All I Need Is A Good Book
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My home resembles a library. I am a reader. Books control my life. Books line my shelves in every room. For a long time when I wanted to find a favorite book I found myself wandering from room to room searching the shelves. Finally I organized them by authors’ names. What a monumental job. It took days. Now poetry lives in one corner. Theatre holds forth in another. Fiction authors A through C are in the living room, along with most non-fiction. The rest of my fiction resides in a room dedicated solely to books. I cannot resist a good book. I buy books new. I buy books used. When I accidently purchase a book I already own, I pass it on to a friend. I read for pleasure. I read to learn. I read for the beauty of language.
Typically I kick-start my day with coffee and my current book. In the summer I work in my garden in the cool morning hours. In winter I head for my shop. When I take a break, it is with book in hand. Sometimes I read a page or two—sometimes soar through several chapters. I’m disciplined. I have rules. I don’t read at the dining table. One day while hovering over a page-turner, I discovered my plate was empty but I had no recollection of eating. Also I don’t read in bed. The first book I remember staying up all night to finish while lying in bed was “Gone with the Wind”. So I read in a chair and reserve my bed for sleep. Neither rule is ironclad. I have been known to falter and fail.
If I am not busy I often read a book a day. I read eclectically. Classical literature. Novels. History. Poetry. Physics. Art. Trash. I love it all. Therefore these last three weeks have been unusual. I actually quit reading. Cold turkey. By necessity, not by intention.
Why did I quit reading? I simply over-scheduled my life. Not on purpose. I am a busy person. In these three weeks I had an opportunity to take a financial education workshop. A three-day class reunion immediately followed. Then company arrived on my doorstep. My garden suddenly burgeoned forth with bounty. Strawberries insisted on being picked daily. Raspberries ripened in time for me to take a batch to the reunion. I had a sudden opportunity to take a trip to Washington to visit my grandchildren. The day before I took off, I picked both red and black currants, Saskatoon berries and four more gallons of raspberries. I cleaned them all and bagged them for the freezer to await jelly making on my return. Work projects needed to be finished. So many things to do and I needed to do them all.
Everything seemed to happen at once. Each morning I prepared my to-do list for the day. Each evening I fell exhausted into bed, list unfinished, too tired to read. I pined for my books. The stack next to my reading chair accumulated a thick layer of dust. I a newly arrived box of four books, lingered over the titles, ran my hands over the covers and reluctantly added them to the pile of unread books on my footstool. I prepared a bag of books to take on my trip.
When I arrived at my son’s home in Issaquah I selected the book I most wanted to read next and set in on my bed table. But life is full. We crammed our days and nights with activities. Whenever I glanced at my book I broke into a cold sweat. No time to read. In my sleep I dreamed about reading. Four days later I still had not cracked the cover.
This morning I drove to Marysville to spend a couple days with my daughter and her family. When I walked in the door she hugged me and handed me “Heaven’s Prisoners”, a novel by James Lee Burke, a favorite author of ours. “I can’t start this. It’s a library book. I can’t take it with me. And I’ll only be her two days. How will I finish it?”
“Go ahead, start,” she tempted me. “You’ll not be able to put it down.” She pushed me into a chair. My hands shook. I caressed the cover. I lingered over the title page. I could no longer control myself. I read the first page, then the next and the next. And the next. Doomed. The End.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
August 4, 2011
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Monday, August 15, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
A Weekend at Fort Peck with Friends
Friends and Food
_____________________________________________________________________________________
A Weekend at Fort Peck with Friends
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
We were planning our annual Harlem High Class of ’63 reunion when we got a phone call. Actually we got two. They sounded something like this, “Can some of our class join you this year for your reunion? Your class has more fun.” And that is what led to a blended Class of ’61-’63 Gathering at Ft. Peck . It must be true—we, like blondes, have more fun.
Early Friday afternoon, along with driving rain and golf-ball sized hail, our group pulled into the Buckhorn Lodge at Fort Peck Lake . Some of us beat the stormy winds and black clouds, some rode the deluge in fear and trembling, and others followed behind, assaying the damage in Glasgow . Meanwhile, out at the Buckhorn, it rained a bit, hailed a bit, and the sun beamed until nightfall--true Montana weather.
One thing about our class, we eat well. Every fresh arrival brought more food, enough to pack two refrigerators and crowd the tops of two tables and the kitchen counters.
Friday night dinner came off with barely a hitch, although at times it resembled a fire drill. Jim had volunteered to man the grill, cooking the prime rib brought by Fred, possibly from his own beef. Whenever I glanced out at the back patio, I saw what looked like dinner by committee. Jim, Fred and Jess each had strong opinions about the best way to cook the cow, but true friends, they worked out their differences without resorting to fisticuffs. Once the flash-fire seared (don’t ask) rack of beef was sliced, the chefs plunked a huge chunk of perfection on every plate. Unanimous in our accord, we agreed—this was without doubt the best prime rib we’d ever eaten. The accompanying baked potatoes and pasta salad were perfect, the huckleberry-topped cheesecake divine.
Before and after the meal we played cards, poured over photo albums and school annuals, snacked on salmon, told stories, and soaked up being together while the tunes we had enjoyed in our high school days played in the background. We had come from California , Washington and Oregon ; from Harlem, Chinook, Conrad, Billings and Glasgow . And if you weren’t there, we talked about you.
Saturday morning, after a leisurely breakfast of country sausage, eggs, sourdough waffles and fresh garden raspberries with whipped cream, we waddled out the door and caravanned across the four miles of earth-filled dam. We viewed the lake from the overlook, then we drove on to the spillway where we stood in awe, feeling the sheer power of the rushing water. We went down the hill to the Interpretive Center where we were captivated by the story of the building of the dam. From there we continued on to tour of the fish hatchery. Not wanting to miss a thing, we took in the vintage car show and Art in the Park on the grounds of the old Fort Peck Hotel. I bought a wonderful wooden pink flamingo (I named him Floyd, of course), with a strip of flexible metal for a neck. Floyd now resides in my chokecherry orchard, feeling quite at home.
