Every trip is it's own adventure.
She Who Drives the Broken Road
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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
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Friday, January 8, 2010
New Year, Full Moon, Smile of the Tiger
Out with the old . . .
New Year, Full Moon, Smile of the Tiger
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“What are your New Year’s resolutions?” My friend Sharon was on the phone.
“I don’t make resolutions,” I snorted.
“But this is a very auspicious New Year, ushered in beneath a full moon. We leave the plodding Year of the Ox behind and enter the dynamic Year of the Tiger.”
“Is that good?” I asked.
“It is neither good nor bad,” she replied. “Things happen quickly in a Tiger year. So be prepared to make quick decisions, to pounce on opportunity.”
“Or leap aside from danger?”
“Exactly.” We laughed. “But why no resolutions?” Sharon persisted.
Memory flashed me back thirty years to when a friend, I’ll call him James, stood in front of my bookshelves reading the titles. “You don’t like yourself much, do you?”
His question stunned me. “What do you mean?”
“These are all self-help books. If you liked yourself, you would not be trying to change who you are.”
Ouch. That hurt. He was right. I wanted to change everything about myself. I was not enough. Not beautiful enough, not graceful enough, not smart enough, not happy enough, not accomplished enough, not skinny enough. I had the wrong skin, the wrong hair, the wrong feet, the wrong clothes.
James’s words stuck on me like an ink blotch on my best silk blouse. I couldn’t scrub his words out of my mind. He was right. But I wanted to be perfect. And I wanted to like myself. Eventually I decided I could live without my stacks of self-help books but it took me five years to get rid of all of them. It took longer than that for me to begin to find peace with who I am. There was no magic wand, no quick tricks. I worked hard at a process that took recognition, acceptance and gratitude. Along the way I picked up a great gift, the ability to laugh at myself. I never did get perfect. But I got to liking myself right well.
“So that’s the story, Sharon . To me, resolutions feel like self-help books. When I make resolutions, I feel like I am telling myself something is wrong with me. Of course I always look to better myself. That is who I am. I like to look for ways to make changes, to try new things, but that doesn’t require a special day. That can happen all year long. It starts with knowing who we are. Just like you, Sharon, are a beacon of light to all who are around you. You don’t have to try to be one. You just are.”
I heard a funny noise over the phone line. “What’s that sound?”
“That’s me ripping up my list of resolutions.” We laughed.
“Let’s lift a toast. In this New Year, may we be guided by the light of the full moon, pounce on every opportunity, evade pitfalls and love and laugh and live with the smile of the Tiger.”
Sondra Ashton
Home Again: Havre Daily News
December 31, 2009
New Year, Full Moon, Smile of the Tiger
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
“What are your New Year’s resolutions?” My friend Sharon was on the phone.
“I don’t make resolutions,” I snorted.
“But this is a very auspicious New Year, ushered in beneath a full moon. We leave the plodding Year of the Ox behind and enter the dynamic Year of the Tiger.”
“Is that good?” I asked.
“It is neither good nor bad,” she replied. “Things happen quickly in a Tiger year. So be prepared to make quick decisions, to pounce on opportunity.”
“Or leap aside from danger?”
“Exactly.” We laughed. “But why no resolutions?” Sharon persisted.
Memory flashed me back thirty years to when a friend, I’ll call him James, stood in front of my bookshelves reading the titles. “You don’t like yourself much, do you?”
His question stunned me. “What do you mean?”
“These are all self-help books. If you liked yourself, you would not be trying to change who you are.”
Ouch. That hurt. He was right. I wanted to change everything about myself. I was not enough. Not beautiful enough, not graceful enough, not smart enough, not happy enough, not accomplished enough, not skinny enough. I had the wrong skin, the wrong hair, the wrong feet, the wrong clothes.
James’s words stuck on me like an ink blotch on my best silk blouse. I couldn’t scrub his words out of my mind. He was right. But I wanted to be perfect. And I wanted to like myself. Eventually I decided I could live without my stacks of self-help books but it took me five years to get rid of all of them. It took longer than that for me to begin to find peace with who I am. There was no magic wand, no quick tricks. I worked hard at a process that took recognition, acceptance and gratitude. Along the way I picked up a great gift, the ability to laugh at myself. I never did get perfect. But I got to liking myself right well.
“So that’s the story, Sharon . To me, resolutions feel like self-help books. When I make resolutions, I feel like I am telling myself something is wrong with me. Of course I always look to better myself. That is who I am. I like to look for ways to make changes, to try new things, but that doesn’t require a special day. That can happen all year long. It starts with knowing who we are. Just like you, Sharon, are a beacon of light to all who are around you. You don’t have to try to be one. You just are.”
I heard a funny noise over the phone line. “What’s that sound?”
“That’s me ripping up my list of resolutions.” We laughed.
