Life Keeps Happening

 

                  Life Keeps Happening

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Sunday morning when six of us sat around the wooden table at Molletes, sipping our drinks and waiting for our food to be delivered, one plate at a time, as is the restaurant way in Mexico, the conversation veered into the troubling elections in Germany, which meant we were one step away from becoming mired in the world political swamp.

Jim, bless his astute heart, intervened. “All I know is that right here, right now, sitting with friends in this upscale restaurant, sipping our lattes, sun shining, beginning a beautiful day, life is pretty fine. Pretty fine.”

Group laughter, shared and received, our conversations continued in a more personal vein, further cementing already strong friendship.

To backtrack, on Saturday, eight of us gringo friends had attended a pig roast feast and annual family gathering in La Mazata, about a half-hour drive from Etzatlan toward Magdalena, up in the mountains littered with opals.

Last year, Francisco and Julie moved to nearby La Mazata, where Francisco grew up and lived most of his life.

What an event! Francisco has a huge family and my guess is that everyone was there, siblings, cousins, in-laws and out-laws, all ages. Oh, my, the food, the scrumptious pig, the music, the dancing, the décor, the finery, the mingling of family and friends; all spoke of festive love and laughter. Pure fun.

Yes, Jim, life is pretty fine. Pretty fine.

All of life does not revolve around food, although much of my social life seems to center around tables with friends, a table that is generally piled with food. I call it Communion.

By Monday I begged a day of solitary quiet. However, even then, a big part of my day was filled with chopping and grating and measuring and mixing, making a filling. Let me explain.

Several days ago I’d mentioned to Kathy that I am so hungry for samosas. When we spent that month in India so many years ago, we ate samosas almost every day.

Later Kathy told me she wished I hadn’t mentioned samosas. Now they were all she could think about. So Kathy drove over to my house with printed papers in hand. “Okay, let’s make samosas. Years ago I took a class. It’s not that hard, just time consuming.”

After looking over the directions, I agreed to make the fillings and Kathy would make the dough. Fillings require a lot of mincing and chopping and boiling and frying.  

Tuesday we put our efforts together, rolled out the dough, filled the little pockets, and deep-fried our samosas. Oh, the aromas. Oh, the explosion of flavors. Oh, the deliciousness.

After making sure our samosas passed the critical taste test, of course, we divvied up the remainders for our freezers, treats for when we must go to India again, if only in imagination. We are not sharing this batch of samosas. These are for our own selfish selves.

However, next fall, we plan to make samosas in huge batches and piles and host an Asian foods pot luck. I’ll also bring chicken adobo, a Filipino dish taught me by my daughter, who learned to make this dish when she lived in Japan. Kathy will make one of her signature Thai specialties.

Why wait until next fall? Some of our friends are already headed north. We want to share the goodness with as many as possible. And such a feast takes some pre-planning, some gathering of spices and seeds easier to find elsewhere. That’s Kathy’s task.

Life is pretty fine when we can gather around a table with friends, share good food, stories and lies. Yep. I call it Communion.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Febrero 27, 2025

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There is a hole in our lives.

 

There is a hole in our lives.

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There aren’t many of us here on the rancho. Not all of our houses have their people. But the last several days, we  who are here, me, Nancie, Julie, Lani and Ariel, Tom and Janet, frequently found ourselves running up against, no, not a wall, but a hole.

This hole has a specific size and shape, exactly the size and shape of Leo. Leo helps all of us with gardening, planting, pruning, mowing, cutting, watering. But Leo is more than a gardener. He has helped all of us, at one time or another, with translating, with information, with getting necessary services, with business, with appointments, with shopping. He can be kind of a catch-all.

For most of us, he has become even more. He’s a friend, a son, may I say, a grandson?

Leo was out with Covid. We all ask, “How did he catch it?” I’d say it caught him.

The last ten days of October are the annual Festival, a time of celebrations, parades, community dinners, all manner of festivities. Everybody in town has relatives who work in the States. There is a lot of travel back and forth, especially during Festival, followed by The Day of the Dead. Many residents work in Guadalajara, back and forth daily. Opportunities to cart around viruses abound.

