“Every day the clock resets.”

 

“Every day the clock resets.”

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Changes happen whether we want them or not, don’t they? It’s just the way it is.

This week we in Mexico fell back, time, the clock. Since I’m not tied to a schedule, my body works by the sun. Sunshine, wake up. Sundown, yawn. You’d think the clock change wouldn’t bother me a bit, but it always does, puts me on edge for a few days. I find myself thinking, whether spring or fall, the clock says ‘seven’, but, the “real” time is ‘eight’.  

I was blathering on to my son Ben about infrastructure and jobs and commerce, blathering without benefit of much that was factual, more from historical perspective. Or mis-perspective.

Ben quickly set me on a new path of thinking, with information about robots, artificial intelligence and computerization, things I’d rather not think about or know about, frankly. Curmudgeon that I am.

What that talk did was jog me out of my complacency, reminded me that things will change, no matter what I think and they will not return to what might have seemed like former glories, which on closer inspection, shine not so gloriously but look rather corroded.

I like to think I handle change with aplomb, but my first reaction to some of the coming changes Ben laid out before me was not based on thought but an emotion. Fear. Oh, dear. I like to tell you I handle change with excitement, with anticipation, with questions. That’s what I like. But I felt afraid.

Ben painted me a picture of life where technology freed us ordinary people from the slavery of mundane tasks, a world where everybody had food and a washing machine and water, a world where we were free to pursue our passions, our interests in things for which we never seem to be able to make time.

Sounds good, doesn’t it? Sounds like a fairy tale to me. I recalled a video Ben showed me, at least ten years ago, of communication possibilities between a person and a computer. My eyes stretched wide with wonder. Today that imagination is everyday ho hum reality.

So I suppose that whatever our kids can imagine, perhaps it will become reality for our grandchildren. I like fairy tales. Grew up on them. I hope I can keep growing.

It’s time for me to step back, sit down, shut my mouth, listen and learn and watch as our younger generations remake the world. They will. They have technological skills and imaginations and creativity of which I cannot comprehend.

And the young people are taking away one of my favorite weapons—criticism. I cannot criticize that which I do not understand. 

The thing is, changes are happening so quickly we no longer have enough information to simply say, oh, this is good or, oy, that is bad. But change is here, not to stay, but to evolve, to change and change again.

Lucky us, to be on the outside looking in; I say that with my heart in my mouth. To mis-quote Dickens, we live in the best of times; we live in the worst of times.

Mistakes will be made along the way, of course. Like we never made any? That is where the fear comes in, isn’t it?

When it comes to change, I’m aware there is little I can change, perhaps nothing, other than my own attitudes.

The sun comes up. The sun goes down. I wonder if it laughs at us in between times.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 4, 2021

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How I lost my sense of humor

How I lost my sense of humor
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My world looked gray. My bank balance hovered near empty. My refrigerator was bare. My various aches and pains would, no doubt, be revealed as a fatal disease. Winter had dug in its claws and was hanging on tenaciously. Flood waters were rising. News was grim. All over the world, the nation, the state, our town and in my house, things were falling apart. I was in a blue funk. I realized my sense of humor was missing. I felt bereft, like I had misplaced my best friend, locked it in a closet and forgotten where I put it.



To my surprise, I felt as though I had contracted a contagious malady, akin to an actual disease, more drastic than losing one’s mind, which in my opinion, is not generally a great loss. This was serious. What if I could not locate my humor? When I lose my sense of humor, people avoid me. I avoid me. Horrors! I knew I must find my humor and find it fast.



Where did I last use my humor? That’s probably where I left it. When I cannot find my car keys, after searching my bag, my pockets, my desk and the kitchen counter, eventually I open the front door and there they hang, in the lock. I did wonder if someone had sneaked in when I wasn’t looking and stolen my humor. But that’s highly unlikely.



I searched my memory. I had last seen my humor on the day I began thinking. Thinking is a dangerous act. Thinking leads me to questions. Here’s what I was thinking: Why did I ever move back to this Ice Encased Country? Why did I leave the lovely green waters of Puget Sound where the winter temperatures are mild and summer days are balmy? I missed the mossy green outdoors. I missed my distant friends and family. I felt imprisoned by winter. I no longer wanted to be where I am. Yes, I had slid into a Deadly Thinking Site. That’s where my humor had vanished. How could I find my way out?