“Let’s lift a toast. In this New Year, may we be guided by the light of the full moon, pounce on every opportunity, evade pitfalls and love and laugh and live with the smile of the Tiger.”
Sondra Ashton
Home Again: Havre Daily News
December 31, 2009
Dear Tequila Worm
Ah, sunny beaches, shrimp platters and a cold drink with an umbrella.
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Dear Tequila Worm
Soon I am flying to Mazatlan on the western coast of sunny Mexico . Since, in my dream life, I secretly write advice columns for travelers to different parts of the known and unknown world, I share with you some of the most frequently asked questions from my “Mexico” column, written under the pseudonym of “Tequila Worm”.
Q: Dear TW:
My girlfriend and I are going south of the Border, down Mexico way. She insists I buy new trunks. I have my heart set on something sexy.
The problem is that she also demands to go shopping with me. How can I pick my own trunks?
Next Size Larger
A: Dear NSL:
Thank your Sweetie, preferably with flowers and wine, and perhaps a lovely piece of jewelry. Very few men over the age of four should appear on the beach in a Speedo. To paraphrase the poet Robbie Burns, we are unable to see ourselves as others see us.
Q: Dear TW:
What should I do when hounded by a pesky beach vendor who will not take no for an answer?
Souvenir Sally
A: Dear SS:
Go ahead and buy those oversized crepe paper flowers. Once you get back home all your envious friends will know you have been to Mexico .
Q: Dear TW:
When I go to Mexico I cannot resist buying sleeveless T-shirts printed with “One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor”.
However, once I return home, I would not be caught dead wearing the disgusting things. What can I do?
Red-faced in Renton
A: Dear R-f R:
What happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .
Q: Dear TW:
We have noticed that people whom we deal with every day don’t seem to recognize us. We feel slighted. What should we do?
Jason and Jennifer in Pomona
A: Dear J&J:
We need to remember that to people of another culture, all of us from the United States look alike.
Q: Dear TW:
When I am on the beach lounging under the palapa hut, I offen cannot get the attention of the waiter when I want more beer. What should I do?
Restless Rick from Chicago
A: Dear RR:
In Mexico , as elsewhere, it is the custom to signal politely. It is not the custom to wave your arm, snap your fingers and yell, “Hey, Taco.”
Q: Dear TW:
Should I take my camera?
Shutter-Bug
A: Dear S-B:
Be sensitive about what you photograph. When someone from Mexico comes to your town, would you want them to treat you like a curiosity at the other end of their lens? Scenery is good. But remember, when taking memory photos of your group, what happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .
Q: Dear TW: When on vacation next month in a romantic Mexican resort , I hope to meet the true love of my life. How will I know if he is the real one:
Phyllis from Cleveland
A: Dear PfC:
If he is wearing Speedos and a Tequila shirt, look elsewhere. Good luck.
Q: Dear TW:
How do I get past the language barrier?
Lip Locked
A: Dear LL:
Learn Mexican Spanish. A phrase book is helpful. Speaking slowly and louder will not make you more easily understood. Remember that everybody is eager to please. When he says, “Si, si,” Or you say, “Yes, yes,” accompanied by vigorous head shaking, that does not guarantee either of you understand the other.
Q: Dear TW:
My friend says all the water in Mexico is bad, even for bathing. Is this true?
Paranoid
A: Dear P:
Not necessarily. If you want to be truly careful, boil the water or wash with beer.
Q: Dear TW:
How do I order food when I don’t understand the menu?
Starving Stella
A: Where there is no picture menu, remember, your trip is all in the spirit of adventure. What happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .
Sondra Ashton
Home Again: Havre Daily News
Published October 29, 2009
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Dear Tequila Worm
Soon I am flying to Mazatlan on the western coast of sunny Mexico . Since, in my dream life, I secretly write advice columns for travelers to different parts of the known and unknown world, I share with you some of the most frequently asked questions from my “Mexico” column, written under the pseudonym of “Tequila Worm”.
Q: Dear TW:
My girlfriend and I are going south of the Border, down Mexico way. She insists I buy new trunks. I have my heart set on something sexy.
The problem is that she also demands to go shopping with me. How can I pick my own trunks?
Next Size Larger
A: Dear NSL:
Thank your Sweetie, preferably with flowers and wine, and perhaps a lovely piece of jewelry. Very few men over the age of four should appear on the beach in a Speedo. To paraphrase the poet Robbie Burns, we are unable to see ourselves as others see us.
Q: Dear TW:
What should I do when hounded by a pesky beach vendor who will not take no for an answer?
Souvenir Sally
A: Dear SS:
Go ahead and buy those oversized crepe paper flowers. Once you get back home all your envious friends will know you have been to Mexico .
Q: Dear TW:
When I go to Mexico I cannot resist buying sleeveless T-shirts printed with “One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor”.
However, once I return home, I would not be caught dead wearing the disgusting things. What can I do?
Red-faced in Renton
A: Dear R-f R:
What happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .
