The Joy of Socks
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
After living twenty-five years in Washington, after moving back home to Montana, I found myself unpacking boxes of socks. I stuffed, crammed and shoved socks into four large dresser drawers. Dress socks, floral socks, striped socks, plain socks. Cotton socks, woolen socks, rayon socks, flocked socks. Theme socks, purple socks, white socks, colored socks. Boot socks, sports socks, fuzzy socks, fussy socks. Thick socks, thin socks, long socks, short socks. I realized I might have a little problem.
I like socks. I kept buying socks. I went to town for a jug of milk and returned with two pairs of thick winter socks. On a shopping trip in Guadalajara, Mexico I bought socks for my granddaughters and a few for myself, Christmas presents. When I needed new gloves, I bought socks. Soon I could no longer ram the drawers shut. I looked for new places to put my socks. I hid them in hampers, beneath couch cushions, in the vegetable bin of the refrigerator. Under the influence of socks I made disastrous decisions. Finally I could no longer stay in denial. Socks were my problem. I could not control myself.
Like many another addict, I quit cold turkey. I declared a moratorium on socks. I would buy no more socks. By white-knuckle strength of will, after five years of no new socks, I was finally able to force all my socks into one dresser drawer, albeit the largest. One thing that helped me pare down my huge collection of socks is that I go barefoot in the house. Well, sock-footed. So I wear them out. If I were a good person, I would darn the holes (I learned how when I was six years old) and thus extend the life of each pair. But, alas, with total disregard for virtue and economy, I blithely tossed each holey pair of socks into the trash. Time marched on. Today I can close my sock drawer with ease.
So Saturday at the Montana Seed Show, as I hung out and watched the wool demonstrations, the carding, spinning and weaving, a recurring, but not burning, desire fleetingly visited my heart. Now and then I have wished I knew how to knit, to me, a seemingly esoteric skill. I wear a lot of wool. I like the feel of wool. Using the wondrous wools, such as these women were spinning, I could create beautiful and useful articles of clothing. I followed Hilary Maxwell, weaver, knitter, gardener, psychologist and all-‘round local personality, outdoors for a breath of air. “Do you think you could teach me to knit?” I asked. I hadn’t really meant to say that. The words flew out of my mouth before I could cage them back in.
“Of course,” Hilary answered. “It’s easy.” Not one to waste an opportunity, she immediately set a time for us to get together. Before I could backtrack and make excuses, I was locked in.
“I tried to learn once before,” I confessed. “I was eighteen or nineteen, living in Dodson. Bessie Black tried to teach me. Bessie was left-handed and I am right-handed, my feeble excuse. I couldn’t get my mind wrapped around the transposition. I was a hopeless failure. I can do anything with fiber or fabric except knit. I may be un-teachable.”
“I’ll start you out with a simple dish cloth. Then I’ll teach you to knit socks.”
“Socks?”
Hilary laughed. “I learned to knit with socks. My first sock had two heels. But I always was an overachiever.”
I wondered if an underachiever like me would end up with socks with no heels.
“Don’t buy needles or yarn. I have everything you’ll need to get started,” Hilary continued.
“I would like to make my first pair with leftovers, scraps, bits of yarn in every color,” I said.
My head is filled with visions of knitting needles in every size, baskets overflowing with colorful yarns, and mountains of beautiful socks—chunky socks, thick socks, striped socks, rainbow socks. Foxy sox. Socks for you. Socks for me. Boxes of soxes. After all, I have room.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 15, 2012
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The Seed Show, Nostalgia and Home-Made Pie
The Seed Show, Nostalgia and Home-Made Pie
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Only a few days before the 63rd Montana Seed Show and a nearly palpable excitement shimmers in the Harlem air. It’s contagious. As I make my rounds in town, to the post office to pick up my mail, then to city hall to pay my water bill and on around the corner to Albertson’s for buttermilk because I have a yen for biscuits in the morning and across the street to the Senior’s Center to say hello to Katie and whoever is hanging around, I hear, over and over, “See you at the Seed Show!”
Nobody asks, “Are you going to the Seed Show?” It is understood that unless one is stuck in the hospital or off vacationing in the Bahamas, this weekend one will take in the Seed Show. The Montana Seed Show is an essential ingredient in the glue that holds Harlem together; a bonding element that makes Harlem our home.
