When A Lump Is Just A Lump

            When A Lump Is Just A Lump

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            For the first time since I moved from Mazatlan to my casita in Etzatlan, nine months ago, I boarded the bus for the trip back across the mountains to the sea.

            Carlos, my friend with the pulmonia, met me at the bus station with a hug and kiss. We exchanged excited chatter about our lives, our children, our plans, while Carlos drove me to the resort where I would stay for the next few days. I forgot to pay him. He forgot to ask me. But he would come get me both Monday and Tuesday, so no problema.

            The following day I walked up the street to my old neighborhood and knocked on Ted’s door. He was in the back courtyard, but Vern heard me knocking and invited me through. For the next two hours, eight of us, former friends and neighbors, sat in the courtyard and caught up on news, gossip and scandal. There was little of the latter.  

            I walked further up my old street and spent another hour with Dorothy and Don, then met them later in the evening for dinner, a three hour affair. Part of the magic of Mexico is the transformation when nobody is in a rush.

            A strange thing happened to me when I returned to my room. While preparing for bed I noticed an anomaly with my hips. Now, you must understand that in my casita, I have two small mirrors in my bathroom, head height. Consequently, I never see my body.

A full mirror is a deadly thing. My right hip looked normal, a smooth curved line from waist to knee. My left hip had a huge protrusion, jutting to the side, the size and shape of Mt. St. Helens.

            I didn’t panic. We all have to go sometime. Looked like a tumor to me, that saddlebag on my hip atop the barely visible surgery scar from my complete hip replacement two years ago. Might be harmless. Might be the “Big C”. Don’t worry; Be happy. Yeah, right.

            After a restless night in which I had added “see doctor” to my list, Carlos picked me up.

            The government of Mexico seems to have this crazy idea that all people should have access to medical care. So, in exchange for subsidized medical training, doctors serve a number of hours for low pay in clinics. The price for a consultation is thirty pesos, approximately a dollar and a half at today’s rate. It’s not perfect, but this system has saved a lot of lives.

I’ve experienced excellent care from these clinics and had in mind to see one of these doctors who would either assure me the swollen area on my hip, which I swear was larger by the minute, “is normal” or send me for tests.

            Carlos had a different idea. “Let’s go to Dr. Epifanio. He asked about you two weeks ago.” Dr. Epifanio treated me prior to my hip surgery. “Yes!” I agreed. I like Dr. Epifanio.

            I have no shame. I lifted my dress to show my hips. Dr. Epifanio is a kind man. He listened to my tale of woe, assured me I had no tumor, no inflammation. With a twinkle in his eyes, he made two fists. In one he wadded a tablet of note paper. “These are your hips. This one is your own bones. The hand with the paper is your prosthetic hip.”

            “Oh.” I guess the prosthetics must be “one size fits all”.

He is a kind man. He didn’t roll on the floor with laughter. I would not have faulted him. I thanked him and gave him a huge hug even though his consultation cost more than thirty pesos.

            Tomorrow Carlos will take me to Dr. Landazuri to see if my eyes, which to me seem to view my world through waxed paper, are ready for the dreaded cataract surgery. Surprisingly, I’m not nearly as afraid of eye surgery today as I was yesterday.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 22, 2016

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It’s The Only Dance There Is, So Dance, Dance, Dance

               It’s The Only Dance There Is, So Dance, Dance, Dance

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            Seventh Grade. 1957. I don’t know why I went to our first junior high dance. I couldn’t dance, not even a two-step. Didn’t know how. We were all “expected” to go and most of us showed up. For me, the experience felt like I imagined showing up for the guillotine. I knew more about Marie Antoinette than I knew about the waltz. 

The dance was held in “the pit” at the old grade school. The pit had a gym floor, a raised walk around area, and perhaps once was used for little guys’ phys ed. At that time, the pit was most often used for punishment. “Trouble in the classroom—go sit in the pit and think about your sins.” Teachers back then could talk that way.