Q: Dear TW:
We have noticed that people whom we deal with every day don’t seem to recognize us. We feel slighted. What should we do?
Jason and Jennifer in Pomona
A: Dear J&J:
We need to remember that to people of another culture, all of us from the United States look alike.
Q: Dear TW:
When I am on the beach lounging under the palapa hut, I offen cannot get the attention of the waiter when I want more beer. What should I do?
Restless Rick from Chicago
A: Dear RR:
In Mexico , as elsewhere, it is the custom to signal politely. It is not the custom to wave your arm, snap your fingers and yell, “Hey, Taco.”
Q: Dear TW:
Should I take my camera?
Shutter-Bug
A: Dear S-B:
Be sensitive about what you photograph. When someone from Mexico comes to your town, would you want them to treat you like a curiosity at the other end of their lens? Scenery is good. But remember, when taking memory photos of your group, what happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .
Q: Dear TW: When on vacation next month in a romantic Mexican resort , I hope to meet the true love of my life. How will I know if he is the real one:
Phyllis from Cleveland
A: Dear PfC:
If he is wearing Speedos and a Tequila shirt, look elsewhere. Good luck.
Q: Dear TW:
How do I get past the language barrier?
Lip Locked
A: Dear LL:
Learn Mexican Spanish. A phrase book is helpful. Speaking slowly and louder will not make you more easily understood. Remember that everybody is eager to please. When he says, “Si, si,” Or you say, “Yes, yes,” accompanied by vigorous head shaking, that does not guarantee either of you understand the other.
Q: Dear TW:
My friend says all the water in Mexico is bad, even for bathing. Is this true?
Paranoid
A: Dear P:
Not necessarily. If you want to be truly careful, boil the water or wash with beer.
Q: Dear TW:
How do I order food when I don’t understand the menu?
Starving Stella
A: Where there is no picture menu, remember, your trip is all in the spirit of adventure. What happens in Mexico , stays in Mexico .
Sondra Ashton
Home Again: Havre Daily News
Published October 29, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
The Food Chain
Four and twenty songbirds baked in a pie. When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing. Makes sense to me. Have you ever heard blackbirds "sing"?
The Food Chain
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Last year I planted an herb garden, just a small plot. In the fall I mulched it heavily with leaves. Winter was harsh. I worried over which herbs would survive and which might winterkill. Spring arrived and the chives poked their heads like glory into the warming sunlight. Chives are tough. And grow fast. I was harvesting chives while the mint, sage, oregano, parsley and thyme were still in baby stage. I re-planted tender sweet basil. It must be an annual in this country. I watered and weeded faithfully. I added a rosemary bush. My herb patch was looking good.
Grasshoppers are such little things. The variety that came to my house looked like adolescent punk-hoppers, kind of cute with body jewelry and fake tattoos. These definitely were not the giant WWII bombers of the insect world. They bopped in one morning, a well disciplined cloud, and landed in my yard. The teeny buggers danced in formation, pincer jaws wide open, over to my herb garden and proceeded to decimate it with a million bites, one herb at a time. They chomped my English thyme down to bare-naked stalks. They attacked my French oregano before infiltrating the parsley. Clippers in hand, I rushed to rescue what was left of my sweet basil while the hoppers sweetened their breath on the spearmint. They despised the chives. Found sage barely tolerable but ate it anyway. Rosemary, fortunately, repulsed them. They sampled flowers and devoured their favorites. My yard was a banquet table.
From the first retreat of winter a wealth of birds, fat, healthy birds, took up residence in my yard. Robins and finches and sparrows and doves, vireos and warblers and larks and grackles. I didn’t feed them. Correction: I didn’t fill bird feeders with avian snack foods. I didn’t have to. First my strawberries disappeared. The plundering birds left me six puny berries. Then they went fishing. Long, juicy earthworms lurked beneath layers of mulch in my yard. Bird heaven. I found it especially fun to watch a robin grasp an earthworm, pull with all its might, half the worm anchored in the ground, until finally the worm lets go with a plop. The robin lands on its sitter, fat wriggly worm dangling from its beak. That show was worth the admission ticket of a few strawberries. When the currants began to ripen, I checked them daily, hovered around them, waited until the optimum day for harvest, and went, berry bucket in hand, only to find every bush stripped. I pictured four-and-twenty song birds, baked in a pie. Next year I will net my berry bushes.
Meanwhile, back at the grasshoppers’ buffet, a multiplication of birds flew in. Storm troopers. These newcomers joined the already fruit-fattened yard birds in a round ‘em up, smorgasbord feast of crunchy critters. For several days birds of all sizes and shapes and colors scurried along the ground, gobbling up hoppers. The birds were too fat to fly. They lounged around and picked their beaks and gossiped, then waddled back for dessert.