We wandered back to the Buckhorn to rest, tell more stories, and get ready for a dinner of sautéed shrimp and steak grilled to order. Fat and happy, those who chose went to the Fort Peck Theatre for an absolutely stunning performance of the musical, “ Chicago ”.
Sunday, after sour dough pancakes, so light they floated off the griddle, ham, fruit and gallons of steaming coffee, some of our friends gave us a farewell round of hugs and headed down the trail to home. A few of us went for a ride on the lake in Jim’s boat. When we returned I realized I had sacrificed my favorite best green sweater to the spirits of Fort Peck Lake . I didn’t mean to but I guess the lake wanted it. Those things can happen in a boat.
Stuffed with food and stimulated by our activities, we slept well each night. I know I did. After I arrived home in Harlem , a friend asked me what I liked most about the weekend. That was easy. Friends. Being with friends. Reconnecting, deepening our relationships, strengthening our bonds. I have a rather simple belief—life is about friends. Friendship is what’s important—not houses or cars or money. Not stocks or bonds or clothing or jewelry or awards. Simply friendship.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 28, 2011
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________
A Weekend at Fort Peck with Friends
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
We were planning our annual Harlem High Class of ’63 reunion when we got a phone call. Actually we got two. They sounded something like this, “Can some of our class join you this year for your reunion? Your class has more fun.” And that is what led to a blended Class of ’61-’63 Gathering at Ft. Peck . It must be true—we, like blondes, have more fun.
Early Friday afternoon, along with driving rain and golf-ball sized hail, our group pulled into the Buckhorn Lodge at Fort Peck Lake . Some of us beat the stormy winds and black clouds, some rode the deluge in fear and trembling, and others followed behind, assaying the damage in Glasgow . Meanwhile, out at the Buckhorn, it rained a bit, hailed a bit, and the sun beamed until nightfall--true Montana weather.
One thing about our class, we eat well. Every fresh arrival brought more food, enough to pack two refrigerators and crowd the tops of two tables and the kitchen counters.
Friday night dinner came off with barely a hitch, although at times it resembled a fire drill. Jim had volunteered to man the grill, cooking the prime rib brought by Fred, possibly from his own beef. Whenever I glanced out at the back patio, I saw what looked like dinner by committee. Jim, Fred and Jess each had strong opinions about the best way to cook the cow, but true friends, they worked out their differences without resorting to fisticuffs. Once the flash-fire seared (don’t ask) rack of beef was sliced, the chefs plunked a huge chunk of perfection on every plate. Unanimous in our accord, we agreed—this was without doubt the best prime rib we’d ever eaten. The accompanying baked potatoes and pasta salad were perfect, the huckleberry-topped cheesecake divine.
Before and after the meal we played cards, poured over photo albums and school annuals, snacked on salmon, told stories, and soaked up being together while the tunes we had enjoyed in our high school days played in the background. We had come from California , Washington and Oregon ; from Harlem, Chinook, Conrad, Billings and Glasgow . And if you weren’t there, we talked about you.
Saturday morning, after a leisurely breakfast of country sausage, eggs, sourdough waffles and fresh garden raspberries with whipped cream, we waddled out the door and caravanned across the four miles of earth-filled dam. We viewed the lake from the overlook, then we drove on to the spillway where we stood in awe, feeling the sheer power of the rushing water. We went down the hill to the Interpretive Center where we were captivated by the story of the building of the dam. From there we continued on to tour of the fish hatchery. Not wanting to miss a thing, we took in the vintage car show and Art in the Park on the grounds of the old Fort Peck Hotel. I bought a wonderful wooden pink flamingo (I named him Floyd, of course), with a strip of flexible metal for a neck. Floyd now resides in my chokecherry orchard, feeling quite at home.
We wandered back to the Buckhorn to rest, tell more stories, and get ready for a dinner of sautéed shrimp and steak grilled to order. Fat and happy, those who chose went to the Fort Peck Theatre for an absolutely stunning performance of the musical, “ Chicago ”.
Sunday, after sour dough pancakes, so light they floated off the griddle, ham, fruit and gallons of steaming coffee, some of our friends gave us a farewell round of hugs and headed down the trail to home. A few of us went for a ride on the lake in Jim’s boat. When we returned I realized I had sacrificed my favorite best green sweater to the spirits of Fort Peck Lake . I didn’t mean to but I guess the lake wanted it. Those things can happen in a boat.
Stuffed with food and stimulated by our activities, we slept well each night. I know I did. After I arrived home in Harlem , a friend asked me what I liked most about the weekend. That was easy. Friends. Being with friends. Reconnecting, deepening our relationships, strengthening our bonds. I have a rather simple belief—life is about friends. Friendship is what’s important—not houses or cars or money. Not stocks or bonds or clothing or jewelry or awards. Simply friendship.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 28, 2011
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Who’s That Cat in the Hat?
Out of the closet and onto my head!
Who’s That Cat in the Hat?
________________________________________________________________________________________________
“You know, Sondra, we’re going to take up a collection to buy you a new hat.”
I was drinking coffee with the guys at the city shop.
“I don’t know. I’m used to seeing her in that hat; I think it is who she is.”
“Old and wrinkled?”
“I was thinking ‘eccentric’.”
“Wait,” I protested. “I like this hat. It keeps the sun off my face and stays on my head in the wind.” My straw hat has survived many summers. It is, I admit, a little bit stained, a little bit crumpled. Okay, it looks like it has been stomped on, slept in and dragged through prickly pear. The left brim is rolled tightly. The right brim sports splotches of blue paint. The crown is smashed. The whole thing resembles a warped UFO. “Why, this fine hat is just getting broken in. It’s comfortable, like my favorite pair of Birkenstocks.”
