A Rolling Stone?

 

A Rolling Stone?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tried to Run Away and Got Tripped Up

Tried to Run Away and Got Tripped Up

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

            Lani, who lives in Etzatlan near Guadalajara, invited me to spend a few days with her. Lani and my cousin Nancie are long time friends. Nancie has been nagging me to go to Etzatlan but it just hadn’t worked out yet. We three women spent a day together in Mazatlan in mid-December.  Lani lives in Etzatlan full time. So, yes, thank you, Lani. I would love to visit. Even in Paradise, one can use a change of scenery.

            Besides, I am at a decision point and would gladly run off and leave the decision to simmer on the back burner. In a couple weeks I will be looking at a sweet little apartment for rent in Old Mazatlan. I have to decide whether to take the rental and test-drive the area or stay in my little studio and continue to look for a house to purchase. High finance is so confusing to me.

            A trip to the Guadalajara area seemed just the diversion I wanted. I meant to spend this week there. The trip did not quite unfold the way I thought it would.

            The bus terminal in Mazatlan is much like an aeropuerto. Every autobus company uses the terminal. So Friday I went downtown. Lani had suggested I get a ticket to Magdalena where she would pick me up, a short drive from her home.

            The young lady at the counter turned the computer toward me so I could see the screen. There are no direct runs to Magdalena. The computer has its limitations. It did not suggest that I go from here to there to Magdalena. Neither did the woman at the counter. Of course, we had a bit of a language barrier. I turned and left. Emailed Lani of my lack of progress.

            Lani then suggested I go to Tepic and from there purchase a ticket to Magdalena. My friend Lupe offered to go to the terminal and get the ticket for me. He phoned me from the terminal. The only bus to Tepic left Mazatlan at two o’clock in the afternoon. And with the crush of going-home-from-holiday traffic, there were no tickets on that run until Tuesday. Tepic is a major terminal, so the scenario didn’t make sense.

I had visions of being stranded overnight in the Tepic terminal waiting for the possibly one and only bus to Magdalena. I figured I would not be taking a trip this week, so unpacked my bags.

            I had been stranded in Tepic before and all this confusion brought the memory back with clarity. Kathy, Mary and I had boarded the bus in Puerto Vallarta, destination Mazatlan. The volume on the movie topped out, the air conditioner was set to ‘ice’. Everybody carried a blanket. We were dressed for the tropics.

            We pulled into Tepic in the middle of the night. With hand signals, the driver indicated to us “fifteen minutes”. Everybody got off the bus. Kathy and I followed. Mary went to the toilet facility at the back of the bus, saying she would be out in a minute.

            We bought ice-cream bars from one of the many vendors and walked back to the bus, scanning for Mary. When we arrived where the bus had been parked, no bus. No Mary. Everything we owned was on the bus—clothing, money, passports. Mary. We looked at one another, eyes big as platters, did the only thing we knew to do, exploded with hysterical laughter. So did everybody around us. Except for one thing. They knew the secret so their laughter was even more riotous. Finally a young man with some English took pity and explained that the bus went to take on fuel and would be back.

            That night Lupe stopped by, “I don’t think you understood me. Buses from everywhere go through Mazatlan. You could go to the terminal early in the morning, wait for a bus to come through which has an available seat, and take that bus.”

            “Oh.” Now I understand. My vivid imagination once more kicked in and I could picture  trying to decipher the unintelligible (to me) Spanish code blaring from the speakers announcing that Bus # 000 from Durango to Tepic leaving gate # ABC in twenty minutes, struggling to get a ticket, find the gate and get on that bus.

            Meanwhile, Lani called me. She now suggested I take a Primera Plus bus direct from Mazatlan to Zapopan and she could pick me up there. Problem solved. I went on line and reserved a ticket for next week. One ticket, terminal to terminal. I breathed a sigh of relief. 

            Kathy reminded me to take earplugs, a blanket and snacks, just in case the bus breaks down. Nothing can trip me up now. Can it?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 9, 2014

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ode to Spring and The Nesting Syndrome

Ode to Spring and The Nesting Syndrome

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

            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 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

No Habla Espanol But I Do Gestures Well

No Habla Espanol But I Do Gestures Well
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Just today a gentleman in Great Falls, upon hearing I will soon move to Mexico, mirrored my enthusiasm, "Oh, I love Mexico. My wife and I go to Cancun every year." Then he followed with "Aren’t you afraid to go to Mazatlan? We hear so much bad news about the drug traffic there. Even in Cancun, when we walk the beaches, we are accosted by people trying to sell us drugs."

"Well," I answered, "I have walked alone and with friends through many districts in Mazatlan and on the beaches and nobody has ever tried to sell me drugs." I almost felt disappointed. Do I look that, what, boring, intimidating, Pearl of the Pure Heart, or just plain old?

Last weekend Terry came to my house with his young son, TJ. They loaded my van with boxes and other items I had packed for the trip. I wanted a test run, so to speak. Since I will be taking with me only what I can get into my van, I needed to see just what would fit. Normally I trust my judgment of spatial relations. But I wanted to make sure I could take all my carefully selected, packed and Spanish- labeled treasures.

Imagine my face-splitting grin when everything fit—and all in the front of the van. I have lots of room. "Figure out what else you want to take and I’ll come back in a few days to finish," Terry told me.

So I wandered room to room. I carefully considered this and that. Especially the ‘this’ and the ‘that’ items I had first wanted to keep and later rejected. I retrieved my Kitchen Aid Mixer, vintage 1963. I discovered that I had said my good-bys. I am at peace with letting go of my treasures and items of beauty for others to enjoy.

Since I have oodles of room, I’ll ask Terry to spread the boxes over the whole floor of the van. Of course, there will be some last minute additions, some items I still use every day. And some, like a few plates, bowls, a skillet, one knife, fork and spoon, I’ll leave for the new owner to adopt or toss.

I’ve been blessing the house for Kim. I want her to receive as much pleasure from living here as I have. This home provided me a launching pad for new ventures in growth, such as serving on city council and related boards. Where else could I have acquired so much fodder for "Looking out my back door". My intuition tells me that Kim is ready to expand her life too. I want to leave her that legacy, so I go from room to room and plant good memories.

One more week of living in this house, living out of a suitcase and with a depleted refrigerator. But I’m so busy that I hardly notice. Today I attended another final board meeting. I hesitate to say good-by, rather, hasta luego. I have made new friends, some I feel I’ve known forever. We will keep in touch.

Tomorrow Craig is coming to spend a day or two. I met Craig about a dozen years ago when I cast him in "Nice People Dancing to Good Country Music", his stage debut. He spent much of his time on stage with his head beneath the hood of an old truck dropping bolts into an oil pan. We got to be good friends. We do what friends do; we visit.

It is hard to leave the good people I have come to know. Remember, the road runs both ways. I’ll be back to see you. And you will come spend time with me in my new casa, address as yet unknown. So make sure your passport is up to date.

In my new home, because I’m still the same old me, I will surround myself with new art, more books, and every variety of experience. Since I’m a great tour guide, when you visit, I’ll take you places and show you things nobody else would ever think about.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep in touch through my articles. The next couple months I may not write a consistent article a week, but I will keep them coming. After my auction sale, I’ll be on the road, making my leisurely way south to the border. There are a couple hot springs I want to check out along the route. Once I get to Mazatlan and get settled, I hope to keep showing you what is going on out my back door.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 19, 2013
Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the High Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________