In addition, last week Leo took care of his nieces while his sister worked. They were home from school, sick with flu. What kind of flu? Nobody went to the doctor to ask, “Is this Coronavirus?” When school kids are sick, and whatever the flu, and, it laid out the entire class, the mothers did what we all know to do. Tuck them in bed, plenty of fluids, a basin, warm water and wash cloths nearby.

Where he got it or where it got him matters not. He got it.

Out came our masks, our polite distances, our test kits. We all had had contact. Out came our anxiety.

By the second day of Leo’s absence, we were learning how much we depended on him, in ways we didn’t think about often. By the forth and fifth day, the hole left in the shape of Leo, had become distorted to giant-sized.

For me, gardening is only part of the picture. Even I can do enough to keep the whole mess from outright dying. Mostly. No, it was more the little things. Leo stopped by most of our houses daily, “Need anything?” or just, “How are you doing?” He’d sit, drink a glass of water, eat a cookie, chat a while, catch us up on the news in town.

Meanwhile, underlying our dependence, is a strange current of dichotomy. We tell him, “You are young, you have a university education, you are smart, you have skills way beyond pruning plants, valuable skills. You need to be thinking about your future.”

Then we follow that with, “But, we would miss you. What would we do without you? We couldn’t cope. We love you, our dear Leo.”

We talk out of both sides of our mouths, sincerely.

We want to see this young man do more with his life, get ahead, whatever that means. At the same time we don’t want to lose him.

Consider this: maybe, just maybe, it is we who have grasped the wrong end of the stick.

When Leo decided he didn’t want to teach school, that he wanted to work outdoors, with plants, with people, maybe our young friend, has found his life’s work.

Maybe he is smarter than we are. Maybe his genius, his gift, is in working with elders. Maybe we should be going to Leo for advice. Maybe pruning and planting are merely his tools, disguising his real work. Maybe.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November here we are!

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The World We Thought We Knew

 

The World We Thought We Knew

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Yesterday an email from Jerry pinged into my inbox. (See, I can talk modern too.)

Jerry is a high school classmate, Harlem, Class of ’63. Back in ’05 I attended my first class reunion, or was it ’06. No matter. Surprisingly, several classmates showed up, we met in clusters, here and there, discovered we wanted more time together. Back in that other world, we had been a tight class, maybe because there were so few of us.

At any rate, we determined to meet annually. And we did. Meet. This is the time of year that we would have already bought tickets, booked rooms, had plans in place for activities and for down time, eating, playing pinochle, talking, laughing together.

Then our world as we thought we knew it turned upside down. The plague came. We got older. Slower. Health problems. Travel became more difficult. The dollar shrunk. Many reasons, many factors have kept us from our annual reunion.

Writing to Jerry reminded me that I do not want to lose all the other classmates I’ve not seen in four or five years. Several of us write regularly. I want to send a letter to all, give them a recap of my year.  Call it a reunion-lite.  

That same evening, out by my gate, Josue and Leo ganged up on me. Josue told me that I need to get out, see more of the world. Leo jumped into the conversation and said that I need to find me a good man.

I gave them both the evil eye.

They ae funny. I told them that I’m just fine the way life is with me today. Simple. Solo. Good.

I’ve not been sick. I keep myself to myself much of the time. I keep busy with things that satisfy and interest me. Garden, sewing, cooking, reading, writing. Life is good. Why would I want to throw a wrench into the works when the works run smoothly.

I live surrounded with beauty. I have lots of opportunities to be creative each day. These things are important to me. I’m not a complete hermit. See below.

Last week I had a yen for doughnuts. But I don’t have a doughnut cutter, do I? Beignets are even better, richer, though they are basically the same thing. These puffy pillows of square dough, just like their round doughnut cousins, need to be eaten same day as fried, right?

I contacted Kathy, Lani, Janet and Nancie, those of us who are here now. Nancie and Kathy will soon be back north. What do you think, group effort and share around? Woo hoo! Everybody jumped on board. I’d make the dough. Nancie would bring her deep fryer. Kathy figured to bring oil and cookie sheets. Janet and Lani both chipped in with powdered sugar and cinnamon sugar. We’d all take a hand in the work, using my outdoor kitchen. The upsurge in energy had us all tingling.

Early morning, while I was setting up the patio to make doughnuts and coffee, Michelle contacted me. She and Ana were both sick with a flu. They had visited both Janet and I a couple days previously.

