several toss-and-turn nights.

Moving here took weeks. Moving back will take weeks. I’ll return with memories and regrets. I won’t get to see that little mule colt grow up. Both places have their own distinct advantages. It’s not like I’m leaving the country. Ana and Michelle are good friends. We will visit. We probably will meet for coffee more often than we do now, living next door!

When I get moved back into my place, I will make changes. Change seems to beget changes. Little things. For example, I’ll move my herbs and geraniums back with me and my dog, but I will not replace the 130 pots I sold last fall in which I had an extensive garden. I’ll hang up my farmer’s hat.

During the days I mulled over my decision options, I consulted friends, friends with no skin in the game. I asked them to make any comment, any criticism, even if they needed to tell me I’m crazy. I did not say a word, however, to my friends on the Rancho. I already know what they would say. They are selfish. They’d say, “Oh, good, come back. We want you here.”

Some might say, “Oh, you made a wrong decision when you moved to Oconahua.” I disagree. These months here on the mountainside have been precious to me, an extended vacation.

Long ago I came to believe that there are no wrong decisions, just decisions.  This decision has these consequences. That decision has those consequences. Consequences come in a mixed bag, joy and pain together. This is my belief, with my experiences. Mine. I would never try to convince you that this is “truth” or that you should think my way. Shudders.

I make mistakes. Of course, I do. My big mistake in this situation was to ignore that tiny niggling concern I had back before my move to Oconahua, a shadow of concern that my friends might need this new house for their friends and relatives who, given political uncertainties, might opt to either relocate or return to Mexico.

That was a mistake, but, a mistake I made for which I have no regret. Consequences, right? My time here has been wondrous. Now I shall step aside for others to enjoy this special place.

I’ll return to my other special place, make some changes to make living there easier for me. It is a win-win, all the way around.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

July 17, 2025

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In My Next Life . . .

 

In My Next Life . . .

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 We stood side by side on the ditch bank, relaxed, Dad leaning on his irrigation shovel. The July afternoon was quiet, air hardly moving, hot, dry. I was in high school but I can’t remember which year.

A wisp of cloud lifted above the horizon. We stood together, in silence, watched the cloud gather substance. The spring rains had abandoned us that year. Here it was, mid-summer, and the earth gasped for moisture.

We tracked that cloud all the way from the cusp until nearly overhead. Time had no meaning. And we watched that little bit of hope dry up and dissipate above us, turn into nothing, disappear.

Dad looked at me with a half-smile, his eyes full of humor, and kind of shook his head. Then he headed off across the field of sugar beets and river water to shore up a bank across the way. You know, that is one of my favorite memories, that moment of hope, gone, and accepted.

I like weather. I talk about it all the time. Still raining here, by the way. None of the younger people can remember a year so wet. My concrete patio is leaching calcium and lime so I know the water table is right up to there. I don’t worry about flooding but what if my house simply slides off the foundation while the earth turns?

When I was younger I never thought to be a meteorologist. Well, that’s not totally true. Back in the mid-70s I lived in Great Falls. My next door neighbor Bob, formerly a weatherman with the Merchant Marine, was then a meteorologist up on Gore Hill. To maintain certification, he periodically had to take a test. I borrowed his exam book and read every page, fascinated.

I could have done that. In a more perfect world. My world at that time was poverty and survival and I’m afraid I could not have recognized opportunity had it stomped on me.

My problem is that I found too many fascinations. Looking back, my life seems to be divided into chapters. I suspect we all at times have wished we could relive part of our lives differently. But would we?

My life story has a couple ugly chapters. But given how hard-headed I am, I suspect those chapters were necessary. In retrospect, I would not trade them, mostly, I confess, because I can’t.

I control my life just as well as I control the weather, that is, not at all. If I wiped out the ugly chapters, I’d wipe out a lot of beautiful experiences. So best just accept them and move on.

Life. Weather. My own self. We’re all a mish-mash.

My refrigerator quit working. The ice-cream is soup. The repairman is here.

Today was partly sunny after raining from 6:00 last evening through to 8:30 this morning. My lime trees planted in the lower part of my yard show signs of distress from too much water. They might die dead. Clouds are rolling in quickly, setting the stage for tonight’s promised thunder storms.

