I Hope My Poinsettia Is Still Alive

            I Hope My Poinsettia Is Still Alive

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            The day before I left Mexico I bought a poinsettia, my Christmas “bush”. I expected to celebrate Christmas in Mazatlan.

            I certainly never anticipated Christmas in Glendive, Montana. I certainly never expected to sleep so many nights at a hotel that I began to call it “home”. But when my daughter called for help, I took the next plane out of Mazatlan.

            I certainly never expected to shiver and quake with cold several times a day while waiting for my car heater to warm me enough for me to quit huddling into myself. Ah, Montana winter.

            All work and no play is not my way. My favorite dips into community fun have been the two Christmas Pageants, the Deer Creek School play and my family’s church presentation, starring, of course, my granddaughter. I am as delusional as all the other grandparents who think their precious little grandchild starred.

            The first Christmas event was a play having something to do with a Christmas road trip. All aboard “Uncle Nick’s” magic school bus—constructed of yellow cardboard. The cast included the entire country school of twenty students, kindergarten through eighth grade. They experienced Christmas festivities in Florida, California, New York City, New Orleans and Texas. Texas?

            Uncle Nick, of course, was Saint Nicholas, Santa Clause. At the beginning of the trip he was rather tall and thin and tugged at his chin hoping for whiskers. Somewhere along the road he morphed into a stout individual with a full set of glistening white facial fuzz which refused to stay in place. Being practical, he discarded the whiskers. I predict he will go far.

            My granddaughter as Carmen Miranda shed grapes from her straw hat and didn’t quite know what to do with her pink flamingo. Who would? With others she danced the fandango, a sort of jitterbug, sang the blues, kicked her heels with the “Rockettes” and danced the Texas Two-Step. Texas?

            The performance was dysfunctional beginning to end. I enjoyed every moment.

            But the absolute best Pageant was the traditional trip from the back of the church up the aisle to the manger in Bethlehem. Antoinette, draped in swatches of blue fabric and scarves, followed “Joseph” up the aisle to take her place as “Mary”, serenely seated by the baby in its crib.

            Next came three shepherds, identifiable by the crooks on their staffs. All the, er, men wore the requisite bathrobes and appropriate headgear. We all know the story.

            For some reason, the angels followed on the heels of the shepherds. I thought the angles preceded the shepherds. The order—or disorder—might have been caused by costume malfunctions. Angels have wings and halos and more drapery than a showroom.

            A couple little angels had difficulty dressing. I sat in the last pew so I was privy to a backstage drama.  In fact, one little angel-in-training refused her wings, refused to follow angelically to adore the Babe. She preferred her mother’s lap to stage and stardom.

            But the angel who stole the show was a mid-sized fireball, also sans wings. This reluctant angel stood in place throughout all the readings frowning. She seemed a tad rebellious for an angel. From time to time she made furious arm gestures, swishing her white robes while giving the entire congregation the stink eye. I predict a future in politics.

            Finally two kinds arrived, attired in bathrobes, crowned with foil. Two kings? One carried a flask of myrrh and the other a box of gold. There were lots of verses read, lots of songs sung. The king carrying the gold brought the box close to his face, opened the lid, and surreptitiously stuffed something into his mouth, more than once. Chocolate?

            My Christmas gifts included two pageants, below zero weather, snow, wind and family. This time next week I will be home in Mazatlan. I surely hope my poinsettia is alive.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 24, 2015

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Up, Up And Away

                                                Up, Up And Away

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            My daughter made arrangements to fly me to Montana so I could attend a family memorial last week. The previous week Dee Dee had undergone total knee replacement (it seems to run in the family).

            So blame her medications. Four airplanes? Count them: Mazatlan to Mexico City. Mexico City to Houston. Houston to Denver. Denver to Billings.

            Under the best circumstances modern air travel is no fun. A strait jacket might be more comfortable than the crowded airplane seats which effectively immobilize one.

            Nevertheless, I was fortunate to get a flight on such short notice. Within hours of my ticket confirmation and with a 4 a.m. start, I was yawning at the sleepy little airport in Mazatlan. Up, up and away, over the mountains to the huge Mexico City airport complex.

            Naturally I landed and departed a terminals at opposite ends of the airport. I think it is a flight law. I took a bus and a train, went through security again, to make my connection.

            At Houston I made it through customs, through baggage claim and through security the third time, onto a shuttle which deposited me at my departure gate. Oops—my plane was an hour and a half late due to a mechanical problem.