My Uncle Jim was one of the founders of the Seed Show. He was the family member who encouraged my Dad to transplant us from southern Indiana, from a small farm near the Ohio River to a much larger farm on the much smaller Milk River. I was in the seventh grade when I went to the Civic Center with my Dad for my first Seed Show.
The Civic Center, an imposing two-story building complete with a basement, occupied the block where the bank now sits. It housed the city office, the police station and jail, the telephone office, the library and a gymnasium with a balcony above and a stage to one side. This venerable building was the heart of our community. The school, city government, and business, professional and civic groups used the Civic Center. Our Harlem Wildcats played basketball there. We high school students strung the gym with crepe paper streamers for the school carnival. Every year old time fiddlers from all around took to the stage, tapped their feet and plied their bows to ancient melodies. And until the building burned to the ground in January of 1968, it was the home of the Montana Seed Show.
I close my eyes and memory takes over. I walk through the doors of the auditorium. Rows of planks across sawhorses, trays of seed potatoes, sugar beets, wheat, oats, and barley. Sheaves of baled hay or gently tied bunches of loose hay, and trays of stinky (to my nose) silage. Colorful ribbons designate rank of achievement. In my mind, I walk beside Dad, up and down each row and inspect every agricultural offering. None hold the least interest to me. I poke at mounds of sheep’s wool with their distinctive odor and feel of lanolin. I cast a cursory glance at the commercial displays ringing the perimeter of the gym. I linger over the pie display. I imagine the anticipation as the few chosen women assemble ingredients for the bake-off under the watchful eyes of the judges.
Soon Dad is deep in conversation with other Valley farmers or perhaps with one of the town merchants. I slip away to find school mates, shed my heavy winter coat and head scarf and toss them in a pile on the bleachers. Arm-in-arm, we girls walk ‘round and ‘round the gym. I imagine that a certain boy might look at me with a special twinkle in his eye, because I certainly am looking at him. I would be mortified if that boy spoke to me. That wasn’t done. How times have changed.
Most of the farmers and ranchers wore heavy plaid wool coats and hats with ear flaps. My Dad’s coat was red and black. Town men wore dressier coats, longer and most often of a solid color. All the men sported black rubber buckled galoshes, an item of dress necessary for both farmyard and Harlem’s dirt streets. Women wore either cotton house dresses or rayon “Sunday” dresses with hats and gloves and handbag. If she were a farm wife (an excruciatingly apt term), a woman might wear humiliating black galoshes. Town women wore clear plastic overshoes that fastened with a snap on a flap, designed to fit over high heels. I may have been only twelve, but I noticed the difference.
Though there is no sugar beet industry in our area and few potato growers, the Seed Show still stresses the value of “good seed, good fellowship and good neighbors”*. Today’s Seed Show, now located at Harlem High School, has changed vastly. Tables have replaced planks over sawhorses. A canvas covering protects the finish of the gym floor. In addition to the traditional baked goods, the pies and breads, this year the committee has added cup cakes. An entire area is devoted to needlework and quilts. The school’s old gym houses an art gallery with an auction Friday night. Out in the industrial arts building one can ooh and ah over restored tractors and cars of yesteryear. Wool displays now include demonstrations of carding and spinning. Add woodworking, the health fair, the educational and commercial exhibits, and one of my favorites, the chili cook-off.
Today men are not excluded from baking or women from wood working. Today you cannot distinguish farmer from townsperson by dress. The black overshoes disappeared long ago. One thing I must mention is the home-made pies served in the cafeteria. In my well-fed opinion, Harlem ought to be designated the pie capital of the world. See you at the Seed Show.
*p.524 Thunderstorms and Tumbleweeds
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 8, 2012
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Only a few days before the 63rd Montana Seed Show and a nearly palpable excitement shimmers in the Harlem air. It’s contagious. As I make my rounds in town, to the post office to pick up my mail, then to city hall to pay my water bill and on around the corner to Albertson’s for buttermilk because I have a yen for biscuits in the morning and across the street to the Senior’s Center to say hello to Katie and whoever is hanging around, I hear, over and over, “See you at the Seed Show!”
Nobody asks, “Are you going to the Seed Show?” It is understood that unless one is stuck in the hospital or off vacationing in the Bahamas, this weekend one will take in the Seed Show. The Montana Seed Show is an essential ingredient in the glue that holds Harlem together; a bonding element that makes Harlem our home.
My Uncle Jim was one of the founders of the Seed Show. He was the family member who encouraged my Dad to transplant us from southern Indiana, from a small farm near the Ohio River to a much larger farm on the much smaller Milk River. I was in the seventh grade when I went to the Civic Center with my Dad for my first Seed Show.
