Old, Fat and Frumpy; Standing On the Street of Desire

 Old, Fat and Frumpy; Standing On the Street of Desire

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

            Finally we made the trip to Etzatlan, near Guadalajara, to visit my friend Loni. I did not make the trip solo. Lupe watched me struggle to secure a bus ticket and said, “Let me take time off work. We’ll drive.  Roshanna Vanna wants a road trip.”

            I believe Lupe had visions of me stranded, totally lost and alone, begging outside the bus terminal in Tepic. I had already had that vision. Ever prepared, I planned to take pencils and paper. I could write letters for people who have a hard time saying what they want to say to those they love or to those they hate. The language barrier might even be a plus. I could listen to my clients voice and heart and write what I heard, which would then have to be translated by the recipient of the letter. This could be a good business model, one with the potential for, well, potential. 

            As it was, I came unwittingly close to another ancient business model on our return when we stopped in Tepic. But that was on the way home.

            Mexico is a country of startling beauty. We drove through Sinaloa, a state that hugs the coast, into Nayarit which starts the climb up through ancient volcanic mountains and still higher into Jalisco. I wanted a guide, a botanist and books depicting the flora. I saw trees so spectacular I had to bow down, blooms which blanketed entire mountainsides, next to oddities such as a stunted little tree with perfectly round tumor-looking balls stuck out of both trunk and branches. Lupe said the balls are the fruit of the tree and both balls and bark are used medicinally.

            My cousin Nancie and friend Loni were determined to move me to Etzatlan. There just happened to be three haciendas for sale. They just knew one called my name. The brick haciendas, beautifully built in modest size and Mexcian style, are located at the entrance of a working ranch. Tempting, but my heart is in Mazatlan.

            We explored town and country, soaked at hot spring pools in Ixtlan Del Rio, visited potters in San Marcos and Magdalena where I bought a clay olla or bean pot, a casuela and flower pots. Imagine lugging those heavy pots home on the bus! We climbed a mountaintop to a shrine, picnicked, played cards, visited neighbors. We froze to death each night when thermometers plunged into the low forties. I know. You don’t feel one bit sorry for me. But the houses are not heated. The sun is turned on from mid-morning to about five-thirty.  Then it shuts down for the night.

            On the drive home, we plunged right into the historic district of Tepic, to roam the market. But first we had to park. Picture dropping severely downhill on a side street, swinging a sharp right, through columns with an inch to spare each side, up an even steeper ramp into a teensy parking garage.  I closed my eyes and held my breath, certain sure the side panels would be sheared off.

            The Tepic market is huge, bustling with everybody selling everything imaginable.  I bought a beadwork necklace, fresh ginger and chamomile, a mystery fruit, tamarind candy and a kilo of strawberries.  We ate birria de chivo at a street stand. After I licked my bowl, and said, “This is the best beef I ever ate,” Lupe told me it was goat. It was a good goat. After feasting eyes, body and soul, we walked back to retrieve Roshanna.

            I’m a good driver. I can make a perfectly fine forty-two-point turn-around. I said to Lupe, “I’ll just wait out here on the street for you to bring her out.”

            So there I stood, back against the adobe wall. Across the street strutted a woman wearing the highest shoes I have ever seen. Wow, was she ever dressed. Makeup troweled on. Hairdo cemented into place. She was gorgeous in black. I looked down the street. Another woman leaned against the wall, dressed for the evening in red. I looked further. In all, I saw eight women, all dressed for a night on the town at mid-afternoon.

            And there I was.  Cut-offs, flowered shirt, flip-flops, scrubbed face, straw hair. Leaning against the same wall. A man walked by, gave me a strange look, grinned, shook his head and kept going. Another man came along, stopped, looked me over head to foot, laughed out loud and went on up the street.

Then I got it. There were no fruit and vegetable vendors on the street of desire; only women of pleasure. I would rather have been huddled outside the bus terminal, writing letters.  