What to do? I set out extra hand sanitizer and masks. Leo came by. “Cancel it,” said Mother Leo, who mothers all of us more than we mother him. “Divide the dough and let everybody make their own.”

Nancie came by and agreed. Her daughter and grandson were here with her. They had a flight to catch and she was leaving shortly afterward. Decision made and seconded.

As often happens, lines of communication faltered. The other women sent their dough to Nancie, the person with the fryer, without voicing their expectations. Nancie thought they simply didn’t want the dough. She wasn’t about to fry a thousand puffs of dough of any shape on her own, smart woman.

Nancie made monkey bread, or pull-apart bread, with part of the dough and shared it with everyone. Janet retrieved her dough and made cinnamon bread. Everybody raved about the dough. I fried 4 puffs and pigged out, put the rest of my dough ball in the freezer for another day.

We creatively redeemed the day, though with disappointment at losing the party, the togetherness.

Togetherness. There is more than one way to be together.

Which brings me back around to my reunion. I’ve a lot to share with Tony and Jim and Donna and Sarah and Bob and Linda and Jesse. Where did I put my list? As I told Jerry, I’m still alive; you’re still alive. I love you with a grateful heart.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August just beginning

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Give Thanks in All Things

 

Give Thanks in All Things

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I remember the Thanksgiving when Ben first brought his girlfriend, Shea, to dinner. We had the traditional meal, turkey nicely browned, all the side dishes. I asked everyone to share some one thing they felt especially thankful for that day.

Years later my daughter-in-law, Shea, told me how my request had terrified her. None of her family talked about gratitude. Poor Shea. On top of being scared to share something personal, she had been scared to meet me. 

My children! Both of them told stories (?) that had their prospective spouses quivering when they met me. The reality is that I’m a total cream puff and prepared to like anybody my children like. In fact, most of their friends call me “Mom”.

I like to check in with what I am thankful for on special days. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Easter. My birthday. Okay, maybe not my birthday.

Special days. Friday, because the sun is shining. Tuesday, because a frog sat on my doorstep. Sunday because it rained, poured pounding rain. It never rains in November. Not since I’ve lived here. But it rained Sunday. And Monday.

Special days. National Kazoo Day. Poetry Week. Mother Goose Day. World Thinking Day—if only!

Let me declare this to be “World With Friends Day”.

This Thanksgiving I dedicate to you, my friends. I am grateful for each one of you. Some of you are long-time friends, some new friends, some acquaintances. Some of you I’ve not met in person but you know me very well; you know me through my stories.

Thank you for allowing me to share my life, my world, with you. Thank you for letting me share when I’m feeling down-right blue. Thank you for letting me share the days when the play of light is so beautiful it brings me to tears.

I’d like to invite you into my home today. Please, come on in. Let’s sit at the table. The bread is ready to take out of the oven. We’ll have a simple snack of warm bread slathered with butter. Mango jam. How about Mexican hot chocolate?

I’d like to know you better. Or we can sit in silence if you wish. It’s all good. Another slice?

Thank you for letting me share. You all come back now.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Thanksgiving week

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Random observations of an opinionated woman

 

Random observations of an opinionated woman

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Birds: Karen from Floweree reported to our girl-group that she heard her first Meadowlark singing from atop a fencepost in her garden. We who no longer live in Montana sighed as the Meadowlark’s unmistakable and beautiful song rang in our refreshed memories.

Here in Jalisco, as everywhere else in spring, the skies crisscross with bird travel, some heading north, some arriving to build nests in which to plant new baby birdy eggs. Especially in early morning and late afternoon, the air resonates with birdsong, some familiar from year-round residents, some from seasonal nest-holders.

I love it. Here on the rancho we are overhung with umbrellas of trees. Without binoculars and a blind, it is difficult for me to match birds with birdsong. A few I know. Many I cannot identify.

But, hey, listen. Not all birdsong is pretty. Some birds squawk like fingernails down a chalkboard. When the bird population sings in concert, it truly is symphonic. Other mornings, cacophony. Why? No se.

Dogs: John said, “I think dogs have a sense of humor.” I replied, “Of course, dogs have a sense of humor. They hang out with humans.”

Travel: I broke loose from my moorings and went all the way into the Big City of Guadalajara for the first time since before the pandemic. Whew! I survived. I went along with Ana and Michelle, more for the experience than for shopping.