The Civic Center, an imposing two-story building complete with a basement, occupied the block where the bank now sits. It housed the city office, the police station and jail, the telephone office, the library and a gymnasium with a balcony above and a stage to one side. This venerable building was the heart of our community. The school, city government, and business, professional and civic groups used the Civic Center. Our Harlem Wildcats played basketball there. We high school students strung the gym with crepe paper streamers for the school carnival. Every year old time fiddlers from all around took to the stage, tapped their feet and plied their bows to ancient melodies. And until the building burned to the ground in January of 1968, it was the home of the Montana Seed Show.
I close my eyes and memory takes over. I walk through the doors of the auditorium. Rows of planks across sawhorses, trays of seed potatoes, sugar beets, wheat, oats, and barley. Sheaves of baled hay or gently tied bunches of loose hay, and trays of stinky (to my nose) silage. Colorful ribbons designate rank of achievement. In my mind, I walk beside Dad, up and down each row and inspect every agricultural offering. None hold the least interest to me. I poke at mounds of sheep’s wool with their distinctive odor and feel of lanolin. I cast a cursory glance at the commercial displays ringing the perimeter of the gym. I linger over the pie display. I imagine the anticipation as the few chosen women assemble ingredients for the bake-off under the watchful eyes of the judges.
Soon Dad is deep in conversation with other Valley farmers or perhaps with one of the town merchants. I slip away to find school mates, shed my heavy winter coat and head scarf and toss them in a pile on the bleachers. Arm-in-arm, we girls walk ‘round and ‘round the gym. I imagine that a certain boy might look at me with a special twinkle in his eye, because I certainly am looking at him. I would be mortified if that boy spoke to me. That wasn’t done. How times have changed.
Most of the farmers and ranchers wore heavy plaid wool coats and hats with ear flaps. My Dad’s coat was red and black. Town men wore dressier coats, longer and most often of a solid color. All the men sported black rubber buckled galoshes, an item of dress necessary for both farmyard and Harlem’s dirt streets. Women wore either cotton house dresses or rayon “Sunday” dresses with hats and gloves and handbag. If she were a farm wife (an excruciatingly apt term), a woman might wear humiliating black galoshes. Town women wore clear plastic overshoes that fastened with a snap on a flap, designed to fit over high heels. I may have been only twelve, but I noticed the difference.
Though there is no sugar beet industry in our area and few potato growers, the Seed Show still stresses the value of “good seed, good fellowship and good neighbors”*. Today’s Seed Show, now located at Harlem High School, has changed vastly. Tables have replaced planks over sawhorses. A canvas covering protects the finish of the gym floor. In addition to the traditional baked goods, the pies and breads, this year the committee has added cup cakes. An entire area is devoted to needlework and quilts. The school’s old gym houses an art gallery with an auction Friday night. Out in the industrial arts building one can ooh and ah over restored tractors and cars of yesteryear. Wool displays now include demonstrations of carding and spinning. Add woodworking, the health fair, the educational and commercial exhibits, and one of my favorites, the chili cook-off.
Today men are not excluded from baking or women from wood working. Today you cannot distinguish farmer from townsperson by dress. The black overshoes disappeared long ago. One thing I must mention is the home-made pies served in the cafeteria. In my well-fed opinion, Harlem ought to be designated the pie capital of the world. See you at the Seed Show.
*p.524 Thunderstorms and Tumbleweeds
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 8, 2012
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Not me—I’m not superstitious
Not me—I’m not superstitious
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I am not a superstitious person. I cheerfully walk under ladders. Never has a black cat crossing my path kept me from my destination. The disasters in my life could not have been prevented by any amount of knocking on wood.
Where do some of our weird beliefs come from? We repeat ideas that have been handed down from generation to generation. We never think to question them. They become common knowledge. We all know that washing a car will bring rain. And it’s true; an apple a day will keep the doctor away.
On one of our warmer-than-summer days in early January, I drove to Chinook. I marveled at the beauty of the sun drenched Milk River Valley. The balmy air smelled like spring. I almost expected ferns and fronds and palm trees to shoot up through the wind scoured soil, like a bald woman donning a frilly Easter bonnet. As distinctly as though he sat in the passenger seat next to me, I heard my Dad say, “It might be pretty today but the raspberries won’t be worth a hill of beans next summer if we don’t get a real winter.”