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 23, 2014

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

On the Road Again

Here I go again....
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
On the Road Again


I received an invitation to read my poetry in Seattle . It was a giant boost to my ego. I drove a thousand miles to be a featured reader in front of a group of friends and fellow poets in a Seattle area coffee house. I miss my poet friends. Having an audience is vital to my creative process. When I read my poetry aloud, I hear things on a visceral level that I otherwise miss.

In three weeks I jammed and crammed a lot of visiting. More precious than gold are my friends, my relatives, and my grandchildren. It is good for me to occasionally get away from my everyday world.

When some people drive long distances, they listen to music or books. When I am on the road, I think.

I was on the road a mere thirty five miles from home, between Chinook and Havre, when I realized that my shirts were still stacked neatly on my bed, waiting to be loaded into my van. I pulled off the highway and checked. I was right. I had left my shirts. Now I had a choice. I could return to my house and get them, or I could buy new shirts along my route. A no-brainer, right? In Kalispell I told my friend Sharon that I wanted to go to the Salvation Army store, near her house. “My favorite store,” she replied. I replenished my shirt supply. Sharon bought even more than I did.

While driving in bumper to bumper traffic on Interstate 90, it occurred to me that we were much like the Blue Angels, the Navy’s exhibition flight team. We were driving in earthbound formation while the Blue Angels soared through the air. I had the nose of my van sticking to the tail of the truck in front of me, the SUV behind me was sucking up my fumes, a sleek Corvette convertible held the place to my left while on my right a decrepit rusty Nova chugged along, spewing black clouds.

In the sky, the Blue Angels stay in beautiful precision formation, breaking apart only to create another pattern. On the Interstate, our auto formation was constantly shifting with vehicles randomly changing lanes, speeding up or slowing down. Why is that, I wondered. Training, I answered. The Blue Angels are specially chosen for intelligence and skill. They are highly trained and tested.

We, however, need only pass a rudimentary test at sixteen, then climb into a car and go. We drive while hungry, sleepy, stressed, angry, or late for work. We apply make-up, shave, read, talk and text, eat, drink and threaten other drivers. Where would you rather be? In the cockpit with the Blue Angels or behind the wheel on the freeway?

Jaguars are the only truly beautiful car on the road. In my travels I have seen many, many varieties of automobiles, and none but the Jag has truly distinctive style that catches my lustful eye.

Every town I passed through had empty store fronts. My favorite grocery store in Bonners Ferry, where I stopped every trip for coffee and the best buttermilk donuts, had closed. My heart was broken. I felt momentary depression, then hope, that someone with dreams and elbow grease would come along to open new businesses in the old spaces.

While I was in Seattle , a friend invited me to ride the “Duck,” a left-over WWII amphibious car/boat which tours the city streets and then paddles around Lake Union . In all the years I had lived there, I had never done this. It was great. Be sure to buy a quacker and leave dignity behind. Be silly and have fun.

A surfeit of seafood is not possible.

On Whidbey Island , Washington , there is a pottery shop at Juan de Fuca, a hamlet slightly bigger than Savoy . For years I have said, “Someday I am going to stop there.” I stopped. At this minute I am drinking tea from a cup hand-crafted by an artist.

Several days later I exited into the town of Sprague , Washington , another “I wonder what is there” place. What is there, along the lake, is a grand collection of vintage farm trucks and a lovely former railroad depot which a craftsman has restored into a unique residence.

As the wheels on the van go round and round the wheels of my mind go weird. Why in the world would I break into loudly singing the childhood jingle for “Beefaroni” while driving through Spokane ? (Hooray for Beefaroni, it’s made from macaroni.) It was a warm day and I had rolled the window down. At a stop light I saw that I had attracted an audience. I rolled the window up.

On I-90 I saw innumerable dead tire treads. Back in Montana , on roads the writer William Least Heat Moon called “Blue Highways,” I spotted two big horn sheep, two elk, a wolf, and hundreds of deer and antelope. I also drove through a cloud of eau-de-skunk.

I drove a thousand miles back. Brown is more beautiful than green. Hooray, Montana .

Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Looking out my back door
April 29, 2010
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

She Who Drives the Broken Road

Every trip is it's own adventure.
She Who Drives the Broken Road
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


There is a fine line between solitude and isolation. I cross the line, cuss the line, ride the line, defy the line, deny the line and on occasion, drive the line. I am quite comfortable living in solitude. I appreciate the time and space to see and enjoy the beauty that surrounds me. It is in solitude that I discover the fullness of the Big Empty. To get from place to place I often drive through miles of isolation.

When I have guests, friends from far places, my road-map mind shifts into first gear. One of my frequent-driver guests is Kathy, who lives happily in urban Victoria with her husband Richard, surrounded by posh culture. Two or three times a year Kathy gets to hankering for the tang of sagebrush, the feel of the wind combing her hair and the whirr of the wheels beneath us as we set out seeking Adventure.

So while sipping morning coffee, I said, “Let’s go to Medicine Hat for lunch.” Kathy jumped up and grabbed her jacket. We crossed the border into Alberta at Wild Horse and meandered through the Cypress Hills. We never rush these trips. Several times we pulled off the road, walked about, looked at the rock formations, took pictures. We don’t drive just to rack up the miles.

We by-passed the strip malls and big-box stores on the outskirts of Medicine Hat and landed down by the river in the historic old town. We were hungry. But we were struck by the beauty of the Saskatchewan River , the walking bridge, the parks, and the restored buildings. Eventually we ate lunch in a Japanese restaurant, browsed some of the boutique stores and searched for our parked van, misplaced on a side street.

We checked the map, computed the miles against the clock, and decided we had just enough time to go to Maple Creek and then re-enter the States at Willow Creek. Maple Creek cast a spell over us. An old-fashioned butcher shop enticed us inside to buy salmon pate. Then a cozy cafe pulled us in for a cup of tea. We asked the owner, “How far to Willow Creek from here?” She looked at her watch, shook her head, and replied, “You might make the crossing before it closes if you leave right this minute.”

But first we had to fill the tank. We asked the attendant, “How many miles to Willow Creek?” He looked at his watch and said, “You’ll never make it.”

Puzzled, we unfolded the map, added up the miles, checked our clock, and wondered what the problem could be. We had plenty of time. And just outside Maple Creek, heading south, a road sign verified our arithmetic. We breathed easy. The first miles rolled beneath our wheels, validating our confidence. Then the paved road segued into mostly-paved, deteriorated into somewhat-paved and finally disintegrated into paved-here-and-there. Great slabs of peeled pavement lay alongside the road. Yawning potholes threatened to swallow the van. And heaven help us if we had a flat.

After several miles of these miserable, isolated, broken section-line roads across the empty prairie, we began to fear that we might not make the port of entry in time. Failure would mean we would be forced to return to Maple Creek for the night, a two hour trip back in the dark. Since I drive a cargo van, not a sports car, it would require all our skills. We looked at each other, nodded and decided to run for the border.

Kathy kept track of the miles-to-go. She shouted out directions and obstructions and words of encouragement. I perched on the edge of my seat, gripped the wheel with white knuckles, mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The van bounced over potholes and we bounced with it. We dodged chunks of broken pavement rearing up to tackle the wheels. “Yee, Haw!” I shouted. Kathy spit instructions like a drill sergeant. “Left turn ahead, large rocks on the right, stay in the center, one hour to go, switch to the other lane, washout, washout, detour, you can do it.” I drove like Andretti. The final miles of road held not even a pretense of asphalt. We were forced to slow down but we didn’t have time for slow. The sun was setting. The border was closing. I urged my van faster. A tornado of dust rolled in our wake. Kathy counted down the minutes. I could see the Port of Entry off on the horizon. “We’ll never make it.” “Yes, we will, go faster.”

Five full minutes past closing time, the van thick with dust, we slammed on the brakes and eased up to the window. The officer had seen us coming and had held the port open for us. His partner closed the barrier behind the van. I was so grateful I thought I was in love. We flirted unmercifully. I think he enjoyed having somebody to chat up. We might have been the only people through that crossing all day. He looked at my passport and asked me my name. “She Who Drives the Broken Road,” I replied with a straight face. He nodded and motioned us through.