I eyeballed my three friends in their baseball caps. “At least I don’t have hat head,” I said, maliciously.
I love hats. Over the years I have accumulated a modest collection. When I was preparing to move back to my childhood hometown, my sister asked me, “What will you do with all your hats? Women don’t wear hats in Harlem .”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t wear hats. People will stare at you. You’ll feel ridiculous. You’ll see.”
“That’s silly. I’ll wear my hats wherever I feel like it,” I said. My sister just grinned and said, “Uh huh.”
Sure enough, after I had lived here a few months, without realizing it, I had conformed to the prevailing fashion. I often scanned the closet shelves for the right hat to wear, only to close the door, and leave the house bare-headed. My hats sat lonely on the shelves, collecting dust. I bought a couple baseball caps to wear on windy days, but I never wear them.
One day I was gathering clothing and household items for the Salvation Army. I have a loosely held rule that if it hasn’t been used in the past year, it becomes a serious contender for the donation box. I opened my closet and there they sat, abandoned and forlorn. My straw hats, my wool hats, my felt hats, my cloth hats. Silk hats, velvet hats, tapestry hats, fur hats, feather hats. My designer leopard hat. My fiberglass hard hat that an artist friend had made for me. Vintage hats, knit hats, grass hats, winter hats, summer hats. Expensive hats. Hats I made myself. Hats from junk stores. All unworn.
My poor neglected orphaned hats. I took them in arms. I heard the echo of my sister’s voice, “You won’t wear hats in Harlem .” I stared at the visible evidence of my foolish attempt at conformity.
Since that day my hats are out of the closet and on my head. In the summer I often wear my battered favorite straw. In the cold of winter I especially like my fleece-lined hat with ear flaps. This morning I plucked my red straw hat, circa 1960, out of the pile and popped it on my head. I wore it to the post office and I wore it to the grocery. Nobody pointed and snickered. One sweet gentleman smiled, winked and complimented, “Nice hat.”
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 21, 2011
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Who’s That Cat in the Hat?
________________________________________________________________________________________________
“You know, Sondra, we’re going to take up a collection to buy you a new hat.”
I was drinking coffee with the guys at the city shop.
“I don’t know. I’m used to seeing her in that hat; I think it is who she is.”
“Old and wrinkled?”
“I was thinking ‘eccentric’.”
“Wait,” I protested. “I like this hat. It keeps the sun off my face and stays on my head in the wind.” My straw hat has survived many summers. It is, I admit, a little bit stained, a little bit crumpled. Okay, it looks like it has been stomped on, slept in and dragged through prickly pear. The left brim is rolled tightly. The right brim sports splotches of blue paint. The crown is smashed. The whole thing resembles a warped UFO. “Why, this fine hat is just getting broken in. It’s comfortable, like my favorite pair of Birkenstocks.”
I eyeballed my three friends in their baseball caps. “At least I don’t have hat head,” I said, maliciously.
I love hats. Over the years I have accumulated a modest collection. When I was preparing to move back to my childhood hometown, my sister asked me, “What will you do with all your hats? Women don’t wear hats in Harlem .”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t wear hats. People will stare at you. You’ll feel ridiculous. You’ll see.”
“That’s silly. I’ll wear my hats wherever I feel like it,” I said. My sister just grinned and said, “Uh huh.”
Sure enough, after I had lived here a few months, without realizing it, I had conformed to the prevailing fashion. I often scanned the closet shelves for the right hat to wear, only to close the door, and leave the house bare-headed. My hats sat lonely on the shelves, collecting dust. I bought a couple baseball caps to wear on windy days, but I never wear them.
One day I was gathering clothing and household items for the Salvation Army. I have a loosely held rule that if it hasn’t been used in the past year, it becomes a serious contender for the donation box. I opened my closet and there they sat, abandoned and forlorn. My straw hats, my wool hats, my felt hats, my cloth hats. Silk hats, velvet hats, tapestry hats, fur hats, feather hats. My designer leopard hat. My fiberglass hard hat that an artist friend had made for me. Vintage hats, knit hats, grass hats, winter hats, summer hats. Expensive hats. Hats I made myself. Hats from junk stores. All unworn.
My poor neglected orphaned hats. I took them in arms. I heard the echo of my sister’s voice, “You won’t wear hats in Harlem .” I stared at the visible evidence of my foolish attempt at conformity.
Since that day my hats are out of the closet and on my head. In the summer I often wear my battered favorite straw. In the cold of winter I especially like my fleece-lined hat with ear flaps. This morning I plucked my red straw hat, circa 1960, out of the pile and popped it on my head. I wore it to the post office and I wore it to the grocery. Nobody pointed and snickered. One sweet gentleman smiled, winked and complimented, “Nice hat.”
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 21, 2011
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Monday, July 18, 2011
Over the mountains and ’cross the plains, to Grandmother’s house we go
The house feels so empty now she's gone!
Over the mountains and ’cross the plains, to Grandmother’s house we go
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My granddaughter Jessica is visiting this week, her first visit to Grandma’s Montana house and her first train trip. She rode the Empire Builder from Seattle . Jess is eighteen, in love, and planning a wedding.
When Jess was eight she lived with me for two months. Her mother, a Red Cross Emergency specialist, slogged through the pile in New York City counseling rescue workers after the Towers went down. Jess’s best friend Clarisse lived a short run down the path through the woods, so I generally had two girls who kept each other entertained. If it was quiet at my house, they were off terrorizing Clarisse’s little brothers.
One nice thing about my grandchildren is that I am able to have a more relaxed relationship than I had with their parents. Parenting comes with a burdensome weight of responsibility. I have come to believe that we parents suffer the blood, sweat and tears of raising our children so we can have fun with theirs. It means we get to spoil them. It means we let them get away with things we wouldn’t have dreamed of tolerating from their parents. We can sympathize with the little buggers when their parents are being “mean”. “You want me to spank Mommy for you?” I ask. Her little lip quivers. “Yes,” she says. Then we both burst out laughing.