Cookies. Kool-Aid and canned juice punch. Twisted crepe-paper streamers. Girls sat in folding chairs along one wall. Boys stood along the other and punched each other. An excruciating affair.

Those lucky students with older brothers and sisters to teach them, eventually managed to stumble across the polished abyss, select a partner, and dance, mostly to music of the ‘40’s but one current tune I recall was “Purple People Eater”. “Dance” was generally two-step and jitter-bug.

A couple students in my class were Latter Day Saints. Their church had social nights. Those two could whirl. They were the envy of, well, of me. And Tony made the rounds, generously making sure every girl had a chance on the floor. I watched how gracefully he and Linda moved. I wanted to go home.

When Tony stood before me and asked me to dance, I mumbled, “I can’t.” He said, “That’s okay. I’ll help you.” I shook my head, eyes shiny with tears of fear and humiliation. Tony went on to some other partner.

A few minutes later Jerry sat in a vacant chair next to me. “You should have danced with Tony. It doesn’t matter if you can’t dance. That’s why we are here, to learn.” I don’t know how Jerry got so smart. “Always say ‘yes’. He’ll never ask you to dance again.”

Tears spilled out and rolled down my cheeks. Of course, Jerry was right. Tony never asked me to dance again.

That year or the next, I’m not sure, a young couple at CYC (Catholic Youth Council), after religious classes and cookies, taught us to dance on the concrete floor of the dining area of the St. Thomas Church basement. I’m forever grateful.

Fortunately for me, I took Jerry’s words to heart and applied them. If life is the dance, then I’m either sitting in the bleachers pretending to be wallpaper or I’m out on the dance floor.

I’ll admit, there are times to flit down the hall to the Lady’s Room. Not all dances are a waltz. Unfortunately, knowing when to dance and when to sit one out comes with time and experience. Time happens without our input. Experience comes with saying “yes”. My feet have been stomped flat but I don’t regret having had any particular dance. I learned.

Whether “good”, “bad” or “indifferent”, I learn something each time I stand up and walk out onto the dance floor.

Some days I learn that I say “yes” to too many dances and blister my feet. Take today, for instance. I begin my day with Qi Gong. Then I had to water all my flowers and trees, takes two to three hours.  I should have watered half of them yesterday, but I had chosen to go over the mountains to explore the city of Ameca with friends.

Raspberries are simmering on the stove for jam. My pineapple, which is perfect today, might turn to either wine or vinegar tomorrow if I don’t get it prepped to make empanadas. I planned to go to the parade in town this afternoon. And to movie night at my friend’s home this evening. It is mid-afternoon and I haven’t eaten yet. Help!

I still have my Spanish on-line class to attend. Oh, oh. Leo just brought me two kilos of English peas from the market. He knows I like fresh peas. Peas are rare in our market. I have to shell and blanch them to pop into my freezer. Help!

Some dances I should sit out and watch other’s twirl. Today the music seemed to be controlled by a manic whirling dervish.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 15, 2016

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I Support Tree Love

I Support Tree Love

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            I stole the title from someone else who, in turn, had stolen the phrase from a tee-shirt.

            The sentiment fits. I like trees. Leo, the man who helps me with my gardening, might raise his eyebrow. I had him obliterate trees and bushes left and right over the past few months. In my defense, I know the importance of negative space in creating an artistic view and I planted new and different greenery of all kinds with the intent of keeping it under moderate control. Together, we have created a park of art. And, I would say, Leo is a convert to my style.

            But what got me started on this line of thought was a comment of my daughter’s. Her physical therapist who met me a year ago, said to Dee, “How did your Mom and Dad ever get together? They are completely different. Your Dad is so conservative and such a country boy, a home body. Your Mom is easy going, a free spirit; she’s open to exploration. Seems like she would feel at home wherever she landed. They are such opposites.”

            Frankly, I’m glad I wasn’t there to hear Dee’s reply to Tanya. But it got me to thinking about who we think we are and the contrast of how others see us. The two pictures often don’t match.