            That was not music to my ears. That meant I would miss my connection in Denver to Billings.  None of this would have been a big deal had not my emotional state made it so.I was on my way to a family funeral. Let’s just say I was lightly strung together.

            The nice man driving the shuttle cart stopped at a customer service booth to see if there was another flight I might take. He then whipped me down the concourse to a gate, seemed a mile away, where a flight was in final stages of boarding. I went to the counter and asked if I might make this flight. With a negative shake of her head, the attendant told me there were nineteen people on stand-by.

            My heart sank. I knew I’d never make it. So I hobbled down to the nearest restroom, then back to another customer service booth to ask for help to take me back to my original gate, while trying gamely to console myself to the reality of an overnight in Denver.

            Over the speaker I heard “Ashton”, my name. Oh, I thought, someone here is an Ashton. I scanned the crowd, recognized no familiar face. Lightly strung, remember.

            My name was called a second time. The third time I realized she might mean me. I almost ran across to the ticket counter, breathless, “My name is Ashton.”

            “Sondra Jean?” “Yes, that’s me.” “Do you want on this flight?” “Yes.” “You’re the last one to board. Seat 38-B.” I had mis-understood. That nice shuttle driver had put my name on stand-by. Barely strung together.

            38-B was the center seat in the last row, a row crammed into a space in which no adult human should have to pretzel his body. The nicest gentleman in the world saw the look of anguish on my face and gave me his aisle seat in 34. Unstrung. Who says there are no angels?

            In Denver I made my connection to Billings, knowing my luggage would spend the night in Denver. I figured getting me to Billings was more important. Luggage would follow. It did.

            Today my daughter bought my return ticket. In five minutes the pleasant customer service woman in India arranged an easy flight home, at civilized times of the day.

            “That was too easy.” “Aren’t they under contract to cause a trauma level of eight on a ten scale?” “She’ll probably lose her job.” “There will be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.” “But then she’ll get a better job.” “After months of searching.” “Yes, customer service at The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 17, 2015

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The Inevitability Of Life

                                                The Inevitability Of Life

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            This morning I sat waiting in the pulmonia outside the Mercado in Historico Old Town Mazatlan. The streets swarmed with carts, buses, autos, pedestrians, bicycles. I squinched my eyes and reduced the sights to kaleidoscopic colors, brilliant in the sun. I could smell meats on the grills across the street, guavas and oranges from the cart behind me. Shouts of vendors, of laughter; voices conversing in several languages filled my ears. Tears for no reason ran down my cheeks.

            I returned home, stowed my purchases and opened an email from my daughter. “Mom, I just want you to know I love you. Dad passed away about thirty minutes ago. He wasn’t in any pain. He went peacefully.” She ended with, “Dad is at peace now. I love you.”

            No, I have no psychic “gift”, if gift is what it is. Premonition, maybe. Harvey had returned to Glendive from the VA Hospital in Helena. He was in Hospice care. We knew he’d go soon. He was on my mind.

            Most folks on the High Line knew Harvey or had met him at one time or another in his life. He was a cowboy, a story-teller and an artist.

            He and I were married ten years, shared some good times, some rough patches. We had a son who didn’t live and our daughter, Dee Dee. She moved to Glendive to be near him his last years. When I read Dee’s note, I cried my second tears of the day.

            I don’t know much, I’m not wise, but I believe we never stop loving somebody who was once an important part of our life. We don’t turn feelings on and off like a faucet.  Despite our differences, most of which didn’t matter in the long run, a residual love lingered for that person with whom I had once fallen in love. My heart goes out to Harvey’s wife Pam, to the children they adopted and, of course, to our daughter, Dee Dee.

Dee Dee is not her real name but Harvey had Deborah Diane nick-named and on a horse before we ever left the hospital. “Old Indian trick,” he’d say.

            His last couple of years were not easy, were fraught with illness. I’m glad Harvey is at peace.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 10, 2015

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Blowing In The Wind

                                                            Blowing In The Wind

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            This morning a rainbow arched over Bird Island and plunged into the rocks at the southern edge, the most intense rainbow I’ve seen in years. I sat at the window-wall in our 21^st floor suite at the resort and watched for half an hour, just watched the rainbow. Eventually the rainbow extended a perfect reflection onto the Pacific mirror, creating a three-quarter circle.