Grandchildren are fun. Last summer I spent three weeks taking care of Lexi, my son’s three-year old. She and I had a great time. Our days usually consisted of a walk to the park, two hours on the swings, numerous snacks, dressing dolls (I dressed them and Lexi undressed them), playing in the sandbox, riding the trike, an hour on the tube with “Dinosaur Train”, unnumbered hours of “The Little Mermaid”, M&M’s whenever she wanted them, and best of all, jumping on Grandma’s bed and reading books. I wouldn’t trade that time for anything. (With my grandkids I can be silly in a way I could not have been with my own children at the time I was raising them.)
I haven’t been able to as spend much alone time with Jess’s sister Toni. Her mother has always been there to spoil the fun. Toni at five, has a lively imagination. When she was born I flew to Japan to spend a month helping her mother take care of her. We took turns walking the floor with Toni bundled in our arms while she made up her mind whether to stay and play or leave us all too soon. Today she is a whirlwind of energy and a budding entomologist.
Before Jess arrived I had planned a week of activities. We haven’t crossed many items off my long list of possibilities. Remember, Jess is eighteen. In my experience, when my own children came of age, teenage, that is, they either vanished or were otherwise vacant. Out with friends. In their room, door closed. On the phone. Down the street. Any activity which did not include Mom.
Mostly Jess and I just hang out. I go about my own business. Jess spends a lot of time in my backyard garden, or playing with the cats, or in her room, apparently quite content. We spent hours at the Sally Ann in Havre one day and then drove to Chinook where we poked around in Goodies Galore for another hour. (Jess and I share a delight in second-hand stores.) We went for ice cream. We hauled groceries home. She worked with me in the shop.
This morning we picked strawberries. She helped me wrap nets around the Saskatoon berries and the currant bushes in hopes of keeping the robins away long enough for me to get a harvest. We sat beneath the poplar trees and watched the clouds move in. This afternoon, if it doesn’t rain too hard, we will drive out Wayne Creek Road and hunt agates and other pretty rocks.
Jess and Marcus plan to be married in October, when he has finished with his Navy schooling. The time apart from him has been hard for her. Once they are married, she will get to go with him, as long as he is stationed Stateside. Meanwhile, she and her beau spend every possible sweet moment on the phone. I wish them the best. I am glad I got to spend this week with her. I’ll miss her when she is gone. I like Marcus. Maybe next year they both will visit Grandma. Great-Grandma? Not for a while, I hope.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 14, 2011
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Over the mountains and ’cross the plains, to Grandmother’s house we go
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My granddaughter Jessica is visiting this week, her first visit to Grandma’s Montana house and her first train trip. She rode the Empire Builder from Seattle . Jess is eighteen, in love, and planning a wedding.
When Jess was eight she lived with me for two months. Her mother, a Red Cross Emergency specialist, slogged through the pile in New York City counseling rescue workers after the Towers went down. Jess’s best friend Clarisse lived a short run down the path through the woods, so I generally had two girls who kept each other entertained. If it was quiet at my house, they were off terrorizing Clarisse’s little brothers.
One nice thing about my grandchildren is that I am able to have a more relaxed relationship than I had with their parents. Parenting comes with a burdensome weight of responsibility. I have come to believe that we parents suffer the blood, sweat and tears of raising our children so we can have fun with theirs. It means we get to spoil them. It means we let them get away with things we wouldn’t have dreamed of tolerating from their parents. We can sympathize with the little buggers when their parents are being “mean”. “You want me to spank Mommy for you?” I ask. Her little lip quivers. “Yes,” she says. Then we both burst out laughing.
Grandchildren are fun. Last summer I spent three weeks taking care of Lexi, my son’s three-year old. She and I had a great time. Our days usually consisted of a walk to the park, two hours on the swings, numerous snacks, dressing dolls (I dressed them and Lexi undressed them), playing in the sandbox, riding the trike, an hour on the tube with “Dinosaur Train”, unnumbered hours of “The Little Mermaid”, M&M’s whenever she wanted them, and best of all, jumping on Grandma’s bed and reading books. I wouldn’t trade that time for anything. (With my grandkids I can be silly in a way I could not have been with my own children at the time I was raising them.)
I haven’t been able to as spend much alone time with Jess’s sister Toni. Her mother has always been there to spoil the fun. Toni at five, has a lively imagination. When she was born I flew to Japan to spend a month helping her mother take care of her. We took turns walking the floor with Toni bundled in our arms while she made up her mind whether to stay and play or leave us all too soon. Today she is a whirlwind of energy and a budding entomologist.
Before Jess arrived I had planned a week of activities. We haven’t crossed many items off my long list of possibilities. Remember, Jess is eighteen. In my experience, when my own children came of age, teenage, that is, they either vanished or were otherwise vacant. Out with friends. In their room, door closed. On the phone. Down the street. Any activity which did not include Mom.
Mostly Jess and I just hang out. I go about my own business. Jess spends a lot of time in my backyard garden, or playing with the cats, or in her room, apparently quite content. We spent hours at the Sally Ann in Havre one day and then drove to Chinook where we poked around in Goodies Galore for another hour. (Jess and I share a delight in second-hand stores.) We went for ice cream. We hauled groceries home. She worked with me in the shop.
This morning we picked strawberries. She helped me wrap nets around the Saskatoon berries and the currant bushes in hopes of keeping the robins away long enough for me to get a harvest. We sat beneath the poplar trees and watched the clouds move in. This afternoon, if it doesn’t rain too hard, we will drive out Wayne Creek Road and hunt agates and other pretty rocks.