            Several years ago I was in a training in which one thing we did daily was go around the circle and describe our impressions of each person. At first, we were smarmily complimentary if not exactly honest. Try it. It’s hard to tell another person, eyeball to eyeball, exactly how you see them.

            By the end of the week we were able to give a more balanced picture to one another. I still can’t figure out how people saw me as somewhat of an “airhead”. I’m not sure what that means.

            Moving on.

Oh, and “old hippy”. I would have liked to try on that experience. I even get nostalgic for those days—which I totally missed. While others were “going with the flow” I was hauling buckets of water into our house which had no facilities or running water, canning beans and tomatoes in the summer, washing diapers on a scrub board, driving a team of Percherons to feed cattle in the winter, all without aid of mind-altering substance. I missed out on the happy hippy days and perhaps that was a good thing for me.

            Fortunately, over the years I have had opportunities to know a variety of people. I’ve said “Yes” to a huge number of experiences, not all of which felt wonderful at the time, but all of which added to my growth and understanding of the world in which I live.

            Airhead?

            Back to trees. Growing up on the farm south of Harlem, I had my secret tree, a cottonwood with sprawling branches on the banks of the Milk River. When I needed to cry (you remember the teen years), I’d climb into a crotch of that tree, hidden from the world, and pour out my heart.

Many, many years later, when I felt down and discouraged, I often drove across the Hood Canal Bridge to a park along the Quilcene River. Off the river path a ways I had a favorite tree in which I could lose myself. I wrapped my arms around that tree and, always, it revived my spirits.

But don’t take my word for it.

Try it yourself. Alone and in secret, of course. Search out a tree that seems special to you. Quietly. You don’t want anyone calling you an airhead. I won’t tell.

Frankly, I see myself as practical, a woman who has learned how to make the best of whatever situation in which I land.

And, yes, I support tree love.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 8, 2016

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Carmen, Cats and Counting Not-Nine Lives

Carmen, Cats and Counting Not-Nine Lives

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            Carmen, who had cancer, has recently died. Carmen is one of my Mazatlan friends. I just learned of her death. I grew to love Carmen and looked forward to seeing her each year. But that was not always the way.

            My first Mazatlan vacation, time passes in a blur, but it had to have been at least a dozen years ago, Carmen met Kathy and me at the airport in the resort van. The price of a “free” pick-up at the airport was a promise to give half a day to the time-share sales staff. Carmen’s job was to shuttle us into a committed appointment. She was the predator. We were the prey. We called her “The Barracuda”.

            Carmen was a loud, pushy, take-no-prisoners woman. We were walking road kill. I got to where I would stick my head out the open elevator before exiting, checking to see where Carmen lurked with her appointment clipboard, poised to dash the opposite direction.

            Somewhere along about our third Mazatlan vacation, that changed. I got to know Carmen, learned a few things about her family, her job, her truly loving heart, her courage and tenacity. She mellowed. I looked forward to seeing her, would wait around the corner just to say “hello”. I missed her when she no longer worked at the resort.

            Remembering Carmen inspired me to take a day of quiet and meditation, a day for reflection. I figured Thanksgiving would be good. That didn’t work. People, friends and workers from the Rancho were in and out my gate all day. Friday was a day of visiting, a pot luck dinner, conversation with friends.

            When I finally got my days for solitude and quiet refection, it was not quite the gift I’d planned for myself. It came wrapped in a package with fever, aches, a runny nose and sleepy listlessness. Sometimes we just have to take what we get. No returns.

            Despite my general lethargy and a head filled with cotton wool, I had a good three days of rest and rejuvenation. The “rest” I’m sure of. I use the word “rejuvenation” expectantly.

            Reflecting on the life of sweet Carmen led me to self-centered consideration of my own varied life. Never in a cat’s nine lifetimes could I have conjured up this particular period of my life, not in my wildest imagination. Yet here I am, living in a veritable paradise.