            Sandra, the current hurricane of our prolific Pacific series, huffed and puffed off the coast earlier this week. We in Mazatlan yawned with complacency. Every other storm, in this summer of hurricanes, landed either north or south or fizzled out mid-ocean. The long arm of Baja protects this part of the Mexican coast.

            Sandra romped through the numbers to a Category 4 Hurricane and back down again to a blow-hard tropical storm when she hit mainland, dead center at Mazatlan. She wasn’t supposed to do that, fickle woman.

            Kathy and I stockpiled water and kept our passports handy in case of an evacuation order but we were never in danger. A little wind, a fair rain, and Sandra fizzled into the hills. The worst effect for us two vacationing women was having no beach time. This is day five of no beach and the first day the resort has taken down the barriers denying guests beach access.

            The waters are dangerous with under-toads and extremely strong back wash. A handful of invincible young people, fueled with joy juice, venture into the foam, only to be whistled back to land by the life guards.

            Yesterday a school of large fish were feeding a few hundred yards off the beach. Today hundreds of manta rays roil the water in a frenzy, right up to the edge of the surf. We watch from above. Manta rays are huge, from five and a half to seven meters across. It is a rare treat to see one. This feast for our eyes is a direct result of the hurricane bringing deep water species into shore.

            On my first vacation in Mazatlan, Elias, a parasail beach vendor, dubbed me “Mexican Sandra”, given the Spanish pronunciation of my English-origin name. He said Sandra is a Spanish name. This bit only marginally relates to the hurricane, to explain that I felt like we shared both name and characteristics of being quick to action but easily gentled.

            Even at high tide the water separating the mainland and Bird Island is shallow. From above this morning the sea is tropical turquoise. The rocks I know to be there leave dark patches of shadow. In very low tides, the rocks are above water. We haven’t seen these rocks in three or four years.  Low tides have ventured elsewhere, maybe on holiday in India.

            Though sitting on the beach under the palapa is not an option, there is plenty to keep us entertained. This morning, along with sight-seeing the rainbow and manta rays, we watched runners in the Gran Maraton Pacifico, an annual event since 1999.  The Mazatlan race is now rated among the top ten in the world and is limited to twelve thousand contenders. It is joy to watch both athletes and ordinary runners, even people like you and me. The participants rolling wheel chairs, others shambling on crutches, blind runners led by companions, all bring tears to my eyes. We clap and shout encouragement from our vantage point on an overhead bridge.

            Tonight we returned from a jaunt to Cerritos Point where we selected a corvine fresh from the ocean. In half an hour our fish was plunked between us, tail hanging over the platter, on a bed of lettuce, surrounded by tomatoes, cucumber slices, limes and salsa, served with a pile of tortillas. It doesn’t get any better than this. We watched the sunset and returned home full, tired and covered with grit of sand and salt.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 3, 2015

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True Confessions Amidst A Fiesta of Friends

                                                True Confessions Amidst A Fiesta of Friends

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            When I was eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen I wanted to join a cloistered order of nuns. It was either a good thing or too bad that any order where I could have boarded for school and preparation was out of reach. By fifteen, latent puberty had taken over my mind and emotions. I was rather backward. In those days it meant something special if I said, “He looked at me.”

            In a modified way I got my wish when I moved to Mexico. I live in a small casita by myself. In the months when the snowbirds from the States have flown back home I go days without speaking a word of English. Or at least any word that is understood. My solitude is good. I enjoy my time of quiet, of reflection and introspection.

            Even though this is tourist time in Mazatlan and my snowbird friends are all perched in nearby nests, I still live in comparative solitude.

            Then all of a sudden Santa came early with a full bag of gifts. The first package I unwrapped included a week in a mountain village in Jalisco with my cousin and friends.

            When I got off the bus back in Mazatlan, Carolina stood on my doorstep. We had several days of visiting when . . .

            Surprise!

            Kathy, Carolina’s sister and my long-time friend who first introduced me to Mexico, flew in for a visit. I quickly re-packed my bag and trundled off to the El Moro to have a two week holiday in the resort, six blocks down the street on the beach.

            Next week Lani and Ariel are in Mazatlan with a full schedule of social activities.

            All this company, unplanned, quickly planned or as a surprise to me. I like surprises. I pride myself on my flexibility. I love being with my friends.