For several months before the grasshopper invasion, two colossal cats had hung out in my yard. Every morning they patrolled beneath my cabin, keeping mice and shrews and snakes away. These were not feral cats. They belonged to someone in the neighborhood. They were well-fed, well-groomed kings of their castles. I have not seen a mouse since they began standing watch. They stalked birds and butterflies and bees but without success. I figured those cats were walking the beat, keeping the birds safe.
That all changed when the overweight songbirds, sated with hoppers, could barely lift off the ground. My patrol cats, feathers fluttering from their mouths, called for reinforcements. Enter the feline SWAT team. I have no idea where they came from, but eight humongous cats swaggered into my yard, pounced on the birds which ate the grasshoppers which ate my herbs. My backyard bird population returned to normal.
Not so the cats. Every morning the full regiment of cats musters in my yard. This morning they brought along new recruits, three cute gangly trainee kittens. They patrolled the cabin for mice, the yard for birds, and basked beneath the lilies in the sun. In the evening the cats pranced, tails aloft, back to their respective homes for kibbles and cream. But they will be back tomorrow. The good news is that my basil and oregano have sprouted new leaves, so I’ll harvest a second cutting. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme are making a comeback like the promise of new love. The grasshoppers are gone. The wary birds perch in the trees. It seems the cats take seriously their day job as guard-cats. But I don’t need thirteen cats hanging around my two-cat yard.
Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
December 10, 2009
The Food Chain
__________________________________________________________
Last year I planted an herb garden, just a small plot. In the fall I mulched it heavily with leaves. Winter was harsh. I worried over which herbs would survive and which might winterkill. Spring arrived and the chives poked their heads like glory into the warming sunlight. Chives are tough. And grow fast. I was harvesting chives while the mint, sage, oregano, parsley and thyme were still in baby stage. I re-planted tender sweet basil. It must be an annual in this country. I watered and weeded faithfully. I added a rosemary bush. My herb patch was looking good.
Grasshoppers are such little things. The variety that came to my house looked like adolescent punk-hoppers, kind of cute with body jewelry and fake tattoos. These definitely were not the giant WWII bombers of the insect world. They bopped in one morning, a well disciplined cloud, and landed in my yard. The teeny buggers danced in formation, pincer jaws wide open, over to my herb garden and proceeded to decimate it with a million bites, one herb at a time. They chomped my English thyme down to bare-naked stalks. They attacked my French oregano before infiltrating the parsley. Clippers in hand, I rushed to rescue what was left of my sweet basil while the hoppers sweetened their breath on the spearmint. They despised the chives. Found sage barely tolerable but ate it anyway. Rosemary, fortunately, repulsed them. They sampled flowers and devoured their favorites. My yard was a banquet table.
From the first retreat of winter a wealth of birds, fat, healthy birds, took up residence in my yard. Robins and finches and sparrows and doves, vireos and warblers and larks and grackles. I didn’t feed them. Correction: I didn’t fill bird feeders with avian snack foods. I didn’t have to. First my strawberries disappeared. The plundering birds left me six puny berries. Then they went fishing. Long, juicy earthworms lurked beneath layers of mulch in my yard. Bird heaven. I found it especially fun to watch a robin grasp an earthworm, pull with all its might, half the worm anchored in the ground, until finally the worm lets go with a plop. The robin lands on its sitter, fat wriggly worm dangling from its beak. That show was worth the admission ticket of a few strawberries. When the currants began to ripen, I checked them daily, hovered around them, waited until the optimum day for harvest, and went, berry bucket in hand, only to find every bush stripped. I pictured four-and-twenty song birds, baked in a pie. Next year I will net my berry bushes.
Meanwhile, back at the grasshoppers’ buffet, a multiplication of birds flew in. Storm troopers. These newcomers joined the already fruit-fattened yard birds in a round ‘em up, smorgasbord feast of crunchy critters. For several days birds of all sizes and shapes and colors scurried along the ground, gobbling up hoppers. The birds were too fat to fly. They lounged around and picked their beaks and gossiped, then waddled back for dessert.
For several months before the grasshopper invasion, two colossal cats had hung out in my yard. Every morning they patrolled beneath my cabin, keeping mice and shrews and snakes away. These were not feral cats. They belonged to someone in the neighborhood. They were well-fed, well-groomed kings of their castles. I have not seen a mouse since they began standing watch. They stalked birds and butterflies and bees but without success. I figured those cats were walking the beat, keeping the birds safe.
That all changed when the overweight songbirds, sated with hoppers, could barely lift off the ground. My patrol cats, feathers fluttering from their mouths, called for reinforcements. Enter the feline SWAT team. I have no idea where they came from, but eight humongous cats swaggered into my yard, pounced on the birds which ate the grasshoppers which ate my herbs. My backyard bird population returned to normal.