Their main focus was pool supplies. Across the street from the warehouse is a tiny tienda that sells coffee beans from various Mexican states. I brought home a taste of Vera Cruz and of Oaxaca.

No amount of shopping could compare with the experience of rollicking conversation and lunch at a French Bistro and Bakery. I also bought an almond croissant for morning coffee.

Weather: Boring. Sunshine every day. No rain since September. Not a complaint, just an observation.

Friendships: When I first visited Rancho Esperanza, Lani and Ariel were the only residents. Everyone else had gotten older and moved on, in various ways. My second visit, cousins Nancie and Pat were buying one of the casas. By the end of my visit I bought another. Kathy and Richard came while I was here just because I said it’s pretty wonderful, you should see it. They bought a place. Then Kath’s sister Crin came and she bought one. Meanwhile John, Carol and Jim succumbed to the allure, soon followed by Julie and Francisco, then Tom and Janet.

I think it is something in the water.

Three years ago, long-time friends from Washington, Steve and Theresa, came to visit. They bought a place, a stripped down empty shell, and began work to make it livable. For me this is all exciting, to have more good friends here from time to time. Then the pandemic hit, Steve had surgery for cancer, then another surgery, along with accompanying treatments. They decided, understandably, that the casita was one thing too much in their lives right now.

They asked me to keep my ears open and if opportunity knocked, be their agent. After weeks, nay, months of thought, I contacted a couple from another state who’ve visited here several times, who keep coming back.

I swear, there is something in the water.

I can get, perhaps, excessively excited about all the good things here—for me—key words—for me.  Many years ago I encouraged an acquaintance to go into business for herself. I painted a rosy picture but forgot to list the downfalls and forgot to emphasize those two key words. For her, it was a disaster. I learned a lot.

Carefully, very carefully, I told my friends about the casita, listed the known warts and blemishes, promising there were undoubtedly some I didn’t know. They are seriously considering taking on the project.

The push-pull for me is that both couples are good friends and I love them all dearly. I want them all to be here, but must accept that is not to happen. Now is wait-and-see time.

Opinions: A couple weeks ago I read that we all might be happier if we gave up having opinions. Amen to that, I said, having stumbled and fallen hard over some of my opinions, right or wrong or indifferent. Lent is almost over but I determined to give up opinions for Lent, along with ice-cream, my other addiction.

As you can see, I’m failing in letting go of opinions but I’m acing the ice-cream. Does that count? I’ll continue to strive for progress, however, and decided to extend Lent, for the opinions, only for opinions, and to keep working on wiping out opinions, especially those that exit my lips.

However, Easter Sunday, I’m eating a big bowl of ice-cream. Maybe two!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 31, 2022  

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When garbage day becomes an event

When garbage day becomes an event 

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As soon as I heard the smoke-belching diesel truck rumble off the highway into the Rancho, I grabbed pruning shears and artfully poked around in a pot of lavender on the front patio.

Well, I haven’t been off the ranch in two months. I don’t get to see many people. There are generally three men, sometimes four, swinging our garbage cans or lawn bags into the maw of the beast. They are friendly. They are young and strong. They wave. They greet me, “Buenos dias.”

I wave and grin and shout my best good morning. They probably think I’m easy.

The garbage truck dust cloud had hardly dissipated when Benjamin arrived in his little blue pickup delivering 20 liter water jugs. I bought three. Often he brings his eight-year old grandson to help with the empties. I enjoy Benjamin and his shy helper.

We always chat, inconsequential, good morning, how you doing, fine thanks, that sort of talk. When I went for surgery at Christmas, Benjamin was at the hospital to see his daughter and her new baby girl. Made me feel like I was distant family.

Some days are more eventful than others. My shower has leaked for a few weeks. I had hoped it would heal itself. Such hopeless hope is a failing of mine. Josue fixed it. He is the first person to step inside my door since mid-March when I asked my physical therapist to stop treatment. Josue and I danced an elaborate rigmarole around one another for safety.

Not an hour later I was on my ancient but lovable, like myself, stationary bike, peddling away when the gear-whichitbit that runs the chain fell apart at the pedal mechanism.