            Like that cat, I’ve lived varied and distinct lives. I file them in boxes. Now and then I open a box to play with the contents. I label each box. “Early Childhood in Indiana” reads the first box, Crayola green. The “Young Montana Years” box smells like sage brush and cactus in August. I attempt not too successfully to keep the next box duct taped and hidden on the top shelf: “Crazy Lost Years”. It’s a small box, painted black holding my shattered life.

Following those disastrous times, were twenty-five years in Washington, “Gift Years”. During this time I rebuilt my life, redeemed myself. This box appears to be wrapped in paintings by Mary Cassatt. Then the “Back to Harlem” years, to the place where I grew up. I returned a stranger, to create a new life in a familiar place I loved. Listen to laughter when you lift that lid.

My lives aren’t so cut and dried as I make them sound. The borders are smudged and unclear. But those add up to five.

Which puts me smack into my sixth box and still collecting. When I moved to Mexico, I came here to make an entirely different life, not willing to live my old life in a new place. I came here with a handful of essential household items. I have absolutely nothing of value. I’ve never been more satisfied.

I’ve taken a tiny brick casita and made it welcoming and comfortable. Friends walk in my door, relax and smile. I’ve transformed the jungle which had surrounded my house into a park, with beauty and order and surprises to delight.

Tomorrow, when life is back to “normal”, I’ll be eager to resume my Spanish lessons and Qi Gong in the park. Elfie, an Austrian woman who lives in Etzatlan, has invited me to her class in weaving.

But on this, my third day of enforced rest, while my head is fuzzy, I’ll stay curled in the sun like a cat, stretch, yawn, and close my eyes. I would purr if I could.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 1, 2016

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Wimpy, Gimpy and Off Kilter

                        Wimpy, Gimpy and Off Kilter

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            Have you ever had something in your life at which you were afraid to take an honest look? I’m not talking about major life-threatening things here. We generally face up to those after a short dip into denial.

            What I’m talking about is a niggling fear like that which I’ve avoiding bringing under my personal surveillance spotlight for over a year. It terrifies me inordinately to even talk about it. So, here goes.

            My daughter had knee replacement surgery, second knee, about three weeks ago. She’s doing great, healing more quickly than I did with the same procedure. And good for her.

            “Mom,” she said. “I’ve been walking about, both with my walker and without, and I think my new-knee leg is just a little bit shorter than the other.”

            Just hearing somebody else say something like that made me expel a huge breath of relief. “I’ve been afraid to say anything. But I think my hip-replacement-surgery leg is shorter than the other and that is why I still cannot walk without a lurch and a cane. There, I’ve said it. I’ve been afraid to talk about it or even think about it.”

            This is painful for me to admit. It is like when the dentist digs into the tooth I had decided to not mention. Ouch! Worse yet, I don’t know what my problem is. I’m not embarrassed. So I have to use a cane. So do a lot of people. Big whoop.

            I’m not sure when I first noticed something might be “off”. After surgery I had six months of physical therapy. Towards the end, I wanted to ask Arturo if he had noticed any defective parts but I kept mum.

            Every time I’ve been to a chiropractor, he’s said one leg is shorter than the other. Maybe it always has been. I had thought it was something only his eye could see. Again, big whoop.

I walk every day leaning into my cane. I know better. I’ve relearned how to walk after four other surgeries on a knee that looks like a road map. I figured out a cadence which matched numbers, one through four, each to a specific movement and hung in there until I could walk without counting. This surgery, I ignored what I know works.

Fear entered early. I was terrified of falling, of throwing my hip off or out or under. Irrational, I know. But such fear has direct cause/effect on the muscles. I held my muscles tense and tight, slowed healing through the strength of my fearful mind. I can see that clearly—now.

Evidence mounted, albeit slowly. When I sat, one pant leg lurked lower—or higher—than the other. But when I put my knees together, I couldn’t see a difference. Same results when I stood. But to feel balanced, I lift my left heel slightly off the floor. My solution: I wear skirts and dresses. Out of sight, out of . . .