Not so the cats. Every morning the full regiment of cats musters in my yard. This morning they brought along new recruits, three cute gangly trainee kittens. They patrolled the cabin for mice, the yard for birds, and basked beneath the lilies in the sun. In the evening the cats pranced, tails aloft, back to their respective homes for kibbles and cream. But they will be back tomorrow. The good news is that my basil and oregano have sprouted new leaves, so I’ll harvest a second cutting. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme are making a comeback like the promise of new love. The grasshoppers are gone. The wary birds perch in the trees. It seems the cats take seriously their day job as guard-cats. But I don’t need thirteen cats hanging around my two-cat yard.
Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
December 10, 2009
On the Toad With George
Travels with a teddy bear.
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On the Road With George
George and I have traveled together for years. George is a pleasant roadpartner, an easy companion. He is never critical of my driving, and doesnot have a lot to say. Oh, he gets a bit cheeky at times. I plunk a hat onhis head, tie a silk scarf around his neck and belt him into the passengerseat. George is a “Bear of Very Little Brain”*. We headed west on Highway 2, early morning sun at our backs, air crisp andfull of pungent autumn. Traffic was light. Blackbirds cross-hatched thesky, flocked for departure to warmer climes. By the time we reached Shelbyan intermittent-wiper rain splashed the windshield. I noticed George sulking. “George, what’s wrong? Seatbelt too tight?” “Iwant shades.” “ Sunglasses? I don’t wear them. Why should you? Besides, it’s raining.” George turned his face toward the passenger window and sulked all the way over Marias Pass. He didn’t beg for his usual huckleberry ice-cream cone in Hungry Horse. I stopped for the night in Bonner’s Ferry. The proprietor of the inn whereI often stay picks huckleberries every year. I bought a pint for Georgeto munch for supper. I asked Jim to reserve a couple gallons for my return in December. I’ll make jelly for Christmas gifts. George, face stained with berryjuice, said, “This is great. But I still want shades.” The next morning, just past the little town of Priest River , George asked for a story. He had nearly finished his jar of honey and was getting sleepy. Storytelling on the road is easy. Everything along the way can be woven into the tale. I looked around. The river coursed on our left. Steep rock cliffs defined the right side of thehighway. “See that quarry? Too bad about the brothers who owned it,” I said. “They never did find the body. Of the older brother. The younger brother is in jail. He’s the prime suspect.” I had George’s full attention. “It was on the news for weeks. The brothers owned mountains and land and timber and mines and banks and hunting lodges and politicians. They had the Midas touch.” I looked around for another clue to further the story. “I think theauthorities have it all wrong. About the motive, I mean. Couldn’t have beenmoney. Both brothers had piles and goodles of money and knew how to makemore. No, I don’t think that was the motive. And I am not sure the youngerbrother committed the crime, if there was a crime, there being no corpus.”
Across the river and up the hillside in the trees loomed a monstermansion with decks and gables and crenellations galore. “That’s their house, George. The brothers lived in separate wings. Who knows what went on behind closed doors. But there were rumors.” We passed a ’57 Chevy Coupe stopped along the verge of the road. It was turquoise and white, gleaming with chrome and totally restored down to the fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror. Next to the car stood a striking blonde, poised with camera. “Beautiful,” George said. “Um hmmm,” I agreed. We were commenting on different aspects of the same scene. “Speaking of women, George, last year when I drove through here, shortly after the older brother disappeared, I heard that the boys, and I quote, ‘red-blooded healthyAmerican patriots’, liked to party and fool around with women. Yep, I thinkwomen figure into the motive.” George nodded. “Course, there is no body, sowe don’t rightly know for sure there was a crime.”
George licked the last vestiges of honey from the fur around his mouth and started to toss the jar out the window. I lunged and caught it. “The roadside is not a garbage dump, George.” George growled. We crossed the river from Old Town into Newport . We passed a movie theatreon the main street. I read the marquee, a double feature. Halloween was fast approaching. The movies featured blood and gore. I turned to George, “The newspaper said the scene of the crime looked like a slaughter house. Gore all over. Blood trailed out the front door, down the walkway and disappeared at the river.” I heard whuffling. George, hat askew, leaned his head against the windowand gently snored. He slept through Spokane and all the way to Cle Elum. I stopped for gas. George woke up. We pulled back onto the freeway and headed up Snoqualmie Pass. “Red,”George said. “The blood?” I asked. “No, the frames. I want my shades with redframes.”