Leo rummaged in my tool box, took a gander, gave up and hauled my bike to the bike shop. The man there said, “This bike is really old. They don’t make them like this today. I’ll have to break the piece, make new parts and weld it back together.” Mexican men never say, “I can’t fix it.”

I hope the repairman can fix it. I like my old bike. We bonded. I also had been broken, given new parts and welded back together.

If you are superstitious instead of scientifically minded like me, you might think these break-downs happen in series of three. So why does my hot tub appear to have a short? Shower, bike, tub? Three?

Michelle and Ana drove in from Oconahua for a “gate visit”. Short and sweet, masked and distanced, we visit on each side of my wrought iron gate, keeping in virtual touch, sharing news and views.

Michelle threw me a bag of veggie seeds for my new bucket garden. I threw her a spare packet of sweet corn seed. Janet from next door heard the commotion and joined us.

We tossed around the idea of a sack-lunch get-together, a visit with each bringing her own lunch, mask and appropriate distancing. On further consideration, we decided to wait-and-see. Jalisco, has second lowest virus contamination/death rate of Mexican States at present, because of vigilant lockdown measures. Wait and see before we get too chummy.

Night came in a blaze of glory. Out my bedroom window looking just beyond Josue’s house, the sky glowed brightly, unnaturally, no, not a glow, a conflagration. I hurried, in my nighty, out to my gate where I could see the flames and hear the snap, crackle and pop.

Instant fear. Fire in the dry season. In a panic, I phoned Josue. He called whomever and they said it was a cane fire just beyond Samantha’s corn field (which is just beyond our houses) which has been harvested. Samantha plowed a fire guard, so all is well, he said. Still.

The men who fire the fields are highly skilled, I am assured, burning the knife-sharp outer leaves so the cane can be safely harvested by hand. Being a farmer at heart, I understand both pros and cons to this dubious practice. Still.

Just in case the fire got out of hand and we had to flee, I put on my clothes. Suddenly I was not one bit tired. I stood guard until the fire was a smolder, a smudge in the moonlight.

In my self-imposed isolation equal to life in a cloistered nunnery, I still have days full of friends and human interaction. The garbage truck lumbers into our rancho twice a week. Likely I’ll not see another soul until next garbage day.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 21, 2020

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Involuntary System Purge

            Involuntary System Purge

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Day three with an unwanted, invasive, intimate companion—the flu. So weak, I feel like a newborn kitten without a mama.

While alternative health methods have a long and checkered history of purposefully and purposely cleaning out one’s digestive tract as a measure for optimum good health, if you ask me, such drastic measures are total nonsense.

The first thirty-six hours I spent every twenty to forty minutes, literally, on the commode, plastic lined garbage can on my lap, involuntarily purging my entire upper and lower innards.

Imagine somebody doing this on purpose. I ask you, how can this be healthy?

The following twenty-four hours I managed to sip lime-water with no ill effects. No food. No risks.

I alternated sitting in the sunshine on my patio with brief restorative naps while waiting for sundown so I could crawl into bed for the night without guilt.  

Four neighbors offered to make me chicken soup, the thought of which turned me green, though I greatly appreciated their offers.

Two other neighbors offered to go to town to get me anything my heart desired. I can say with complete honesty, I wanted absolutely nothing. Wonder if they’d make the same offer next week? I could make a list.

Today I got up and made my bed, all the while innocently pretending I don’t know that I fully intend to crawl right back under the covers.

My best medicine is sunshine on my patio, surrounded with lavender in full bloom and a thousand, thousand bees.

Please stay away. I don’t want to share.

Please, no chicken soup.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 5, 2020

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We Made Omelet, Mixed and Magical

We Made Omelet, Mixed and Magical  

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            Bacon and eggs are common base ingredients, but we created a different kind of omelet at Char’s the other morning, a “Friend Omelet”, made of ingredients (ourselves), old friends and new.

            I had no idea whether we could pull it off. I conjured the germ of an idea shortly after I spontaneously decided to fly to Montana. My little girl needed me. She was born in ’66, you do the math, but age is meaningless to a mother. And I wanted to see her new home.

Dee’s family moved into new digs two months ago: Dee Dee, Chris, Antoinette, four dogs, a cat, three guinea pigs, innumerable and varied chickens, a yellow lizard, a horse and an assortment of unpacked boxes. Now I know why she needed her mommy.