I needed help. I called friends. We met for lunch at Deb’s Diner, right here in town. Delightful company, good food, friendly laughter. Winter, while not departed, began to loosen its grip. Back home, I opened the door to my fridge. I checked my bank balance. There was sufficiency for the needs of the day. My aches and pains retreated.



The next day at a meeting at City Hall I learned that our swimming pool had emptied over the winter. There was evidence the water might be pooled beneath our building. The surrounding sidewalks were buckling and crumbling. Not only that, we learned the State had removed vital funding for a new sewage treatment facility which the State had required us to build. Furthermore bids for much needed energy efficiency updates at City Hall and the City Shop came in way over the amount of grant money we had been awarded. The Milk River is expected to crest in two to three weeks. Homes and property are in peril. None of this is good news. I looked at my colleagues and realized we would pull together for our city. These problems were not mine alone. We would come up with the best solutions possible. Together we would muddle through. I felt good. It made me smile. This is my people. This is my home.



Later, at the Montana Seed Show I met more friends, old and new. I ate breakfast with three men from my high school days. It was as if no years had intervened, with the difference that our conversation today could be honest and intimate. Throughout the weekend I bounced from acquaintance to acquaintance. I had lunch with my cousins. By the end of the Seed Show, after the Saturday night banquet, my feet hurt, I was stuffed, and I was tired but felt fully revitalized. I now know I am where I want to be. My world is beautiful. My sense of humor is back.



At the art show, I bought an abstract painting. If laughter and joy can be painted, the artist captured it in this picture. I placed it above my computer where it will remind me, winter or summer, that my sense of humor is my most valuable possession. I will hang on tight to my humor, no matter what my day brings. You know how to hang on tight to humor? You have to let it go.



Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 17, 2011
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Like Falling Out of Love

By the end of February in Montana, tempers are on the short fuse.
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Like Falling Out of Love



Last fall in Chinook I saw a marvelous play about the great storyteller, Edgar Allen Poe, presented by the talented young actors of the Montana Repertory Theatre. One thing I took home from this play, and that has stuck with me, is the idea of “Poe Moments.”



Poe Moments are those wonderfully evil thoughts we all typically have when confronted with an annoying person or situation. Unless one is a psychotic serial killer, and let’s assume we are not, we do not act on the thoughts; we sweep them beneath the rug of consciousness. Nowadays, instead of lifting the corner of my rug, I recognize the Poe Moment, wryly thank it for participating in my life, chuckle and get on with my day. Anything can trigger a Poe Moment.



This morning when I woke up, I groaned out of bed, hobbled to the window, saw several inches of new-fallen snow and mumbled, “I don’t love you anymore.” I checked the forecast for the next three days—more of the same. I was too depressed to look at the ten-day forecast. I have been house-bound for too many days, weeks, nay, months.



I watched the flakes drift to the ground, a blanket of white with shadows of blue, an obliteration of geography. I experienced a now familiar “Poe-e-tic” feeling. I growled and grumped through my morning routine. Certain years are more memorable than others and eventually assume a place in personal history as “the year that . . .” or “the winter when . . .” This evil winter, which seems bent on burying us beneath the snow, human popsicles, deserves a name. What better name than Edgar, in honor of Poe. Edgar Allen Winter, I salute you.



My friends in a more temperate clime accuse me of talking too much about the weather. I answer that for those of us who live in northern Montana , winter weather takes on a persona. This winter has become my most intimate friend/enemy. A friend, for his terrible beauty. An enemy, for his danger.



I sigh for those unappreciated years when I lived in the Pacific Northwest , where every day it rained and every day the temperature was forty-six degrees. Winter and summer I wore the same clothing. My monthly heating bill fluctuated minimally. I owned one set of tires for my vehicle. My car did not have plug-ins sticking like sloppy tongues out the grill, nor an extension cord greedily feeding it power at night. My heavy Sorel boots mouldered in the back corner of the attic.