Sondra Ashton
http://us.mc841.mail.yahoo.com/mc/compose?to=sondrajean@mtintouch.net
Havre Daily News: Home Again
October 22, 2009

______________________________________________________________________________________

Please Send Bail

Please send bail money in care of the Havre Daily News. There. I like to make arrangements for every contingency. Last week I didn’t have a plan in place and, whew, it was crazy.

Here is what happened. My friends David and Vidya were visiting from Washington . They always help me with projects around the house. We readied the yard and garden for winter, pruning and raking and wheeling loads of plant debris into a mountainous pile to haul away. The guys from Public Works, driving by in their truck, accused me of cracking the whip over my slave labor, but that is not so. We had fun working together. We had fun going places. Our fun nearly landed us in—but I’ll get to that later.

I want to tell you some things we did. First we headed to the “What the Hay” festival. We had breakfast in Lewistown, and then drove the route from Hobson to Windham , stopping to eat our way through the Utica fair. Vidya jumped out of the car at every display of hay-bale art to take pictures with her new camera. We moseyed on up the road to Square Butte, which consists of about four houses, a bar, and an historic jail. (No, that is not why I might need bail, but we got a great photo.) We quickly toured Ft. Benton , promised to return. We wrapped a full day into a full circle on the map, ate dinner in Havre and returned home. Another night we went to Chinook to see a macabre play about Edgar Allen Poe, brilliantly performed by the young actors of the Montana Repertory Theatre. We shoe-horned the Havre Festival into our itinerary, a full feast of a day, with the parade, farmer’s market, quilt show, crafts, and book sale. Who says there is nothing to do around here?

To top off our adventures, like pouring hot fudge over ice cream, we spent three days in Canada . Next time you are in Watson , Saskatchewan , stop at the Quick Stop Diner and say hello to my friends, Ron and Sharon. Tell them I sent you. We carved another circle on the map, exploring the short-grass plains through Regina on the way to Watson and then on the way home traveled the lake country through Saskatoon . We headed to the border crossing at Monchy, promising ourselves a juicy steak dinner at the GN in Malta .

We pulled in to the port of entry. I handed the guard my passport. David reached for his jacket for their passports. They weren’t there. Vidya searched her bag for the documents and they were not there either. A terse conversation ensued. “What did you . . ., Why did you . . . , Why didn’t you . . ., I remember that . . .” We had documents in hand when we entered Canada at Turner/Climax. As we drove off David handed them to me and I handed them to Vidya “to put in a safe place”. More conversation about “safe place”. The search continued with a strained earnestness. I looked through the glove box and found nothing. I got out of the car, stepped back and watched.

The next few minutes were not pretty. David dumped his wallet. Vidya dumped her knitting bag which had accompanied her everywhere. David looked under the seat. They both started rifling through the luggage. From my vantage point the car looked like a front-load washing machine with a port window. I watched the contents of the car cycle through agitate to spin. A second-time search began with renewed vigor. The trunk was open. All four doors were open. The luggage, clothing, yarn, books, papers, maps, gifts and blankets continued to spin. David and Vidya agitated. I watched David move from Auto-soak into the Heavy-duty cycle. I wisely refrained from giving sage advice, such as “Calm down”. They dumped every container in the car except the camera case. They knew the documents were not there. The camera had been in continuous use each day. I contemplated having to wave good-by to my friends, trapped on foreign soil, while I trudged on down the highway to Malta .

The customs officer joined the fray, I mean, the search. He methodically lifted, peered and sorted. Eventually he picked up the camera case and opened it. Bingo. Passports found. He gave their papers a cursory glance and motioned us on our way, down the road to freedom.

In a few weeks I will fly to Mexico . I always stow my passport in the same pocket of the same bag which I take with me everywhere. However, one cannot be too careful. You never know. A momentary distraction and my passport could end up inside a shoe. I could end up in the Stoney Lonesome. So if I call for help, please send me bail money in care of the Havre Daily News.



Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
October 8, 2009