            But I digress. When I decided to go north, I constrained myself to a strict budget. Words mean everything, pun intended: “Strict budget” sounds much more acceptable than stone broke. I would not visit all my friends this trip.  

            Dee Dee said, “When I pick you up in Billings, let’s take a quick road trip to Havre. I’ve located an old school friend I’d like to see.”

            So, I wrote my long-time good friend Jane and asked her to arrange a breakfast gathering Saturday morning. I asked her to call two Havre women who write me real letters regularly. I knew that Jane knew Lee. In a letter, Loretta had wondered if her and Lee’s husbands had worked together at one time. Dee and her friend Cathi would join us too.

            What made this breakfast rather unique is that the ingredients, we people, were all strangers in some ways. I’d never met the women who corresponded with me. Dee knew Cathi from high school but had not seen her in too many years.

            Loretta said it best. “When Jane, a stranger to me, called, I thought, this breakfast meet is way out of my comfort zone. I won’t know anyone.” But she took a deep breath and showed up despite misgivings.

            We all arrived about the same time, full of hugs and glad-to-meet-yous and so-good-to-see yous.

            Coffee appeared. The young woman who served our table was so sweet and patient. We delayed ordering because we were too busy talking, laughing. Our good food took forever to eat between questions, stories, insights, and connections.

            Here is where our story gets unique. To be good an omelet must have ingredients whose flavors blend and enhance each other, right?

            Two ingredients, Dee and her friend Cathi, whom I recognized instantly, is Lee’s daughter. Now how about that! Dee and Cathi cornered one end of the table talking as though no time had passed.

Stir in a third ingredient, Lee. Now add my friend Jane. In the mixing, I learned that my daughter’s friend, also Lee’s daughter, Cathi, had, at one time, been married to my friend Jane’s son. What a mixed omelet! Keep in mind, I had no idea they all knew each other and were family.

Now to gently fold in a generous measure of seasoning. Loretta and Lee had known one another in the past. Indeed, their husbands had worked together. They had many remember-when type stories to share.

Oops! I also must jump into this omelet pan. Turn up the heat but not too high. Blended together, with no preconceived notions, we made a great omelet.

Having lived long enough to have no shame, we hung dirty laundry on the line. Our collective stories included the good, the bad and the ugly. Every ingredient is necessary to live life with full flavor.  

We sat down as strangers, discovered connections, shared experiences and stood up as family. Magical. Bizarre and magical.

           

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 6, 2019

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Piggy, Selfish Me

Piggy, Selfish Me

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            This afternoon I waved good-bye to Don and Denise, with hugs and kisses and tears, as they got into the taxi to carry them to the airport. Now I’ll feel an empty place inside me for the next couple days.

            I’m still in Mazatlan. I was supposed to take the bus back to Etzatlan today.

            Phone conversations this week went like this: “Sondra, it is Leo. You stay. Is cold and storm every night, just like rainy season. Too cold for you. You stay.”

            And this from Josue, “If you can, stay in Mazatlan. It is cold and wet and miserable.”

            And Kathy: “Stay, you piggy, selfish woman. Winds 100 kph.”

            The couple from Edmonton on the elevator who were checking out and going home: “Oh, stay. Life is too short. Stay.”

            I don’t mean to snivel. My cold is not your cold. However, you do have a heated, well insulated, house. In comparison, my rustic little casita is like a sieve. An unheated sieve. All the heaters in town sold in December. On the coldest days I wear my zarape, taking it off only when I bake bread and pre-heat my oven six hours prior to actually baking. I can’t bake bread every day. Not even to give to friends.

            January and February, are, admittedly, winter months. To us in Etzatlan, that means cool mornings. The sun rises and warms our day with delight; sun sets on cool nights. We dress in layers. No problem.

            With the weather upside down, we seem to be experiencing a second rainy season. The “boys” tell me, they’ve never seen storms like this in the winter; every night, thunder and lightning and buckets of rain. These are the dry months. These are the months for sugar cane harvest, when fields need to be dry.

            So I climbed the stairs to Amalia’s office to beg. She manages this place. She gave me “The Look”. You know, the look that says, “You want me to do what?” What she actually said was, “We usually make these arrangements well ahead of time.”