I’m on the patio, waiting for the news, good or bad, from the repairman. Lola, my hairy mutt, sensing my distress, bounded over and buried her face against my leg, as if to say, “Just bury your fingers in my ruff, yes, behind my ears, over a bit, yes, right there, because I know that always makes you feel better.”  

If there is a next life, I doubt I’ll have any more control than I do with this one. Knowing me, I’ll need some lessons in living, both hard and soft. Best to just pay attention as it unfolds.

After all, it doesn’t get much better than this, watching the clouds gather into piles, knowing they carry moisture, Lola at my feet!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 7, 2021

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Downsizing My Life: Door Number One

Downsizing My Life: Door Number One
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One windy day last October I tripped over a leaf-covered obstruction in the sidewalk and broke my wrist. Looking back, my painful wrist was the first catalyst I can identify that began to steer my thinking in the direction of a major life change. Since my accident, I can no longer do a lot of things I used to be able to carry off with panache.

Just yesterday the man I hired to do some yard work I can’t handle any more, stuff involving a wheel barrow and pitch fork, asked me, "How did you ever get in the recovering furniture business?"

My son was five. My daughter was a senior in high school, getting ready to go to college. I was a Mom on my own. I had enrolled at the U of M to start work toward a Master’s degree. Got a job. Put Ben in daycare. After a nightmarish two weeks, he and I agreed that daycare didn’t work for us. I withdrew from school. I quit my job. There had to be a way I could support my family using skills I had learned growing up, at the same time doing something I enjoyed. For a few months I supported us by hemming blue jeans and replacing zippers in ski jackets. It was hand to mouth.

I continued to focus on sewing and in a few short months things came together in a wondrous way. I bought a commercial sewing machine. I learned upholstery. I moved to Poulsbo, Washington and started a successful business, specializing in antique restoration. All these years later, after a move back to my hometown, I continued my business on the High Line. But then I fell and broke my wrist. The break healed but RSD, a nerve disorder, set in. Much of the physical work I was used to doing is now difficult or close to impossible.

Then in early spring, my son was diagnosed with lung cancer. A young man with cancer is not the way things are supposed to be. But nobody is immune from a hit from "not the way things are supposed to be". He became my second catalyst. His doctor sent him home to write his "Bucket List". As we talked about it, Ben reminded me that I had wanted to devote more of my life to my painting and writing.

You have to understand, I have the most wonderful and patient customers in the world. "Get healed," they said. Furniture piled up in my shop. I ran away from home and went on an extended retreat. When I returned I had made the decision to change my life. I would finish the work for the customers I had committed to and then to lock the door to the Recovery Room.

At the rate I could work one-and-a-half handed, I figured closing that door might take as long as six months. That door might stay cracked open forever. So I called my friend and colleague Steve, a furniture upholster from Silverdale, Washington. This week Steve rode out on the train to help me with my heavier projects. I can handle the smaller jobs. And then I my life and identity as an upholsterer will be at an end.

Working with furniture, making wonderful but shabby old pieces new and stylish, has been a part of my life, the love of my life, for almost thirty years. Yikes! I must have subtracted wrong. Nope—twenty-nine years. It will be like losing a limb. Can I do it? I want to. I have to. I will.

I’ve always liked the cliché, when one door closes, another door opens. And that may be true for you, but in my life, I generally find multiple doors, none with a neon flashing arrow pointing "Choose Me", from which to choose. Remember Monty Hall in that old television game show, "Let’s Make a Deal"? Remember the "Big Deal" at the end of the show, where contestants got a chance to trade their booty for the possibility of grabbing something of greater value, behind Door Number One, Door Number Two or Door Number Three. We viewers held our breath as the contestants pondered which door to pick. We wanted the best for each participant. For the contestant who had won the washer and dryer, we wanted the Biggest Value Deal of all, the brand new shiny red Cadillac convertible, gleaming with chrome. What satisfaction we vicariously felt, when they chose the door that opened to the best deal of all. What a finale.

So I will finish my work and close my shop door. I am confident Life will present me with Doors Number One, Two and Three to choose from. My show is just beginning. Oh, the anticipation! Which door will I open? It doesn’t really matter. Every door opens to vast possibilities. Life, let’s make a deal. Bring on the doors.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 30, 2013________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________