At my local farmacia, I bought those thin padded inserts for shoes. Threw away the one I don’t need. That helped when I wore shoes, which I wore only when I went walking.

My daughter said, “I’ve been looking at orthopedic shoes online.” She waited for me to respond.

“I thought about them,” I admitted. “But most of the time I go barefoot or in sandals. I can’t stand the thought of my feet enclosed in those clunky hot shoes all day.”

My mind held a clear picture of orthopedic shoes. They were black or white, with a four-inch sole and built to withstand nuclear attack.

            “Mom, you’re stuck in the olden days. Orthopedic shoes come in sandals and every style imaginable. Go online and look. Have a physical therapist check for what you need. Have your young friends search for a store in Guadalajara.”

            “I haven’t mentioned this defect to anybody else,” I told my daughter.

            “Write about it,” she responded. “It will be cathartic.”

            I hate it when she’s right. Go ahead. Laugh at me. I’m laughing at myself. But my laugh is sickly and weak, off kilter.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 24, 2016

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Our Story As We Write It

Our Story As We Write It

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            I like to believe we are writing our story, a few words each day. I like to believe it is our love story.

            I like to believe we don’t have to choose sides, that there are no sides. No right. No wrong. No left. No right. Just we pilgrims, searching for our path, aching to love, sometimes lost along the way.

            I like to believe we are one huge dysfunctional family, a human soup, each scrap of humanity adding to the flavor, never losing character. A huge spicy, yummy soup, a perfect blend.

            “You is sooo-o naïve,” one friend tells me.

            The first national election that made an impression on me was in l952. I was seven years old. Dwight D. Eisenhower trounced Adlai Stevenson. There were a lot of reasons Eisenhower won in those tumultuous times. But the reason Stevenson lost, the reason that sticks in my child’s impressionable mind, is that Stevenson was labeled an “egghead”. I remember being astounded that intelligence was a trait to disdain.

            The American people in 1952 were uncomfortable with “intelligence”. Nothing has changed. Maybe our list of things that cause us discomfort has expanded. Maybe not.

            What bothers me more is the list of what makes us comfortable. Bigotry, hate, guns (those used to shoot people, not food), violence, women as sex objects, children as property, ignorance, bullies, decision making by television and Facebook. We are used to these things. Comfortable. I’m not talking about a Democrat-Republican split here. I’m talking about a cultural trend, as I perceive it.

            Our country seems tilted on the edge of Revolution. Maybe it is time. I’m not talking guns-and-bombs revolution. I’m talking revolution that takes guts, revolution in which we stand against bigotry. Be uncomfortable. Stand up to the bully, whatever form the bully takes.

            Another friend says to me, “I’m not bigoted. Why, one of my best friends is _______. You fill in the blank. What? Black, Indian, Jewish, Republican, Rich, Crippled, Catholic, Gay, Old, Mexican, Muslim, Democrat, or, God help us, White?

            Her statement is one of the most bigoted I’m able to bring to mind. I’ll go out on a limb and risk falling and breaking every bone in my body: there is no truth in such words. Once I, and I’ll use myself as an example since we each are bigoted to some degree, let go my need to feel superior, a need fueled by fear, then my friend of “otherness” simply becomes “my friend”. No category. No convenient box in which to stuff him when he’s out of sight.

            Once I let go my fear, then I simply want that person to love me and I want to love him. I use the word love here to mean respect, appreciate, accept, warts and all. Once such a transformation has occurred, in my experience, I no longer “see” our differences. Sure, they are still there. I’m not blind. But they no longer matter. Differences are spices for our “soup”.

            I’ll climb down off my high horse and admit I am naïve enough to believe that one person’s tiny act of beauty or compassion is more powerful than guns and bullies and ignorance. I can’t prove any of this. Go ahead and snort. You’ve a right. I’ve been told my head is in the clouds.