            I considered options before opening my mouth, such as “It’s too cold to go home.” (Too whiney.) I thought about getting on my knees and pleading. (Drama queen.) What I answered was, “Yes. I know.” And closed my mouth. I’ve learned a little about negotiation.

            Amalia tapped keys on her computer, keeping one eyebrow raised. “Yes, I can give you one more week. What is your room number?” A few more taps. “You can keep the same room.”

            I don’t know if mental hugs can be transmitted, but my gratitude was heartfelt and I hoped my words of thanks were enough.

            Then I had to battle three days of guilt over extending my holiday on the beach. Residual guilt from childhood. It would pass.

            After my friends departed, I walked to the Oxxo, a convenience store found on every corner in Mexico, and lugged back water, ham, cheese, bread and mayo. I’m tired of over-eating restaurant food, good as it is. A couple days of restriction will see me back at my favorite loncherias and restaurantes.

            I’m on my balcony, looking at sunlight reflecting on quiet water like glitter on glass. I don’t intend to fill the empty space left by my friends departure with anything more than the beauty and warmth of being. If I’m not on the balcony, you’ll find me on the beach, second palapa from the left at the bottom of the stairs.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 1, 2018

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Rejected By the Only Group In Town

Rejected By the Only Group In Town

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            I’ve moved often enough to know there are certain mathematical realities. Generally it takes two years until I have an acquaintance or two, someone with whom I can attend the opera or go to a play reading, both of which I can find here in Mazatlan.  In five years I shall have acquired a friend or two, not necessarily the same first two people. That is just the way it is. Sure, I can go places by myself, and do. But it is more fun to share the experience.

            I can goose the program forward a bit in two ways, by joining a group of like-minded people and/or by volunteer work. The other day I set off to find information about a group of writers. Where better to discover writers than at a bookstore. Writers are readers. Half a block over and a dozen or more blocks up the street the Mazatlan Book and Coffee Company sits snug back in a small plaza behind a bank and a laundry.

            This bookstore, which I found the first year I vacationed in Mazatlan, is filled with used books, books in English, overwhelmingly of the beach-read variety. But by diligent probing, plucking and piddling through the stacks I can always find a few gems of literary fiction and the occasional non-fiction book that grabs my attention. Not that I’m a snob. I read trash too.

            When I left Harlem, I walked away from a 4,500 volume personal library. I brought with me a mere five boxes of books. One box contained my two-volume Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, my indispensible Strunk and White on style, which I read annually for fun, and a couple other books on style and grammar which I should consult more frequently. The rest are old favorites. I’m reduced to maybe a hundred books. I have no intention of re-creating a vast library. But I am a reader. Eventually I’ll own an e-book. But I’ll never lose my love of the heft of a book and the tactile experience of turning paper.

            Within ten minutes at the Mazatlan Book and Coffee Company, I had chosen a book on basketball (think Chicago Bulls in the ‘90’s) by Phil Jackson, a book by Coetzee and one by Achebe, not exactly beach reads, and a bag of coffee beans. Coffee and books go together like, well, like books and coffee.

            Given another ten minutes, I had swapped yarns with Jerry, a snowbird whose uncle is a beekeeper in Power, Montana and whose wife is a writer.  Then Twila came around a corner of the stacks to tell me her husband was a McPherson from Chinook, class of ’59. She lives in Glendive and knows people I know.  

            In half an hour I had gathered three books, coffee beans, stories, smiles and the name with email address of the contact person for the writers group.

            I have been known to embarrass my friends by how easily I insert myself into conversations with complete strangers. But it took two days to gather my courage and email Mike to ask about the writers group. I threw out a feeler. I’m a writer. It is a solitary life. I would like to join a group of writers. That is the gist of what I said.

            Mike replied that the group met once a week and in order to join, a writer must be committed to the group and serious about writing “fiction stories” and seeking publication of the same.

            My heart broke and sank to the soles of my sandals. I am a poet and essayist. I don’t have a single plot, story line, or fiction character cluttering up the back passages of my brain. I have been outright scorned and rejected. This group does not want me.

            I wrote back and said that if a fiction came to visit me, I’d contact him again, blah, blah, blah, making nice. Mike wrote back with more blah, blah, blah, making nice.

            So for the present I’ll hang out more often at the Mazatlan Book store. I’ll volunteer to dust the stacks at the English Book Library.  I’ll keep writing poetry and essays. Sooner or later I’ll rub up against another poet, another essayist or two.