I glanced over to make sure my father, gone now these six years, was not sitting there. Where did that come from, I wondered—that thought, planted in my head, speaking with my Dad’s voice? I had an inkling that the voice I heard is a common Montana voice; those words are common Montana words, at least in this parched section of the state.
I decided to do some research. Later that day I popped into an eatery to eavesdrop on the local pundits. My wait was not long. The group of men who frequent this place on a regular basis soon arrived, one by one. I sat with my back to them but not so far away that I couldn’t overhear. Sure enough, the conversation turned to our weather.
Real Weather, to a Montanan, is defined as any extreme condition. Our days (and nights) are either brutally cold or blistering hot or hang-on windy and most often two out of three. Real Snow drifts into banks higher than any measured in living memory. Torrential Rain pounds so hard that flash floods are generated in moments. Drought cleaves the hard-baked gumbo clay into cracks and crevices deep and wide enough to be called a canyon and by gosh if it doesn’t rain soon we can advertise it as a scenic wonder and put up neon signs to point directions and bring tourists in by the busload. If I were an outsider I would think all this braggadocio to be exaggeration but I grew up around here. I know it’s all true. We live in a country of extremes.
“We worried all year that this winter we’d get snowfall that would cause spring floods that would make last year’s overflow look like mud puddles,” said one gent. “Now I’m worried about fires. If we don’t get some moisture soon, the whole prairie will likely go up in flames.”
“Well, I suppose that’ll keep the firefighters happy,” offered a slightly brighter voice.
Next spoke a gentleman who farms up north, “If we don’t get moisture, crops won’t come up at all.”
“All I know is we’re supposed to have four seasons and when we don’t it’s no good,” chimed in a gruff-sounding elderly gentleman, a man who looked like he’d lived enough seasons to know the difference. “The way the old-timers tell it, a year just like this brought on the flu epidemic of 1918. Gonna be a lot of sickness this year, just you wait and see."
That was in January. Now February is gone and I still hear the same old negative words. I have come to believe they reflect a simple bit of superstition, a verbal “knock on wood”. We are afraid that if we boast that life is good, that things are going well, then sure enough, the next day all havoc will break loose. It is cheap enough insurance, I suppose, this poor-mouth attitude. If, by our words, we can keep life from going to the dogs, keep the monkey-wrench out of the works, keep the wolf away from the door, then so be it.
Personally, I’m not buying it. But by golly, if we don’t get some real weather soon, I don’t believe I’ll have any kind of garden. Good thing I put up a lot of raspberries last summer. Glad I got my flu shot. Do you smell smoke? Or is that a blizzard on the way? No matter. I’m going to have a terrific year; the Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 1, 2012
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I am not a superstitious person. I cheerfully walk under ladders. Never has a black cat crossing my path kept me from my destination. The disasters in my life could not have been prevented by any amount of knocking on wood.
Where do some of our weird beliefs come from? We repeat ideas that have been handed down from generation to generation. We never think to question them. They become common knowledge. We all know that washing a car will bring rain. And it’s true; an apple a day will keep the doctor away.
On one of our warmer-than-summer days in early January, I drove to Chinook. I marveled at the beauty of the sun drenched Milk River Valley. The balmy air smelled like spring. I almost expected ferns and fronds and palm trees to shoot up through the wind scoured soil, like a bald woman donning a frilly Easter bonnet. As distinctly as though he sat in the passenger seat next to me, I heard my Dad say, “It might be pretty today but the raspberries won’t be worth a hill of beans next summer if we don’t get a real winter.”
I glanced over to make sure my father, gone now these six years, was not sitting there. Where did that come from, I wondered—that thought, planted in my head, speaking with my Dad’s voice? I had an inkling that the voice I heard is a common Montana voice; those words are common Montana words, at least in this parched section of the state.
I decided to do some research. Later that day I popped into an eatery to eavesdrop on the local pundits. My wait was not long. The group of men who frequent this place on a regular basis soon arrived, one by one. I sat with my back to them but not so far away that I couldn’t overhear. Sure enough, the conversation turned to our weather.
Real Weather, to a Montanan, is defined as any extreme condition. Our days (and nights) are either brutally cold or blistering hot or hang-on windy and most often two out of three. Real Snow drifts into banks higher than any measured in living memory. Torrential Rain pounds so hard that flash floods are generated in moments. Drought cleaves the hard-baked gumbo clay into cracks and crevices deep and wide enough to be called a canyon and by gosh if it doesn’t rain soon we can advertise it as a scenic wonder and put up neon signs to point directions and bring tourists in by the busload. If I were an outsider I would think all this braggadocio to be exaggeration but I grew up around here. I know it’s all true. We live in a country of extremes.