Jess and Marcus plan to be married in October, when he has finished with his Navy schooling. The time apart from him has been hard for her. Once they are married, she will get to go with him, as long as he is stationed Stateside. Meanwhile, she and her beau spend every possible sweet moment on the phone. I wish them the best. I am glad I got to spend this week with her. I’ll miss her when she is gone. I like Marcus. Maybe next year they both will visit Grandma. Great-Grandma? Not for a while, I hope.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 14, 2011
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Reach Out and Touch Someone
Reach Out and Touch Someone
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A friend and I were having lunch. “Listen, I’ve got to show you this.” From his pocket he extracted a slim rectangle, about the size of five credit cards clumped together. “My new smart phone,” he bragged. “I’ve joined the brave new world of multiple communications. I can know immediately what goes on anywhere in the world. Let me show you the things it can do. The only thing I haven’t figured out is how to get it to serve me breakfast in bed.”
“With your job that makes sense. But I’m not that important,” I offered. “My cell phone is the dumbest one I could find. I think it takes pictures but I’ve never tried. I only use it when I travel. Most of the time it is stashed in the cup holder of my van, turned off. When I need it, I turn it on.”
The first phone I remember, an oak box which hung on our kitchen wall, looked to my young eyes like a bug-eyed face. The “nose” was actually the mouthpiece and the two bulging shiny “eyes” formed the ringer. When you needed to make a call, you turned a handle on the right side of the box to alert the operator at the switchboard so she could put it through for you. The ear piece hung on a hook on the other side. You removed it from the hook, held it to your ear and spoke into the “nose”. We, like most rural people, were on a party line. Our ring was two longs and one short. Everybody back then thought they had to yell into the phone to be heard.
The party line had its own unwritten rules of etiquette. There were eight families on our line. The rings for each neighbor sounded in every home. We knew who was getting a call but did not dare listen in. Not often, anyway. (There was one woman on the line who listened to everything.) I remember once picking up the phone very slowly, very carefully, not breathing. I thought Charlotte might be on the line with her boyfriend. I must not have been careful enough. Her mother barked at me to hang up. My face burned bright red with shame. My worst crime was doing homework by phone. I did Jerry’s English and he did my Algebra. Sometimes we hogged the phone for an hour. But if we heard a clicking we knew somebody needed the line and we hung up.
Our next phone was a modern desk style made of Bakelite. We had a choice of colors, black or black. Its innards were built to work forever. To make a call, you had to stick your finger into a round hole and manually twirl the dial around the circle. Each finger slot in the circle had its own number with corresponding letters. My Dad still thought he had to yell into the phone.
Today’s new phones certainly are a marvel. One can twitter and tweet. Surf the net. Read a book. Watch a movie. Make a video. Txt msg. Send and receive email. Balance your checking account. Work up a power point presentation. And on rare occasions, speak with another human, voice to voice.
For many people, cell phones have become their only phone. Out here in isolated Gopher Prairie, where we still holler over the back fence, we have spotty cell phone service, so I am not ready to give up my land line. However, in the last few years service has improved. I no longer have to go outside and climb onto my roof to use my cell phone.
New-fangled phones certainly have created a mess of controversy. Take the current hot issue of driving while using a cell phone. I don’t dare do it. When I am on the phone with a friend, I have a tendency to go to a place deep within, to focus on our conversation. Lord knows what would happen if I were trying to maneuver through traffic at the same time. Imagine the carnage I could cause. It is not a good idea for me to multi-task while moving down the road.
With all the brilliant advances in communication gadgets, I wonder if we have truly improved our ability to communicate with one another. We have such a variety of ways to get in touch that we rarely need to speak. I can now have new on-line “friends” scattered around the world, whom I will never meet. I can’t figure out how people find the time to feed these friendships. As for myself, I like to call my friends and arrange to meet for lunch so we can talk across the soup and sandwiches, face to face, catching every nuance of expression, every twinkle of eye.
Meanwhile, your call is important to me. Your waiting time is approximately six hours and eighteen minutes. Please enjoy the music while your party is being reached.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 7, 2011
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A friend and I were having lunch. “Listen, I’ve got to show you this.” From his pocket he extracted a slim rectangle, about the size of five credit cards clumped together. “My new smart phone,” he bragged. “I’ve joined the brave new world of multiple communications. I can know immediately what goes on anywhere in the world. Let me show you the things it can do. The only thing I haven’t figured out is how to get it to serve me breakfast in bed.”
“With your job that makes sense. But I’m not that important,” I offered. “My cell phone is the dumbest one I could find. I think it takes pictures but I’ve never tried. I only use it when I travel. Most of the time it is stashed in the cup holder of my van, turned off. When I need it, I turn it on.”
The first phone I remember, an oak box which hung on our kitchen wall, looked to my young eyes like a bug-eyed face. The “nose” was actually the mouthpiece and the two bulging shiny “eyes” formed the ringer. When you needed to make a call, you turned a handle on the right side of the box to alert the operator at the switchboard so she could put it through for you. The ear piece hung on a hook on the other side. You removed it from the hook, held it to your ear and spoke into the “nose”. We, like most rural people, were on a party line. Our ring was two longs and one short. Everybody back then thought they had to yell into the phone to be heard.
The party line had its own unwritten rules of etiquette. There were eight families on our line. The rings for each neighbor sounded in every home. We knew who was getting a call but did not dare listen in. Not often, anyway. (There was one woman on the line who listened to everything.) I remember once picking up the phone very slowly, very carefully, not breathing. I thought Charlotte might be on the line with her boyfriend. I must not have been careful enough. Her mother barked at me to hang up. My face burned bright red with shame. My worst crime was doing homework by phone. I did Jerry’s English and he did my Algebra. Sometimes we hogged the phone for an hour. But if we heard a clicking we knew somebody needed the line and we hung up.
Our next phone was a modern desk style made of Bakelite. We had a choice of colors, black or black. Its innards were built to work forever. To make a call, you had to stick your finger into a round hole and manually twirl the dial around the circle. Each finger slot in the circle had its own number with corresponding letters. My Dad still thought he had to yell into the phone.