*Apologies to A.A. MilneSondra Ashton: Home Again, Havre Daily News
Published December 17, 2009
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On the Road With George
George and I have traveled together for years. George is a pleasant roadpartner, an easy companion. He is never critical of my driving, and doesnot have a lot to say. Oh, he gets a bit cheeky at times. I plunk a hat onhis head, tie a silk scarf around his neck and belt him into the passengerseat. George is a “Bear of Very Little Brain”*. We headed west on Highway 2, early morning sun at our backs, air crisp andfull of pungent autumn. Traffic was light. Blackbirds cross-hatched thesky, flocked for departure to warmer climes. By the time we reached Shelbyan intermittent-wiper rain splashed the windshield. I noticed George sulking. “George, what’s wrong? Seatbelt too tight?” “Iwant shades.” “ Sunglasses? I don’t wear them. Why should you? Besides, it’s raining.” George turned his face toward the passenger window and sulked all the way over Marias Pass. He didn’t beg for his usual huckleberry ice-cream cone in Hungry Horse. I stopped for the night in Bonner’s Ferry. The proprietor of the inn whereI often stay picks huckleberries every year. I bought a pint for Georgeto munch for supper. I asked Jim to reserve a couple gallons for my return in December. I’ll make jelly for Christmas gifts. George, face stained with berryjuice, said, “This is great. But I still want shades.” The next morning, just past the little town of Priest River , George asked for a story. He had nearly finished his jar of honey and was getting sleepy. Storytelling on the road is easy. Everything along the way can be woven into the tale. I looked around. The river coursed on our left. Steep rock cliffs defined the right side of thehighway. “See that quarry? Too bad about the brothers who owned it,” I said. “They never did find the body. Of the older brother. The younger brother is in jail. He’s the prime suspect.” I had George’s full attention. “It was on the news for weeks. The brothers owned mountains and land and timber and mines and banks and hunting lodges and politicians. They had the Midas touch.” I looked around for another clue to further the story. “I think theauthorities have it all wrong. About the motive, I mean. Couldn’t have beenmoney. Both brothers had piles and goodles of money and knew how to makemore. No, I don’t think that was the motive. And I am not sure the youngerbrother committed the crime, if there was a crime, there being no corpus.”
Across the river and up the hillside in the trees loomed a monstermansion with decks and gables and crenellations galore. “That’s their house, George. The brothers lived in separate wings. Who knows what went on behind closed doors. But there were rumors.” We passed a ’57 Chevy Coupe stopped along the verge of the road. It was turquoise and white, gleaming with chrome and totally restored down to the fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror. Next to the car stood a striking blonde, poised with camera. “Beautiful,” George said. “Um hmmm,” I agreed. We were commenting on different aspects of the same scene. “Speaking of women, George, last year when I drove through here, shortly after the older brother disappeared, I heard that the boys, and I quote, ‘red-blooded healthyAmerican patriots’, liked to party and fool around with women. Yep, I thinkwomen figure into the motive.” George nodded. “Course, there is no body, sowe don’t rightly know for sure there was a crime.”
George licked the last vestiges of honey from the fur around his mouth and started to toss the jar out the window. I lunged and caught it. “The roadside is not a garbage dump, George.” George growled. We crossed the river from Old Town into Newport . We passed a movie theatreon the main street. I read the marquee, a double feature. Halloween was fast approaching. The movies featured blood and gore. I turned to George, “The newspaper said the scene of the crime looked like a slaughter house. Gore all over. Blood trailed out the front door, down the walkway and disappeared at the river.” I heard whuffling. George, hat askew, leaned his head against the windowand gently snored. He slept through Spokane and all the way to Cle Elum. I stopped for gas. George woke up. We pulled back onto the freeway and headed up Snoqualmie Pass. “Red,”George said. “The blood?” I asked. “No, the frames. I want my shades with redframes.”
*Apologies to A.A. MilneSondra Ashton: Home Again, Havre Daily News
Published December 17, 2009
Christmas Past
Here's my Christmas story for this week. These things never do turn out the way I intend them.
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Christmas Past
One day my phone rang. It was my friend Mary Row with a bizarre request. “Everything you touch turns into a work of art. I’m giving a party and want my house to look perfect. Will you come over and arrange my cashmere throw over the back of my couch? I’ll put on water for tea.” I needed to see her anyway, so I drove around the lake to her house. While she was in the kitchen I tossed the throw haphazardly toward the couch and watched the folds settle. Voila! A vignette of beauty.
What makes my artistic propensities an oddity is that I am constitutionally incapable of wrapping a gift. Ask my children if you don’t believe me. I hate paper adorned with Santa and reindeer, manger scenes with wise men and camels, snowflakes, foil candy cane stripes, and nutcrackers. I trace my aversion to wrapping paper to my early childhood.
I grew up without a Mother. “Ah,” you say. “That explains everything.” Indeed it does.
My Dad had no idea how to buy presents, so beginning when I was in first grade, he drove me to town and handed me the list of names, my own included. I trudged up and down the aisles of the department store, deciding which gift to give various family members. While my peers were snuggled in bed with visions of sugarplums, I was up wrapping gifts, scotch tape tangling my hair, curling ribbon slipping off my scissors, tears of frustration running down my face. Santa Claus? That myth was debunked Christmas morning when the only gifts beneath the tree were the ones I had inexpertly wrapped.