            But, I must confess to a momentary twinge, just a smidge, mind you, of dismay that I would lose my quiet time. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning, with a difference. Beneath the tree were stacked gifts beyond belief and value: more than the book by Louisa Alcott I hankered after, more than the pink angora sweater set and the flannel bathrobe my Grandma made for me. It’s as if there were also piles of Gold and Silver and Frankincense and Myrrh. Know what I mean? I loved the book and the sweaters and the robe. But what do I do with the rest? It’s too much.

            That little twinge lasted as long as a pinprick. I quickly pulled myself together and said to myself, Hot dog! I’m gifted with Christmas, New Years and the 4^th of July complete with bells and whistles. Woo-hoo! Let’s go!

            Being older has benefits—if we discount the other stuff. What people might think loses importance. Just the other afternoon I was sitting with a group of friends and started laughing. “Look,” I said. “My blouse is wrong side out.” I wore an African print, equally bright on either side, but really, the seams are frayed. I shrugged and never bothered to change.

            I admit I am not cruise material. Never one for fancy dress or bling. When other girls perfected make-up, I wanted to change my name to Sister Mary Benedict, remember?

            A benefit of spending weeks at the same resort year after year with Kathy is that we have a group of resort friends. Just this morning several women sat around the table on the beach discussing old boyfriends, past husbands and reunions. We agreed that no matter the looks, the changes, past and present experiences, old friends are treasured gifts.

            Today I pulled on my blouse front-to-back. We laughed. Who cares? Friends love me anyway.

            I just spotted a tee shirt on the beach with the words, “I’m Your Type” in a variety of fonts. I want that man’s shirt! Sister Mary Benedict, indeed!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 25, 2015

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We’ve Come A Long Way, Baby

                We’ve Come A Long Way, Baby

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            The last time I went to a phone store (such a thing!) and asked for a dumb phone, one that just made and received calls, the young clerk looked at me with such pity and compassion, bordering on grief, that I should be so clueless.

Indiana never was a forerunner for national cultural/industrial progress. The first telephone from my childhood was a darkly stained oak box solidly mounted on the kitchen wall. The black conical-shaped speaking tube flared from the center. One cranked the handle on the right to ring the operator to put your call through. The ear funnel hung on a hook to the left. Two “metal eyes” comprised the ringer.

            Our number rang as two longs and a short.  Every woman on the party line knew who was being called and, generally, who placed the call as well as the contents. Not so different from Face Book.

            My Dad never dialed long-distance lightly. Most of my life a call from Dad made me hold my breath waiting to hear who had died. He always yelled as though his voice had to travel the miles unaided. When Ted and Frank, my neighbors on either side, call home, I can hear them through my open door. Makes me wonder if I yell on the phone.

            We moved to the southern Indiana hills when I was in second grade. Our phone, a black Bakelite desk phone, sat on the counter in a kitchen nook. Dad gave me limited permission to use this phone to call classmates and cousins. Out of consideration for the neighbors on the line, my phone use was on a five-minute timer. Our number was 2248. I learned the tell-tale click and whoosh when a neighbor picked up to listen.

            In 1956 Dad realized his dream with another move, to the Milk River farm out of Harlem. At the time I didn’t share his dream but eventually I adjusted. We didn’t have a phone for a couple years; not that I remember, not until we moved into the “big house” from the “labor house”.

            Our phone, the same black desk phone, was wired into the foyer. I spent as many hours as possible, lounging in a chair in the corner, cord wound around my fingers, speaking softly so my nosy sister couldn’t hear. At times seven other persons on our line listened to my “dire” junior high secrets. Not all nosy neighbors are women.

            That phone number served my Dad the rest of his life. (I took over the number when I moved to Harlem in ’06.) I’ve no idea when each line went private. I spent a few years on a ranch south of Dodson with no phone, another time up north of Cut Bank. Matter of fact, I’ve been phoneless several short periods in my life. I’m not saying phoneless is good or that it is bad. There is a freedom.

            This will come as a shock to some, so grab a cup of tea or a stiff drink, your option. But there were olden days, a time before the telephone was invented. Deprived of this device, we inscribed glyphs on dead trees. After “sincerely yours” and a comma, we signed our name, folded the thin scroll into an envelope, licked a stamp on the front and dropped it into a mail box.

The postal service took it from there to its inscribed destination. One of the lost joys of life is to reach into a mail box and withdraw a letter from a friend. Sigh. Now even dinosaurs such as me use email and have “gone paperless”.

