The Horse Runs Faster to the Barn

 

The Horse Runs Faster to the Barn

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Having all my stuff back at the Rancho doesn’t mean I’m settled down and done.

There is a lot to be said for staying put forever. Stability. Knowing your surroundings and, whether or not they are close friends, knowing those around you intimately. Comfort.  A sense of permanence that rolling stones don’t get to have. Moss. I like moss.

It took me two months to move to Oconahua. It took twelve days for Leo to move me back, complete with bamboo, herbs and my little dog, Lola. There must be a moral or a meaning to this story, if only I can figure it out. The horse runs faster.

We’ve worked hard to get my belongings back into some kind of order. We? Me point, Leo grunt. Leo has been a trooper, putting up with my extra jobs along with taking care of several other houses and yards on the Rancho.

In at least one instance, I got a little carried away with creating spaces differently arranged than when I lived here previously. The differences are part of my fun. Poor Lola. I moved her dog dwelling closer to the front door. That night we had a rather daunting storm. Water everywhere. Soaked doggy bedding.  Back to the tried and true and dry.

I’m bleeding money but that is all part of moving, necessary expenses.

My plants made the move without going into severe shock. Constant rains help. I’m loving them and they are loving me.

My house is in order, bodega mostly settled, patio sort of sorted. The horse is in the barn, so to speak, munching oats, or soon will be.

Today I made a nice batch of granola. Harvested a clutch of limes from my key lime tree and juiced them for the freezer. I’ve ingredients on the counter to make a pizza for dinner. It’s an ordinary day, a restful day, a day of peace.

Now I’m off to mop, mop, mop and then to flop, flop, flop. An ordinary day.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

August 7, 2025

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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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Saying the Long Good Bye

 

Saying the Long Good Bye 

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I am packing the long packing. I am saying the long good bye. I am readying myself for the big move, the great distance of ten kilometers, all the way to far off, exotic Oconahua, a move which is months away.

I love where I am living now, this place, this small house, all my plants. Nobody would ever question my love for this place. And this place has loved me back, big loves.

Everybody’s financial and personal situations are different. We who live on the rancho are a varied group indeed, varied in background, varied in life experiences. My friends here are appalled. “How can you even think of moving?” “You have made your home so beautiful.” “What will you do about shopping? Medical care? If you need help?” “You will be alone.” And, “How can you leave us?”

You’d think I’m moving to the moon at people’s responses.

Alone. To the moon. I find it interesting that I am the only person living here without a partner. Interesting, that. And most of my friends are here only two to six months at the most.  Hmmm.

My reality is that it gets harder every year for me to keep this place up, financially and because of my own physical creakiness, age, past surgeries, arthritis, the usual suspects.

We live on private land. We “buy” the house, lease the land on which it sits. Any improvements I’ve made are for my own comfort and pleasure. Except for what is actually attached to the house, many of these lovelies will move with me.

To Oconahua. Ten kilometers. The house I will rent is being built on a corner of property owned by my Oconahua friends.

Hence, the packing.

Ah, yes, the long packing. I don’t have a lot. Some days I pack a box. Some days none. Pack and purge and clean, all at once. Thoughtfully. Hence the purging. 

I have come to the realization that I could get by with one plate, one bowl, one cup, and one set of eating tools. I could. But I’m not ready to live that simply yet. I am very aware that these simple tools could be reduced to a begging bowl and a spoon. I’m not there yet either.

Since my moving date is undecided, I make decisions based on season and time. I ask myself, will I need this or can I do without this for the next three months? Winter bedding is lodged in big black garbage bags. Should I need them, I know where they are.

Other decisions are more problematic. Already, I’ve unpacked and repacked a basket of cups and drinking glasses. At the time I packed the basket, I knew I should give that particular set of cups to Crinny, who likes them and will use them. To me, they are pretty but I never use them, preferring my rustic Mexican clay cups.

Some items, like towels, get used to shredded uselessness, rags. Cups breed. I’ve reduced my paltry supply of cups to less than one half of what I had before packing. They breed. I don’t know how. In the sink. In the cupboard. In the night. I shall never run out of cups.