“We worried all year that this winter we’d get snowfall that would cause spring floods that would make last year’s overflow look like mud puddles,” said one gent. “Now I’m worried about fires. If we don’t get some moisture soon, the whole prairie will likely go up in flames.”
“Well, I suppose that’ll keep the firefighters happy,” offered a slightly brighter voice.
Next spoke a gentleman who farms up north, “If we don’t get moisture, crops won’t come up at all.”
“All I know is we’re supposed to have four seasons and when we don’t it’s no good,” chimed in a gruff-sounding elderly gentleman, a man who looked like he’d lived enough seasons to know the difference. “The way the old-timers tell it, a year just like this brought on the flu epidemic of 1918. Gonna be a lot of sickness this year, just you wait and see."
That was in January. Now February is gone and I still hear the same old negative words. I have come to believe they reflect a simple bit of superstition, a verbal “knock on wood”. We are afraid that if we boast that life is good, that things are going well, then sure enough, the next day all havoc will break loose. It is cheap enough insurance, I suppose, this poor-mouth attitude. If, by our words, we can keep life from going to the dogs, keep the monkey-wrench out of the works, keep the wolf away from the door, then so be it.
Personally, I’m not buying it. But by golly, if we don’t get some real weather soon, I don’t believe I’ll have any kind of garden. Good thing I put up a lot of raspberries last summer. Glad I got my flu shot. Do you smell smoke? Or is that a blizzard on the way? No matter. I’m going to have a terrific year; the Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 1, 2012
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A Hot Time in the Old Town
A Hot Time in the Old Town
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My cousin Shirley and I motored to Havre for a nice meal and to take in the Montana Actors Theater’s latest production. Shirley had a bit of shopping to do, so we left early, adding a splash of minutes for the unexpected. My theory is that when you allow for the unexpected, the unexpected is what you will get.
In the best Western Tradition, we headed off into the sunset, which glared in our eyeballs all the way to Havre. Although we both were hungry, we decided to take care of mundane tasks first. We quickly found the items on Shirley’s list, then headed up the hill to Murphy’s Irish Pub. Neither of us had been there in a long while.
We made ourselves comfortable at a small table right in the middle of the dining room. After cruising the menu, we decided to share an appetizer. We planned to order our main courses once we had knocked the edge off our hunger. Did I mention we were hungry? We both had skipped lunch in anticipation of dinner. We were ravenous.
Our friendly waitress soon placed drinks and a lovely chicken quesadilla in front of us. We tucked right in amid much lively conversation.
Meanwhile, the hockey team streamed in. Actually, I don’t know for sure that it was a hockey team. But the large congregation of youngsters of varied ages had that hockey-team type energy. They began settling down; no, “settling down” is not the right phrase. Imagine a horde of milling children, at least twenty or maybe two hundred, seeking their places at a long table, all the while maintaining the semblance of a perpetual motion machine. Try to remember when you were eight or nine or ten. “I don’t want to sit here. I want to sit on the other side.” “I’m not sitting next to HIM, Yuck.” “Go away; only girls sit here.” “Girls have cooties. Pass it on.” (Slug!) Hey, I like that kind of energy. Those kids were having a ripping good time.
Parents trooped in behind them, trying to get the kids sorted out and seated. They planned to enjoy their meal in relative peace at another table, further away. In the midst of the melee, as Shirley shifted to let a parent through the narrow space between our table and the pack of milling youngsters, she bumped our small table, causing it to tilt. My drink, untouched as yet, turned topsy-turvy. The glass shattered. Icy liquid mixed with glass shards splattered onto my shirt, puddled into my lap, and ran down one leg into my shoe. The word that comes to mind is “drenched”. I sat stunned, looking down into the lake in my lap. I had to laugh. What else could I do. I picked a chunk of glass out of the lake, held it in front of my eyes like a crystal ball and predicted, “There is a shopping trip in my immediate future.”
Our waitress brought towels. We sopped up the mess as best we could, paid for the quesadilla and left into the cold and windy night.