I always dreaded the first day back in school following the Holidays. All my classmates were abuzz with delight, merry with tales of all the gifts Santa had brought them. The year our jaded fourth grade teacher told the class there was no Santa Claus, I nursed a secret smug superiority. I knew better. I was Santa Claus. And I hated it.
Dressing the tree was marginally better. I was the Christmas Tree Tyrant. But I was the only one I got to boss around. I would decorate the branches, stand back and say, “Those lights are too close together. Take some of the blue globes from the right side and shift them to the left, no, up a little, no, down just a bit.” My specialty was the tinsel. I emptied boxes of silver foil icicles, hung them one strand at a time until the entire tree shimmered, twinkling with lights fastened onto the branches in perfect symmetry.
So when I had children of my own, I insisted two things be an integral part of our family Christmas tradition. Santa Claus is alive and well. And I don’t wrap gifts. Oh, I cleverly disguised them. With newspaper, with grocery bags artfully decorated by Crayola, with magazine pages, old calendars, duplicate copies of past due bills. Our presents under the tree didn’t have the traditional, store-shelf look, but the kids said, “That’s our Mom,” and grinned with delight.
My gift to each of you is a heartfelt “Merry Christmas”, wishes for a season filled with abundant joy and love enough to keep you happy throughout the coming year. I send this gift wrapped in newsprint. Santa Sondra
PS: My first place award for the Most Creative Christmas Tree goes to the Burlington Northern and Amtrak people at the station in Havre. This is a “Must See”.
Home Again: Havre Daily News
Sondra Ashton
_____________________________________________________________________________
Christmas Past
One day my phone rang. It was my friend Mary Row with a bizarre request. “Everything you touch turns into a work of art. I’m giving a party and want my house to look perfect. Will you come over and arrange my cashmere throw over the back of my couch? I’ll put on water for tea.” I needed to see her anyway, so I drove around the lake to her house. While she was in the kitchen I tossed the throw haphazardly toward the couch and watched the folds settle. Voila! A vignette of beauty.
What makes my artistic propensities an oddity is that I am constitutionally incapable of wrapping a gift. Ask my children if you don’t believe me. I hate paper adorned with Santa and reindeer, manger scenes with wise men and camels, snowflakes, foil candy cane stripes, and nutcrackers. I trace my aversion to wrapping paper to my early childhood.
I grew up without a Mother. “Ah,” you say. “That explains everything.” Indeed it does.
My Dad had no idea how to buy presents, so beginning when I was in first grade, he drove me to town and handed me the list of names, my own included. I trudged up and down the aisles of the department store, deciding which gift to give various family members. While my peers were snuggled in bed with visions of sugarplums, I was up wrapping gifts, scotch tape tangling my hair, curling ribbon slipping off my scissors, tears of frustration running down my face. Santa Claus? That myth was debunked Christmas morning when the only gifts beneath the tree were the ones I had inexpertly wrapped.
I always dreaded the first day back in school following the Holidays. All my classmates were abuzz with delight, merry with tales of all the gifts Santa had brought them. The year our jaded fourth grade teacher told the class there was no Santa Claus, I nursed a secret smug superiority. I knew better. I was Santa Claus. And I hated it.
Dressing the tree was marginally better. I was the Christmas Tree Tyrant. But I was the only one I got to boss around. I would decorate the branches, stand back and say, “Those lights are too close together. Take some of the blue globes from the right side and shift them to the left, no, up a little, no, down just a bit.” My specialty was the tinsel. I emptied boxes of silver foil icicles, hung them one strand at a time until the entire tree shimmered, twinkling with lights fastened onto the branches in perfect symmetry.
So when I had children of my own, I insisted two things be an integral part of our family Christmas tradition. Santa Claus is alive and well. And I don’t wrap gifts. Oh, I cleverly disguised them. With newspaper, with grocery bags artfully decorated by Crayola, with magazine pages, old calendars, duplicate copies of past due bills. Our presents under the tree didn’t have the traditional, store-shelf look, but the kids said, “That’s our Mom,” and grinned with delight.
My gift to each of you is a heartfelt “Merry Christmas”, wishes for a season filled with abundant joy and love enough to keep you happy throughout the coming year. I send this gift wrapped in newsprint. Santa Sondra
PS: My first place award for the Most Creative Christmas Tree goes to the Burlington Northern and Amtrak people at the station in Havre. This is a “Must See”.
Home Again: Havre Daily News
Sondra Ashton
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Henrietta Pennypacker
This computer nearly went flying through the window!
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Last week I returned home from a three-week trip to western Washington . Three weeks is a long time for me to be away. I looked forward to catching up on all my email. I greeted my house, turned up the heat, checked out my back door to see if the snow drifts were still piled high (affirmative), pulled on my jammies and turned on my computer. It greeted me, welcomed me home, rolled over and died.
I am of the generation to whom a computer is a many splendored thing, a vast incomprehensible mystery, a holder of secrets, and I intend to keep it that way.