Everything comes under my critical decision-making eyeballs. Throw away. Give away. Pack now. Pack later. A box yesterday. None today. Two tomorrow, maybe. And so it goes. When moving time arrives, I intend to put my bowl and spoon in a basket and wave good bye.

Which brings me to the long good bye. Good byes are harder. Not to people. I’ll still see my friends. Ten kilometers, remember.

How does one say good bye to that beautiful double ruffled red hibiscus at the corner by the clothesline? Or the mango tree? Or the giant philodendron-like plant that often stops me in my tracks, it is so breath-taking? Or the way the morning sun filters golden through the Fresno trees on the campground next door? My list of good byes is long.

Ten kilometers. I’m going to meet a long list of new “hellos”. New plants. New trees. New beauties. New people. Old friends. It’s all good.

Did I say the heat dome lifted? One day the high is 98. The next day, just like a snap, the high is 71 with rain. Every day is delicious, tidbits of delight, tasty morsels of perfection, yummy bites of cool pleasure.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

Half year gone by

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Scarecrow-With-Straw-For-Brains On the Road in Mexico

Scarecrow-With-Straw-For-Brains On the Road in Mexico

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            Me and my big mouth, blathering away in public about creating a new life without constraints of old beliefs and cultures and language and familiar surroundings. Oh, didn’t I sound so rosey-posey. Pollyanna on Big Gulp Valium. Would you like fries with that?

            Did I ever get my come-uppance! Let me begin at the beginning. First, getting through customs at the border was a huge let-down. I had done my research diligently. I had heard all the stories about people who had had to empty their vehicle, open every container. They stood on the tarmac surrounded by all their belongings like laundry flapping in the wind while the line of cars behind piled up waiting to enter, passengers seething with hatred.

            I wasn’t about to be caught in the lurch. I had my van filled with personal and household items, all neatly boxed and labeled, with a packing list in English and Spanish. I had my Mexican car insurance, my vehicle registration and title, and my passport in hand. The guards opened the back door, yawned and waved me through without even looking at my passport. All my hard work for naught. At the least, I thought I deserved a gold star.

            After that minor disappointment, I located the bus station in Sonoyta, just blocks from the border crossing. My friend Lupe’s bus was late. I had expected that. There is never too much time for reading, so I settled in with a book.

            When the bus arrived, Lupe had two large duffels and a stuffed backpack. Since Mazatlan is an easy two day drive from Sonoyta, I asked, “Why all the luggage?”

            His exact words are lost to me, but they were something like “How would you like to go to Cabo and check out that area?”

            “No, I want to go to Mazatlan,” I said while wondering how long it would take me to skin his hide and make a wallet.

            Understand that our only communication in the last few weeks had been by text message. The wonderful thing about texting is that it is impossible to go into any depth. That is a good thing to know if you would like to keep communication shallow.

            That was not the case here, not what we wanted. Our constraints were more of a geographic distance and ten dollars a minute for voice phone matter. Lupe explained that he would like to work a few weeks in Cabo San Lucas and then return to Mazatlan. Maybe a month or two or three.

            Hey, my heart was set on Mazatlan. My plans laid far in advance. But the next words out of my mouth were, “Let me get to a quiet place and meditate on this.” The word “prayer” works here also.

            After a time of silence, I asked Lupe what he felt. “I can do what you want. We can go to Mazatlan. I brought extra clothes for if you wanted to go to Cabo. I understand. In the States you plan things out like a list (here he made hand motions of setting things one after the other in a line). We don’t do that so much here. We see that each day brings its own plans with it. But you tell me what you want. That’s what we will do.”

            Immediately I could see the image of the article I had written just the day before: adventure, create new life, leave behind old concepts, each day a new page. Ick. Yuck. Did I really say those things? Did I mean them? Did I lie to myself?

            I suggested a half measure. “We could drive to Mazatlan, find a place to stow the stuff in my van and then go to Cabos.” Truthfully, all I wanted to do was get settled, make a nest in my new home in Mazatlan.

            “If that is your decision, then that is what we will do.”