            I’ll still dream. I’ve thought about getting a sleeve tattoo and dying my hair purple on one side and blue on the other, a kind of yin/yang. Sure, I probably won’t do it. It’s one of those fleeting rebellious thoughts without energy. I know you’d change your opinion about me, not that it matters much. My world is small, my influence negligible. I can be bullied too.

            I don’t know how much sand is left to sift through my hour glass. Outside my window, clinging to a yellow canna lily flower cluster, is the brightest red-orange bird I’ve ever seen. James Taylor said “The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.” I think I will.  

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 17, 2016

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Pollyanna Platitudes, Penance and Chocolate

            Pollyanna Platitudes, Penance and Chocolate

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            I did a terrible thing. A generally cheerful friend was in obvious pain. Be it emotional, physical, grief, imaginary—doesn’t matter. Pain is pain. Pain twists one’s guts and simply must be passed through. I hugged my friend, opened my mouth and out rolled a blah, blah, blah, blah, useless platitude. I cringed while speaking the words. But once out, there was no cramming the words back where they originated.

            I hate myself for that. I know better. When I’m hurting I want someone, anyone, to fold me into their arms. I want a heart-felt hug. I don’t want to hear, “Oh, Honey, time will erase the pain.” Or, “Perhaps what happened was for the best.” Or, “Better to find out now than later.” Or—any one of a million other well-meant platitudes.

Platitudes might even hold an edge of truth. But when I’m in pain, I want neither platitudes nor truth. Comfort me with silence. And chocolate.

That’s me. “Why?” you ask. “We mean well.”

Yes, I believe you. I meant well when the useless cliche automatically rolled off my tongue. We learned these commonplace banalities honestly, probably at mother’s knee. We use them when at a loss for words, when we want to be helpful, and sincerely want to give comfort. Try chocolate instead. Not just any chocolate. Designer chocolate.

            My theory, not substantiated at all, is that platitudes come from a place of smug righteousness. “Well, I’ve been through something like that and I know what to do.” Or, “I’m so glad it’s you and not me. Dodged that bullet.” Or, “I can’t wait to spread this tidbit of news. So we can comfort you, of course.” Stinks, doesn’t it? 

Enough of my rant. For me (and hopefully, for you) it is better when I acknowledge your sorrow, and keep my lips zipped. So, what got into me that day? I wanted to rip out my tongue.

            Hence, guilt. Also useless. Hey, I grew up in the Catholic Church. I know how to do guilt. I spent a day mea culpa-ing all over the place.

            Chocolate can heal guilt too, by the way.

            So that’s my guilty story of the comfort I failed to give. Once I quit beating myself I turned to another kind of comfort—my lovely king-size goose-down comforter.

            Winter is on the way—I say this when it is 80 F. this afternoon. I’m told nights are in the 40’s in December and January and houses aren’t heated in this southern country. It is toasty warm by mid-morning, so why spend money on heat?

            My problem is that my down comforter is huge and laps across the floor in all directions when I plunk it onto my double-size bed. This is a problem I can fix with action: scissors, needle, thread and time. I hauled my comforter and a box of straight pins out to the patio and cut off the outer section all the way around. The bedding is constructed in such a way that the perimeter was (mostly) stitched and could be down-sized, pun intended, losing feathers only on the throw-away section (mostly).

            To finish my comforter, I’ll roll a hem and secure it with a blanket stitch, by hand. It will take several days. I don’t mind. Hand work is meditative. Penance for platitudes?

            It’s justice. It’s kismet. It’s fate. It’s the way it’s meant to be. It happens for a reason. It’s God’s plan for me. Life has not given me more than I can handle. Blah, blah, blah. And so on.

Stitching the perimeter of a comforter, each working of the needle and thread, through, up and around, might help remind me that it is not my business to be one of Job’s comforters.

Hugs, your presence, a hot dish and goose down. All provide me comfort. Don’t forget the chocolate.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 10, 2016

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