My son says, “Oh Mom. It’s just a tool.” Easy for him to say. He is a systems engineer whose life revolves around this mystery of mysteries. In fact, last fall my son gave me a new computer. He told me mine was getting old, but he did not have time to transfer my files right then. He said he’d get to it when he visited next summer. So I now had a new computer which was not programmed to work. I had an old computer which just went belly up. My son, my computer guru, patron saint of the microchips, was 900 miles away. And summer was a distant dream. What was a mother to do!
Reluctantly I realized I would have to go local for this one. After a series of phone calls, I resorted to my tried and true method, the one I use to choose horses at the races: the hat pin. I knew my chances of picking a winner was better than at the tracks. I hovered over the yellow pages and struck. I zeroed in on a firm in Havre. I lugged my two computers to my van and drove.
Enter computer store with first computer. Enter computer store with second computer. The nice young technician at the desk said, “We cannot do anything with this one. It does not have this authorized sticker.” She points to a colorful sticker on the new computer. She points to the naked top of my old computer. She doesn’t even know what I want and she is already telling me it can’t be done. My heart sinks.
I gather my courage. “My son built this computer especially for me,” I explain. “It died. All I want is for you to transfer my files onto the new computer, the one with the authorized sticker.”
She looks at me suspiciously. I have visions of her pushing the button beneath the desk to alert the FBI, the CIA, and the Border Patrol who will convict me of somehow having unauthorized material without the special identifying sticker. I imagine I will spend the rest of my life in a place where I will have no need for a computer.
I resort to my last line of defense: tears. I offer to call my son so he can explain and hopefully post bail, if necessary.
She consults with another nice young technician from the back room. They speak in whispers, peek around the door frame at me, and appear to be snickering. In the end, they agree to accept my contraband. Gratefully, I leave my two computers in their capable hands.
Today I am gleefully getting acquainted with my new computer. She’s a beauty. I expect she and I will have a long and happy relationship. I decide to name her. I never gave a name to my old computer, although a time or two, I called it a name. But that was only under extreme duress. My new computer has the initials “hp” on the front. I lean toward naming her “Henrietta Pennypacker” or maybe “Honey Pie” for short. Whadda ya think?
Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
April 2, 2009
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Last week I returned home from a three-week trip to western Washington . Three weeks is a long time for me to be away. I looked forward to catching up on all my email. I greeted my house, turned up the heat, checked out my back door to see if the snow drifts were still piled high (affirmative), pulled on my jammies and turned on my computer. It greeted me, welcomed me home, rolled over and died.
I am of the generation to whom a computer is a many splendored thing, a vast incomprehensible mystery, a holder of secrets, and I intend to keep it that way.
My son says, “Oh Mom. It’s just a tool.” Easy for him to say. He is a systems engineer whose life revolves around this mystery of mysteries. In fact, last fall my son gave me a new computer. He told me mine was getting old, but he did not have time to transfer my files right then. He said he’d get to it when he visited next summer. So I now had a new computer which was not programmed to work. I had an old computer which just went belly up. My son, my computer guru, patron saint of the microchips, was 900 miles away. And summer was a distant dream. What was a mother to do!
Reluctantly I realized I would have to go local for this one. After a series of phone calls, I resorted to my tried and true method, the one I use to choose horses at the races: the hat pin. I knew my chances of picking a winner was better than at the tracks. I hovered over the yellow pages and struck. I zeroed in on a firm in Havre. I lugged my two computers to my van and drove.
Enter computer store with first computer. Enter computer store with second computer. The nice young technician at the desk said, “We cannot do anything with this one. It does not have this authorized sticker.” She points to a colorful sticker on the new computer. She points to the naked top of my old computer. She doesn’t even know what I want and she is already telling me it can’t be done. My heart sinks.
I gather my courage. “My son built this computer especially for me,” I explain. “It died. All I want is for you to transfer my files onto the new computer, the one with the authorized sticker.”
She looks at me suspiciously. I have visions of her pushing the button beneath the desk to alert the FBI, the CIA, and the Border Patrol who will convict me of somehow having unauthorized material without the special identifying sticker. I imagine I will spend the rest of my life in a place where I will have no need for a computer.
I resort to my last line of defense: tears. I offer to call my son so he can explain and hopefully post bail, if necessary.
She consults with another nice young technician from the back room. They speak in whispers, peek around the door frame at me, and appear to be snickering. In the end, they agree to accept my contraband. Gratefully, I leave my two computers in their capable hands.
Today I am gleefully getting acquainted with my new computer. She’s a beauty. I expect she and I will have a long and happy relationship. I decide to name her. I never gave a name to my old computer, although a time or two, I called it a name. But that was only under extreme duress. My new computer has the initials “hp” on the front. I lean toward naming her “Henrietta Pennypacker” or maybe “Honey Pie” for short. Whadda ya think?
Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
April 2, 2009
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