            Rats and drats and fighting cats. I could not get rid of the words about leaving behind familiar comforts and by now, Mazatlan itself was a familiar comfort.

            I sat in silence for another moment, knowing half measures avail me nothing. The next suggestion to put in an appearance was a rag-tag motley outfit that reminded me that there is no right or wrong, good or bad decision. For me, each decision comes with its  own package of consequences, not to be judged but to be experienced.

            I remembered that nothing is cast in concrete. If a few steps in this direction feels uncomfortable, I can turn in another direction. It all fit together in my mind. I imagined a huge “Detour” sign and turned the key in the ignition. “Okay, Cabo, here we come.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 14, 2013

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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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Grieving the Leaving and Turning the Page

Grieving the Leaving and Turning the Page

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            As I threaded my way on a crazy-quilt patchwork route through Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregon, Nevada and Arizona, headed for the border into Mexico, I have memorized, imprinted and loved every scrap of color and beauty. Except for one drab piece of brown southeast of Yakima.  

            For much of the trip tears rolled down my face. Each bend in the road seemed to generate memories; memories of those in my life who have died, memories of precious times with friends and family, memories that I had hoped would lie buried forever. I drank deeply of each memory.

            Ever since I made the decision to move, I have been aware this is my opportunity to create a new life, a life without the familiar comforts of place, friends, language and culture. For me, this means I can also leave behind some old, worn-out beliefs. While driving through that drab empty brown, I “got it”. I “got” that I really will create a new life. I “got it” on a deeper, visceral level and burst into loud, gasping wails doing seventy down the freeway. 

            Exciting? Terrifying? Cleansing? Rejuvenating? Yes, all at the same time. Along with all the tears has come a heightened awareness of how special it is to be alive each new day. Each day is a new page on which to write my new life script. 

            Along with heightened awareness has come a lowering of my cellular brain mass. Or something. Let me describe a typical day. I drove the Spaghetti Bowl into Las Vegas to spend a couple days with Tim and Tara. Tara is one of my “girls”. She and my daughter Dee went to college together, spent holidays at my home and Tara even lived with me a while. Tim and Tara teach school in Vegas. 

            I asked Tim to help me download Microsoft Word. I had belatedly discovered that my new/old-reconditioned laptop computer did not have Word. That explained why I could not get it to load a new Word page for me to write. Believe me, I had tried. In the process Tim asked me for my email address. “sondrajean@yahoo.com”, I told him. I left out the “.ashton” part. Visa took my money. Microsoft refused to download. Tim fiddled around with no success for an hour. Finally he called Microsoft for support. As we are together going over all the data again, I strung together sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com. (There you have it if you would like to email me.) When I realized my mistake, I wanted to shoot out my eyeballs and bury my corpse in the desert. 

            See, writing a new page each day without the past hovering over everything one does is like being a young child who has not yet learned her ABC’s. That’s me. It can be infuriating. I’m learning all kinds of new things from the basement up. 

            It gets even better/worse. The afternoon I left Tim and Tara in Vegas, I headed for Kingman, Arizona. The entire route had me exclaiming, “Oh, My God,” around every bend of breathtaking beauty. I pulled into a clean, cheap and adequate motel in Kingman, secured a room and opened the back of my van to get my bag.  

            I had placed my bag where we three each had to stumble over the top of it to get out the door. Tim and Tara had spent the afternoon out. They got home at the same time I was patting around for my invisible bag. We both called and got each other’s voice mail. Finally connected. “Tara, I would replace everything but it has all my new underwear. And my money.” They brought me my bag. They drove my bag to Kingman that evening. 

            I felt like Scarecrow on the Yellow Brick Road, all straw and no brains. Two weeks ago I spent fifteen days soaking in lithium-laced hot water springs in the mountains of Montana. I would love the explanation that I am still in lithium la-la-land. Part of me wants to return for another dose. 

            The rest of me is committed to move forward, turn a fresh page and when I find myself tripping down the Yellow Brick Road, I can always sing and dance.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 14, 2013

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No Habla Espanol But I Do Gestures Well

No Habla Espanol But I Do Gestures Well
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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.
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