            A few of us still make voice calls with an actual phone, cellular or otherwise. The Princess phone, once the epitome of telephone fashion, is an antique. “Cordless”, once the height of technology, is simply another step along the way to obsolescence.        

   

I’m so ignorant that I don’t even know what the latest device is called. Probably an I-Something. Along with possibly making calls, the device also allows you to follow weather, sports, local, national and international news, the stock market (both cows and investments), bank accounts, plane crashes, prison breaks, horoscope, Dear Abby, and obituaries. It tracks your progress along the road, tells you where to turn, sends videos, knows the best time to plant tomatoes in North Havre. It does everything but communicate.

            Communication requires people. Plural. Nearest I can tell, these new devices require a dual implant, one side to hand, other side to ear. A lot of words pass through its system but I question how much communication happens. Most of the content I overhear, sorry I cannot help but overhear, is filled with “I” statements. The word “selfies” says it all. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 19, 2015

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Foolishness of Fear—Riding the Bus With Myself

            Foolishness of Fear—Riding the Bus With Myself

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            Fear is a mind killer. Fear holds me hostage in a puddle of paralysis—when I let it. Take my latest foolishness. My friend Lani, who lives in Etzatlan near Guadalajara has invited me to hop the bus to visit numerous times. I’ve always conjured excuses. I like Lani. Fear held me back.

            Cousin Nancie is in Etzatlan visiting Lani. The two of them flanked me, out maneuvered me, forced me to face my fear. Stupid fear. Fear of getting on a bus, alone, for the trip into the mountains of Jalisco. 

            My neighbor Ted asked me, “Were you afraid when you drove alone in Mexico?” “No. Of course not.”

            Well, that made me consider. “Self,” I said. “You drove half the length of Mexico, part of the drive at night. You never had a moment of fear or a thought of being afraid. Something in this picture is skewed.”

            Still, I insisted on lying awake one night dreaming up everything that possibly could go wrong. Not have enough language to buy the ticket. Miss the bus. Get off at the wrong stop. Do you suppose I might have a tiny issue with control?

            I’ve had bus experience. Mary, Kathy and I took a bus from Puerto Vallarta to Mazatlan several years ago. Kathy and I were stranded in Tepic while Mary was locked behind a stuck bathroom door at the back of the bus. The milk-run bus stopped at every burg along the road. Policia boarded for inspections every few miles. This bus didn’t carry crated chickens or tethered goats—but close. Air conditioning was a refrigeration unit. The movie showed on a big screen in front at full volume—no escape.

Another time Kathy, Richard, Evelyn and I were stranded six hours in the night when the Christmas Shopping Tour Bus to Guadalajara, one step up from a school bus, broke down on the highway. Actually, it was kind of fun.

            With control in mind, Tuesday I asked Carlos to take me to buy my ticket. We passed go, stayed out of jail, drew a “Free” card. We by-passed the huge mega-terminal with thousands of people clamoring to get tickets, hundreds of buses. We went to the brand new modern Primera Plus station and within five minutes I had my round trip ticket to Zapopan at the edge of Guadalajara, half price with my newly acquired Senior Pass.

            Once I had my ticket in hand, excitement began edging fear out the door.

            Thursday morning I handed over my bag, picked up my lunch, gratis with my ticket, and boarded my ultra-modern bus direct to Zapopan. If only airline travel were this posh. Seats were adjustable and comfortable. Air conditioning cooled to perfection. Every seat had a private internet connection (head-phones included) with a garden-variety of choices including music, Netflix and games. 

            I had my book. Unfortunately I had forgotten that I cannot read on the road. I never out-grew a tendency for motion sickness. I focused on breathing through the six-hour drive from coast to mountains until I could put my feet on the ground.

            Lani and Nancie pulled into the bus terminal just as my bus arrived. I stepped down from the bus into their arms. Who could not want to be here, right where I am!

            Now that I’ve broken the ice, that invisible layer of fear around going alone on a cross-country bus, I see all sorts of options open for exploration. What a fool I am.

            Durango next, maybe in December. Perhaps a coastal exploration in January. A day in Tepic, a day in Puerta Vallarta and another day in Acapulco, just to get an overview. Back to Guadalajara in February with Kathy and Richard to combine a couple days in Tlaquepaque with another visit with Lani and her husband Ariel.

Oh, the places I’ll go; the people I’ll see.

Sondra Ashton

HDN:  Looking out my back door

November 12, 2015

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