Today’s new phones certainly are a marvel. One can twitter and tweet. Surf the net. Read a book. Watch a movie. Make a video. Txt msg. Send and receive email. Balance your checking account. Work up a power point presentation. And on rare occasions, speak with another human, voice to voice.
For many people, cell phones have become their only phone. Out here in isolated Gopher Prairie, where we still holler over the back fence, we have spotty cell phone service, so I am not ready to give up my land line. However, in the last few years service has improved. I no longer have to go outside and climb onto my roof to use my cell phone.
New-fangled phones certainly have created a mess of controversy. Take the current hot issue of driving while using a cell phone. I don’t dare do it. When I am on the phone with a friend, I have a tendency to go to a place deep within, to focus on our conversation. Lord knows what would happen if I were trying to maneuver through traffic at the same time. Imagine the carnage I could cause. It is not a good idea for me to multi-task while moving down the road.
With all the brilliant advances in communication gadgets, I wonder if we have truly improved our ability to communicate with one another. We have such a variety of ways to get in touch that we rarely need to speak. I can now have new on-line “friends” scattered around the world, whom I will never meet. I can’t figure out how people find the time to feed these friendships. As for myself, I like to call my friends and arrange to meet for lunch so we can talk across the soup and sandwiches, face to face, catching every nuance of expression, every twinkle of eye.
Meanwhile, your call is important to me. Your waiting time is approximately six hours and eighteen minutes. Please enjoy the music while your party is being reached.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 7, 2011
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Where the Grass is Greener
It always looks greener and lusher and higher on the other side of the fence.
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Where the Grass is Greener
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“This morning I outwitted the robins and picked a bowl of strawberries for breakfast.” I giggled. “I sliced each juicy ruby globe, sprinkled them lightly with sugar, poured on a drizzle of heavy cream and holding each bite on my tongue before swallowing, I savored every morsel.” My listeners groaned with envy.
We six women, whose strongest bond is our shared experience of growing up in Harlem , were nattering about our yards and gardens. Depending on where we lived, we grumbled over the late spring, the over-abundant rain, the prolific weeds or the overwhelming heat.
Montana Karen, our master gardener from Floweree, said her strawberries were still green. Ellie, who divides her time between Turlock and Pleasanton in California , raises flowers but buys her luscious strawberries year-round from local market stands. Denise in Laurier, Washington and Cheryl in Tillamook, Oregon both garden but neither raises strawberries. England Karen gardens in pots on a tiled patio in Oswaldtwistle, Lancashire . Unlike our mothers and grandmothers who gardened from duty, we garden from love.
“How I miss having a garden with flower beds and vegetables lined up in rows,” mourned England Karen, formerly from Hardin where she taught school for twenty-five years. “I had lilac bushes from my Dad’s lilacs in Harlem and a round rose garden in the back yard. When I moved to England I didn’t mind selling the house but I hated selling the yard.”
“I feel the same way. I could let my house go, but the dirt is in my soul,” I said. The girls laughed. Ellie replied, “Sondra, you won’t move. You have such a passion for your home. You’re where you are supposed to be.”
“That may be,” I replied. “But it took me a while to love this place. I’ll never forget the day my family moved here from the rolling hills of the Ohio River country in southern Indiana . We left on April Fools Day. I was ten years old, a week away from eleven. The spring flowers were blooming, daffys and tulips and violets and lilacs. The air was balmy.
“On April third we drove into Harlem . Remember how the road used to come straight through town from the east? The highway was the only paved street. The first building I saw was the squat old potato cellar, half buried in the ground, snow piled to the eaves. Rotten snow, blasted with dirt by the ever-present wind lay brown and ugly in every corner. People on the streets in their parkas with hoods, black rubber boots and fleece-lined mitts huddled against the wind.
“Every surface was rimed with ice, piled with snow or wind-scoured down to rock. The Milk River creaked and cracked as it broke up, shooting blocks of ice twenty feet into the air. I was terrified. In school, I thought my classmates loud, rough and bold. When summer finally came I was new blood for the mosquitoes. I hated this place. I thought I had landed in a Siberian gulag. I catalogued every flaw, made continuous comparisons to the wonderland I had left behind. Every night I cried myself to sleep.”
“So what broke the evil spell?” asked Denise.
“Our second summer, the day after school was out, Dad sent my sister, Grandma and me, back to Indiana for a vacation. He thought we’d be gone a couple weeks. However, we didn’t return until the day before school started. It was a long summer for my Dad.
“The funny thing though, it was like getting a new pair of glasses. Our old house was gone, torn down by the young couple who had bought the place, leveled the fields, filled in the sinkhole in the woods and built a brick house up the hill where our barn used to be. The air was so humid, I felt like I was breathing underwater. My grade school crush, Dickie Knear, had erupted in pimples. My girlfriends were glad to see me, but they all had moved on with their lives. The old brick school building in Elizabeth stood empty, abandoned for the new modern consolidated school out in the country. Nothing looked the way I remembered it.
“When I returned, I had grown into a new perspective. I was happy to be back. I was excited to start school the next day. I was eager to be with my friends. Montana was my home and it was beautiful.”
“It’s a good thing we are not the grass is greener on the other side of the fence people,” said Cheryl. “It sounds like we are all blooming where we are planted and planted where we are blooming.”
Several times a day I tour my yard, talk encouragingly to my new rosebush, lament that the late frost ravaged what would have been my first crop of sand cherries, cheer on the currants. I stoop to pluck a tender thistle. I check the potatoes emerging through the heavy mulch. I smile out loud, proud of the work I’ve done, dazzled by the beauty. Home.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 30, 2011
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Where the Grass is Greener
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
“This morning I outwitted the robins and picked a bowl of strawberries for breakfast.” I giggled. “I sliced each juicy ruby globe, sprinkled them lightly with sugar, poured on a drizzle of heavy cream and holding each bite on my tongue before swallowing, I savored every morsel.” My listeners groaned with envy.