This morning, in a moment of self-torture, I bowed in obeisance before my summer closet, lined with short-sleeved shirts I have not seen since October. My eyes glazed over with a feeling akin to lust. I cleaned the cobwebs from my sandals and placed them lovingly back on the shelf. I blew a kiss to my summer clothes, gently shut the door and promised to return in June.



Eventually I pulled myself together and hoisted my red flannel-lined jeans off the shelf of my winter closet. I wriggled into my long-sleeved merino wool pullover and topped it with a plaid Pendleton button-up shirt. I completed my wardrobe with knee-high wool socks. This is what I wear indoors.



This afternoon I went to the post office to mail a check to the power company, a check the amount of which required a bank loan. I pulled on my boots heavy with tire-tread soles. Then I struggled into my hefty winter coat, twined my scarf twice around my neck, jammed my wool hat onto my head and wriggled my fingers into my gloves. A fashion maven I am not.



A Poe Moment occurred when I battled to disengage the plugs from the extension cord to my van. I envisioned opening my mouth and with the breath of a fiery dragon I melted the mounds of snow and ice. In my imagination I lifted my dragon body into the air and blasted up and down every street, clearing the snow and flooding the alleys. Filled with dragon pride, I preened my feathers and soared out into the country, melting Montana to the beat of a tell-tale heart.



Edgar Allen Winter, no longer shall I worship your frost-crusted limbs, burn incense in homage to your diamond-sprinkled sky, or lift prayers of thanksgiving for the beauty of snow-blanketed hills. Edgar Allen Winter, I would carve you into little pieces and melt you in the incinerator. I don’t love you any more.



Sondra Ashton

Havre Daily News: Looking out my back door

February 25, 2010
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Spring Will Arrive

This one went to the paper today. I wrote it this morning. I am liking my new computer. I named her. But that is another story.
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Spring Will Arrive

It was February second. With bated breath I awaited the annual appearance of the groundhog. Up here on the northern tier, winter has us locked in its unrelenting icy grip since Thanksgiving. The groundhog may say yes. The groundhog may say no. Spring arrives on its own schedule. Besides, how can a subterranean rodent affect the turning of the seasons? But I grew up on fairy tales. At first light, I chortled and said, no shadow. Spring is on the way. And sure enough, the calendar justified my exuberance with uppercase letters, SPRING BEGINS on March twentieth. I checked the information on two calendars just to make sure. Right.

Then Monday night my friend Kathy from British Columbia called to chat. “The daffodils are in bud,” she said.

“The snow banks are receding,” I responded.

“This morning Richard and I drank coffee sitting in the sun on the patio, breathing in the smells of new leaves and lilacs.”

“The ice in the river is beginning to break up.”

“Today I am planting primroses along the walkways.”

“What are primroses?” I counter. My forty-third garden catalog from the various nurseries back east just arrived with offerings of exotic plants guaranteed to die in this northern semi-desert zone. “I shall plant petunias and geraniums when the frost leaves the soil.”

“It is supposed to rain tomorrow. That will be good for my bulbs,” Kathy said.

“It is 20 degrees here with wind gusting to 30 miles per hour. Tomorrow will be sunny and temperatures in the 50’s. Snow is forecast for Wednesday. That doesn’t mean it will happen that way, but it might. Right now the county roads are slick with mud but usually they freeze up at night. A few more days of wind and the roads will look like tracks carved in baked clay.”

“Do you ever have spring?” Kathy asked.

“We often get a week in May,” I answered rather hesitantly. “Or June. Then summer arrives with temperatures in the 90’s and clouds of the famous Harlem mosquitoes.”

Yesterday a friend remarked that this is the most dreary time of the year. I refuted that. The fields are beautiful with sunshine illuminating the various shades of gold, browns, tans, heathery purples. If you squint your eyes just so, you can detect the green beneath the brown. The leaf buds hang on the ends of tree branches, just waiting for the right signal to shoot forth. And when I rake into the flower debris from last fall, I see new life burgeoning forth from the soil. There is hope. Little gophers line both sides of the highway. Huge flocks of geese heading north alight in the stubble fields for the night, as if the stubble is a special campground just for them. Oh, yes. Today is Wednesday. It is snowing.
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