What’s In A Name

What’s In A Name

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            This morning, Ricardo, our waiter, kept track of us by name. Lu became, forevermore, “Hello, Mary Lou, Goodbye Heart”, accompanied by Ricardo not-Nelson, with Spanish accent, embedding the song in our minds for the rest of the day. Ha! Now try to get the tune out of your head!

The two couples were Jerry and “Jerry’s wife” and Jesse and “Jesse’s wife”. Lola threatened to stab Ricardo in the leg with a fork. Sharon just laughed. I began calling Jerry, “Lola’s husband, just to keep things even.

Karen, he renamed “Carmen” and she immediately became dark and sultry. When I said my name, Ricardo replied, “Oh, you same name as the owner.”

I said, “We must be cousins.” Thus I became “cousin of owner”.  

            For the hour and a half it took us to have breakfast, Ricardo had fun with our names. That personal touch means we will always remember both him and the restaurant.

            Names are important. When my friends arrived from the airport, we caused a hubbub in the lobby, hugs and talk and the usual commotion. That was no problem. But we tried to check in and encountered a “boulder in the road”.  

            When finally the desk manager, one whom I’d not yet met, got my attention, he asked for the copy of my reservation from Expedia, which thoroughly confused me. “I made my reservations in person with Amalia,” I explained. “I never used Expedia.”

            He insisted he must have a copy of the elusive reservation in order to give my friends their rooms.

            Obviously we had a communication problem. I tried using different words, sprinkling my explanation with Spanglish. Then I used the lobby phone to speak with Amalia, who said she would clear up the confusion.

            However, the strangeness didn’t go away until another woman approached the desk and introduced herself as Sondra Jean Ashton, holder of the Expedia reservation.

            This woman had my entire name. What are the chances of that? What are the chances of us converging on the same day in the same resort lobby?

With profuse apologies the desk manager straightened us out and set us up with our rooms. I never had a chance to talk with my “same-name stranger” nor did I see her again.

            If I were Billy Bob Smith, I might expect to find entire phone book sections devoted to my name. But Sondra is unusual, a British name, and Ashton isn’t overly common as a last name. I’ve only met one other, Steven Ashton, from when I lived in Poulsbo, Washington. What I remember most is that he and his wife (I want to say Arlene but I’m unsure.) were square dancers.

I regret not talking with the other Sondra. We were rushing in different directions, which is a bit sad, when you think about it.

But, my, what a time! We hit the ground running and haven’t stopped yet.

I love being “tour guide”, introducing a group of friends to “my Mazatlan”. My list of things to do, places to go, is long. Time is short. And, true to form, we don’t always end up where we aimed. That is a good thing. Like the night we landed at the Shrimp Bucket (not our original destination) for, yes, shrimp, and a jazz/rock-n-roll band, accomplished musicians, who played music we all knew and loved.

            An advantage of having lived here is that I know what is “tourist” and what is “Mexican”. My friends have gotten to see the working Mazatlan, the shrimp boats, the tuna factories, the docks,  and  along with the Mercado, the Plazuela Machado, a day of exploring the Golden Zone, tourista central. We went north to La Noria and El Quilete, south to Concordia and Copala. We’ve eaten meals on the street and in fine-dining establishments. We’ve purchased beach junk and quality art, jewelry and clothing.

            Tomorrow we begin the second half of our Class of ’63 Reunion with a bus trip to Zapopan on the edge of Guadalajara.

            There is only one problem: not enough time. There is a solution: this is my friends’ “first” trip, but not the last.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 23, 2017

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Dust and Other Dangers

The other day Karen and Ellie and I were chatting. Karen, who lives near Great Falls , had just had new windows installed. Both Ellie and I had previously done the same. What a difference it made at my house! Less dust, less noise and the temperature stays even. Karen mentioned how nice it was to be able to open and close the windows. Until now, as in many vintage homes, several windows in her house had warped or were painted permanently closed. “In fact,” she said, “it was stifling hot last night and for the first time, we were able to open all the windows. This morning the house was nice and cool with the breeze blowing through.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to leave all the windows open in Montana ?” Ellie, who lives in California , asked. Immediately I thought about the homes in her neighborhood which have security systems, barred windows and gated access. We three women grew up in Harlem , where nobody even locked their doors, so I couldn’t imagine what dangers Ellie had in mind. “Not because of burglars,” Ellie continued, “but because of wind and dust.”

The dangers of wind and dust. That statement stumped me. Neither Karen nor I responded further. I thought about tornados and dust storms which, indeed, are dangerous. But I know Ellie meant inside the house.

I love fresh air and often leave my windows open. I also like light, so my only window coverings are gauzy sheers. When the wind blows hard, as it does here on the Hi-line, sometimes my sheer curtains hover nearly perpendicular across the room. If I got up in the night, walked into a curtain blowing across my face, startled, tripped and fell and broke my neck, then, yes, that would be a dangerous wind blowing. But that is a far stretch for even my imagination. As for dust, yes, I had to concede that, for me, dust holds particular danger. And since our eastern Montana wind is always dust-laden, even in the winter, and since, weather permitting, I do keep my windows and doors open, the wind dumps dust into my house.

When I was a child my German grandmother taught me The Way to clean--her way, the only way, the right way. My first job every Saturday morning was to dust; walls, furniture, the ceiling corners, and especially under the beds. Grandma always checked my work, waiting to pounce on any hint of sloppiness. I trembled, anxious that she might find one of those errant gatherings which collect beneath the beds, fluffs which she called slut’s wool. I didn’t exactly know what a slut was, but I knew that if Grandma found a puff of dust, then I was one of those sluts and that was a shameful thing to be. For years, thanks to her training, I feared those dust gatherings. Slut’s wool kept me on the straight and narrow.

I was grown up and married before I heard a friend mention dust bunnies. I had to ask her what that meant. I thought the term was cute but I knew she was trying to prettify sluts’ wool. That was one phrase that could not be dressed up and disguised. To this day when somebody says “dust bunny”, I hear my grandmother’s voice shout “slut’s wool”.

Years later I re-trained myself to be a less compulsive cleaner. Sometimes I can wait long enough between cleanings that the dust bunnies mutate into dust hares. In the winter I often go a month without a thorough housecleaning. But in the summertime, with windows open to the elements and the wind blowing dust into every crevice, I have to clean every couple weeks. But every day I neglect dusting, my grandmother’s voice haunts me with “slut’s wool”.

Today there are notices posted around Harlem informing us that rattlesnakes are moving into town. Snakes terrify me. But I have snake-detector eyes. If a snake creeps into my yard, I will see it. However, I think a perfect hideout for snakes is around my cabin in the garden, where my raspberry patch nestles against the south side of the logs. When I pick raspberries, I have the eagle eye for snakes. And I don’t know if snakes have ears, but one can’t be too careful. So I wear my bear bells. I also talk to the possibility of snakes. “Okay, snakes, I am moving into this cluster of raspberry canes and then I am going to reach under these branches, so if you are here, please vacate the premises for a few minutes. Won’t take me long, just a few more berries and I am out of here.” So far this tactic has worked. I have picked gallons of raspberries and no snakes.

But if I had to meet a rattlesnake in the bushes or my grandmother taunting me with the full implications of “slut’s wool”, I would choose the rattlesnake. Against the rattlesnake, I have more defenses.

Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Agin
September 11, 2009