We six women, whose strongest bond is our shared experience of growing up in Harlem , were nattering about our yards and gardens. Depending on where we lived, we grumbled over the late spring, the over-abundant rain, the prolific weeds or the overwhelming heat.
Montana Karen, our master gardener from Floweree, said her strawberries were still green. Ellie, who divides her time between Turlock and Pleasanton in California , raises flowers but buys her luscious strawberries year-round from local market stands. Denise in Laurier, Washington and Cheryl in Tillamook, Oregon both garden but neither raises strawberries. England Karen gardens in pots on a tiled patio in Oswaldtwistle, Lancashire . Unlike our mothers and grandmothers who gardened from duty, we garden from love.
“How I miss having a garden with flower beds and vegetables lined up in rows,” mourned England Karen, formerly from Hardin where she taught school for twenty-five years. “I had lilac bushes from my Dad’s lilacs in Harlem and a round rose garden in the back yard. When I moved to England I didn’t mind selling the house but I hated selling the yard.”
“I feel the same way. I could let my house go, but the dirt is in my soul,” I said. The girls laughed. Ellie replied, “Sondra, you won’t move. You have such a passion for your home. You’re where you are supposed to be.”
“That may be,” I replied. “But it took me a while to love this place. I’ll never forget the day my family moved here from the rolling hills of the Ohio River country in southern Indiana . We left on April Fools Day. I was ten years old, a week away from eleven. The spring flowers were blooming, daffys and tulips and violets and lilacs. The air was balmy.
“On April third we drove into Harlem . Remember how the road used to come straight through town from the east? The highway was the only paved street. The first building I saw was the squat old potato cellar, half buried in the ground, snow piled to the eaves. Rotten snow, blasted with dirt by the ever-present wind lay brown and ugly in every corner. People on the streets in their parkas with hoods, black rubber boots and fleece-lined mitts huddled against the wind.
“Every surface was rimed with ice, piled with snow or wind-scoured down to rock. The Milk River creaked and cracked as it broke up, shooting blocks of ice twenty feet into the air. I was terrified. In school, I thought my classmates loud, rough and bold. When summer finally came I was new blood for the mosquitoes. I hated this place. I thought I had landed in a Siberian gulag. I catalogued every flaw, made continuous comparisons to the wonderland I had left behind. Every night I cried myself to sleep.”
“So what broke the evil spell?” asked Denise.
“Our second summer, the day after school was out, Dad sent my sister, Grandma and me, back to Indiana for a vacation. He thought we’d be gone a couple weeks. However, we didn’t return until the day before school started. It was a long summer for my Dad.
“The funny thing though, it was like getting a new pair of glasses. Our old house was gone, torn down by the young couple who had bought the place, leveled the fields, filled in the sinkhole in the woods and built a brick house up the hill where our barn used to be. The air was so humid, I felt like I was breathing underwater. My grade school crush, Dickie Knear, had erupted in pimples. My girlfriends were glad to see me, but they all had moved on with their lives. The old brick school building in Elizabeth stood empty, abandoned for the new modern consolidated school out in the country. Nothing looked the way I remembered it.
“When I returned, I had grown into a new perspective. I was happy to be back. I was excited to start school the next day. I was eager to be with my friends. Montana was my home and it was beautiful.”
“It’s a good thing we are not the grass is greener on the other side of the fence people,” said Cheryl. “It sounds like we are all blooming where we are planted and planted where we are blooming.”
Several times a day I tour my yard, talk encouragingly to my new rosebush, lament that the late frost ravaged what would have been my first crop of sand cherries, cheer on the currants. I stoop to pluck a tender thistle. I check the potatoes emerging through the heavy mulch. I smile out loud, proud of the work I’ve done, dazzled by the beauty. Home.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 30, 2011
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Friday, June 24, 2011
The Mythical Queendom of Mine
I shall sparkle!
The Mythical Queendom of Mine
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With all the media foo-foo-rah about folks of every ilk declaring themselves independent of government’s nasty interference, protesting their individual rights and seeking personal sovereignty with the aid of jeeps, machine guns, stashes of ammo and thousands of acres of wilderness playground (set aside by the federal government), I figure it is time to stand up and be counted. I hereby join the sovereignty movement.
For years I have hankered to be a benevolent despot. Therefore, I declare myself Queen of the Queendom of the Sovereign State of Mine. I tossed around a variety of fanciful names for this country I rule, but like my granddaughter surveying her space, I decided “Mine” says it most succinctly. Though my country encompasses a mere two city lots, it is all Mine. My Queendom is small, until it is time to weed in which case it grows exponentially, but ruling it should be relatively simple.
I now have been Queen for approximately five minutes. Nobody has come to challenge my title, to knock me off my throne. Therefore I shall appoint a committee to arrange the ceremony for my coronation. This extravaganza shall include parades, fireworks, a state dinner, balloons, flowers in profusion, red carpets, speeches, accolades, a throne, ladies in waiting, ministers to do my will, visiting heads of state, trolls, magicians, gypsies and a fool. And cake. I shall be bedecked and beribboned in a matchless gown and robe, created by me to reflect my impeccable taste. I shall wear an exquisite crown crusted with the finest jewels. I shall sparkle.
My first order of business will be to write my declaration of independence, construct a constitution and adopt a bill of rights. I’ll appoint a committee of my ministers for each of these mundane governmental-sorts of jobs. Each committee will study similar documents from other sovereign nations (why re-invent the wheel?), pencil in proposed changes, argue over details, order take-out pizza and then table each item to be deliberated afresh at the next meeting.
I have been pondering the design of a flag to fly majestically over my Queendom. What do you think about a cottonwood tree (green leaves) covered with balloons (all bright colors) against a sky (blue with white puffy clouds) and with a ribbon beneath (red) bearing the words “Another Beautiful Day in Paradise ”? And I must have a national anthem, something that reflects my free spirit, perhaps “Fat Bottomed Girls (make the rockin’ world go ‘round)” by the musical group, Queen.