            In a few days maybe I’ll quit plotting the murder(s) of the despicable antagonist Mike and his twisted band of followers by the rejected and lovable protagonist (heroine) who commits the perfect crime(s) and lives to tell the story.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 20, 2014

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Fifty Shades of Mexico

Fifty Shades of Mexico

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            Real Life is not a perpetual vacation. Yet aspects of the last couple weeks feel like one. I love meeting old friends, Mexican, Canadian and State-siders, and watching faces light up. That is real connection—that is my “welcome home”. 

Sunshine days, balmy nights. Often I wake with the voice of Cat Stevens singing in my head, “Morning has broken, like the first morning”. All the shrimp, red snapper, and mahi-mahi I want to eat. Exotic fruits, papaya, pitaya, pineapple, coconut and melons. Lounging on the beach beneath a palapa with friends, limonada in hand. Seeing the sun drop sizzling into the Pacific every night. These are mere details. Each day free of the pain brought to my body by the cold, I feel stronger. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning.”

I have only one more night at the resort. I count down the days until my friends fly back to their homes. My newly-rented studio apartment does not sit empty and neglected. Yesterday Evelyn and I walked over for some cleaning and sorting. Evelyn is my friend from Harlem. Harlem in New York City. We chuckle over our unusual connection, roll up our sleeves, fill buckets with soapy water and wash cupboards, drawers and every surface within swipe of cleaning rags. 

In past moves, I rushed to create order, cleaning, painting, unpacking, placing, not pausing for breath until done. Working on Mexican time, I walk over to my apartment every day or two, putter a bit, sit and contemplate, maybe open a box and grin to see what trifles I had placed inside. What was I thinking when I packed that? Then I realize each item is perfect, metaphorical “comfort food”, items which will nourish my hungry spirit on lonely days. I empty a box, open another and set it aside. There is always manana.   

Today I choose to stay on the beach. Vanity, or is it a false modesty, disappears. I’m a shade-bather. I don a bathing suit and a sarong and saunter down to the palapa, pull my chaise into the shade, open my book and using it as a prop, watch the waves roll in. I no longer care that my legs host a road map of surgical scars and my thighs jiggle when I walk. I look around me. Truly I am the only one who ever cared. Suddenly I feel grateful to have legs that work. A few days in the shade and I have turned a lovely rosy brown.

One day Kathy, Richard, Evelyn and I took a bus, six pesos each, to the huge market in the historic Centro district. I had a small list of things I need, the first of many such lists to come, so we shopped. The market has everything imaginable and some things one could never imagine until one’s been here. I scouted out spices at one stall and pointed at jars, asked for a quarter kilo of cocoa and cinnamon, lesser amounts of paprika, oregano and other seasonings, indicated by cupping my hands, nodding my head for “enough” or holding fingers apart to indicate “a little more”. At a booth with simple household items I chose brooms, a mop, a toilet swabber, two plates, a tortilla press, a limon (lime to us) squeezer, and a molcajete made of basalt rock. The molcajete along with the tejolote is the traditional food processor. While I bargained for these necessities, Richard dashed out to the street and waved down a pulmonia, an open-air vehicle looking like a modified golf cart with a Volkswagon engine, found only in Mazatlan, to carry us and our purchases back to my apartment. The pulmonia reminds me of a “surrey with the fringe on top”. 

Laden with bags and bristling with broom handles we scurried into the pulmonia sandwiched against the curb by huge belching buses. There was not time to negotiate the price—we simply crammed ourselves onto the open seats. 

As a rule, one never gets into a pulmonia until one has established a firm price. The dickering is part of the fun, part of the custom. But here we were, so I leaned over and told the driver where we wanted to go, knowing it usually cost sixty to eighty pesos to go from the market. Expecting the worst, an inflated price and either an argument en route or grim resignation, I asked the price. 

“Thirty pesos,” he said. Thinking I heard wrong, I asked the driver to repeat. “Thirty pesos.” 

When we arrived and trundled out onto the sidewalk, I handed the driver a hundred peso note. He returned seventy pesos change. I gave him a nice tip and still the total price was an unprecedented bargain. Do you think it was the brooms?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 28, 2013

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