I will need a royal seal for my documents of state. Something large, embossed, official looking with incomprehensible words. I must have a collection of stamps for mailing letters and packages. My mail box out front will serve as the royal post office.
In my country there will be two times, daytime and nighttime, thus simplifying the royal clock, the design of which is evocative of the traditional yin and yang. I decree there will be one season—temperate. My court wizards will see to the details. National holidays will be comprised of my birthday, my children’s birthdays and your birthday. If anybody protests my decrees, let them eat cake.
I must not forget the royal license plate on my royal truck, personalized with my royal likeness, of course. Wait, wait! I had a thought! If I have license plates, does that mean there must be rules for the use thereof, such as “must be attached to the front or back bumper of vehicle”? If there are rules, rules must be enforced. I would need enforcers. And if there are police, it follows there must be judges and jails and punishments. Eww. In my Queendom, I don’t want punishments, I only want rewards. Table that. I’ll figure it out later.
Oh, the untold problems! If my Queendom must have all the above, then how do I pay for such a bureaucracy? Taxes! Ewww. Even more bureaucracy. If I institute taxes, then there will be an uprising followed by revolution. I’ll be beheaded. Skip taxes. We’ll work on that issue later too. Meanwhile, charge it.
Now that I have declared myself a sovereign nation, I must negotiate treaties with my neighbors, the City of Harlem , County of Blaine , State of Montana , the Province of Saskatchewan , et al. What if citizens of these entities, seeking to avoid prohibitive restrictions in their own countries, flee to my benevolent Queendom? I’ll be flooded with refugees. I’ll have displaced persons camps in my backyard. How will I feed them? How will I house them? Oh, the multiplicity of problems!
I’ve got it! I’ll apply for foreign aid!
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 23, 2011
__________________________________________________________________________________________
The Mythical Queendom of Mine
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
With all the media foo-foo-rah about folks of every ilk declaring themselves independent of government’s nasty interference, protesting their individual rights and seeking personal sovereignty with the aid of jeeps, machine guns, stashes of ammo and thousands of acres of wilderness playground (set aside by the federal government), I figure it is time to stand up and be counted. I hereby join the sovereignty movement.
For years I have hankered to be a benevolent despot. Therefore, I declare myself Queen of the Queendom of the Sovereign State of Mine. I tossed around a variety of fanciful names for this country I rule, but like my granddaughter surveying her space, I decided “Mine” says it most succinctly. Though my country encompasses a mere two city lots, it is all Mine. My Queendom is small, until it is time to weed in which case it grows exponentially, but ruling it should be relatively simple.
I now have been Queen for approximately five minutes. Nobody has come to challenge my title, to knock me off my throne. Therefore I shall appoint a committee to arrange the ceremony for my coronation. This extravaganza shall include parades, fireworks, a state dinner, balloons, flowers in profusion, red carpets, speeches, accolades, a throne, ladies in waiting, ministers to do my will, visiting heads of state, trolls, magicians, gypsies and a fool. And cake. I shall be bedecked and beribboned in a matchless gown and robe, created by me to reflect my impeccable taste. I shall wear an exquisite crown crusted with the finest jewels. I shall sparkle.
My first order of business will be to write my declaration of independence, construct a constitution and adopt a bill of rights. I’ll appoint a committee of my ministers for each of these mundane governmental-sorts of jobs. Each committee will study similar documents from other sovereign nations (why re-invent the wheel?), pencil in proposed changes, argue over details, order take-out pizza and then table each item to be deliberated afresh at the next meeting.
I have been pondering the design of a flag to fly majestically over my Queendom. What do you think about a cottonwood tree (green leaves) covered with balloons (all bright colors) against a sky (blue with white puffy clouds) and with a ribbon beneath (red) bearing the words “Another Beautiful Day in Paradise ”? And I must have a national anthem, something that reflects my free spirit, perhaps “Fat Bottomed Girls (make the rockin’ world go ‘round)” by the musical group, Queen.
I will need a royal seal for my documents of state. Something large, embossed, official looking with incomprehensible words. I must have a collection of stamps for mailing letters and packages. My mail box out front will serve as the royal post office.
In my country there will be two times, daytime and nighttime, thus simplifying the royal clock, the design of which is evocative of the traditional yin and yang. I decree there will be one season—temperate. My court wizards will see to the details. National holidays will be comprised of my birthday, my children’s birthdays and your birthday. If anybody protests my decrees, let them eat cake.
I must not forget the royal license plate on my royal truck, personalized with my royal likeness, of course. Wait, wait! I had a thought! If I have license plates, does that mean there must be rules for the use thereof, such as “must be attached to the front or back bumper of vehicle”? If there are rules, rules must be enforced. I would need enforcers. And if there are police, it follows there must be judges and jails and punishments. Eww. In my Queendom, I don’t want punishments, I only want rewards. Table that. I’ll figure it out later.
Oh, the untold problems! If my Queendom must have all the above, then how do I pay for such a bureaucracy? Taxes! Ewww. Even more bureaucracy. If I institute taxes, then there will be an uprising followed by revolution. I’ll be beheaded. Skip taxes. We’ll work on that issue later too. Meanwhile, charge it.
Now that I have declared myself a sovereign nation, I must negotiate treaties with my neighbors, the City of Harlem , County of Blaine , State of Montana , the Province of Saskatchewan , et al. What if citizens of these entities, seeking to avoid prohibitive restrictions in their own countries, flee to my benevolent Queendom? I’ll be flooded with refugees. I’ll have displaced persons camps in my backyard. How will I feed them? How will I house them? Oh, the multiplicity of problems!
I’ve got it! I’ll apply for foreign aid!
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 23, 2011
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