We raced over the hill and down to K-Mart. I grabbed three pairs of pants and headed to the dressing rooms. Shirley went off search of a shirt. The first pants I tried on fit nicely and the legs were long enough. I’m always surprised when that happens. I asked the clerk, Theresa, to please cut the tags off my back pockets. Shirley showed up with three shirts. I ducked back into the dressing room and sent her after boot socks, preferably a wool blend, to wear with my sandals. Once I was dressed and warm again, I tucked my dripping clothing into a plastic bag supplied by the helpful Theresa. I carried my fistful of tags to checkout. The entire shopping expedition took fifteen minutes.
We still had time for dinner before the play. “Let’s go back to Murphy’s,” I said. “The quesadilla was great and we already know what we want to eat.”
So back we went. This time we chose a table far from the madding crowd. We enjoyed a leisurely meal and had plenty of time to drive across town to MSU Northern for the play.
The moral of this story: Expect the Unexpected. You never know when the Shopping Genie will strike.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
February 23, 2012
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My cousin Shirley and I motored to Havre for a nice meal and to take in the Montana Actors Theater’s latest production. Shirley had a bit of shopping to do, so we left early, adding a splash of minutes for the unexpected. My theory is that when you allow for the unexpected, the unexpected is what you will get.
In the best Western Tradition, we headed off into the sunset, which glared in our eyeballs all the way to Havre. Although we both were hungry, we decided to take care of mundane tasks first. We quickly found the items on Shirley’s list, then headed up the hill to Murphy’s Irish Pub. Neither of us had been there in a long while.
We made ourselves comfortable at a small table right in the middle of the dining room. After cruising the menu, we decided to share an appetizer. We planned to order our main courses once we had knocked the edge off our hunger. Did I mention we were hungry? We both had skipped lunch in anticipation of dinner. We were ravenous.
Our friendly waitress soon placed drinks and a lovely chicken quesadilla in front of us. We tucked right in amid much lively conversation.
Meanwhile, the hockey team streamed in. Actually, I don’t know for sure that it was a hockey team. But the large congregation of youngsters of varied ages had that hockey-team type energy. They began settling down; no, “settling down” is not the right phrase. Imagine a horde of milling children, at least twenty or maybe two hundred, seeking their places at a long table, all the while maintaining the semblance of a perpetual motion machine. Try to remember when you were eight or nine or ten. “I don’t want to sit here. I want to sit on the other side.” “I’m not sitting next to HIM, Yuck.” “Go away; only girls sit here.” “Girls have cooties. Pass it on.” (Slug!) Hey, I like that kind of energy. Those kids were having a ripping good time.
Parents trooped in behind them, trying to get the kids sorted out and seated. They planned to enjoy their meal in relative peace at another table, further away. In the midst of the melee, as Shirley shifted to let a parent through the narrow space between our table and the pack of milling youngsters, she bumped our small table, causing it to tilt. My drink, untouched as yet, turned topsy-turvy. The glass shattered. Icy liquid mixed with glass shards splattered onto my shirt, puddled into my lap, and ran down one leg into my shoe. The word that comes to mind is “drenched”. I sat stunned, looking down into the lake in my lap. I had to laugh. What else could I do. I picked a chunk of glass out of the lake, held it in front of my eyes like a crystal ball and predicted, “There is a shopping trip in my immediate future.”
Our waitress brought towels. We sopped up the mess as best we could, paid for the quesadilla and left into the cold and windy night.
We raced over the hill and down to K-Mart. I grabbed three pairs of pants and headed to the dressing rooms. Shirley went off search of a shirt. The first pants I tried on fit nicely and the legs were long enough. I’m always surprised when that happens. I asked the clerk, Theresa, to please cut the tags off my back pockets. Shirley showed up with three shirts. I ducked back into the dressing room and sent her after boot socks, preferably a wool blend, to wear with my sandals. Once I was dressed and warm again, I tucked my dripping clothing into a plastic bag supplied by the helpful Theresa. I carried my fistful of tags to checkout. The entire shopping expedition took fifteen minutes.
We still had time for dinner before the play. “Let’s go back to Murphy’s,” I said. “The quesadilla was great and we already know what we want to eat.”
So back we went. This time we chose a table far from the madding crowd. We enjoyed a leisurely meal and had plenty of time to drive across town to MSU Northern for the play.
The moral of this story: Expect the Unexpected. You never know when the Shopping Genie will strike.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
February 23, 2012
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Coffee Snob Gets Her Comeuppance
Coffee Snob Gets Her Comeuppance
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After years of living in Seattle, it is no surprise that I developed a taste for exotic coffee. Certainly more exotic than everyday Folgers. I’m not rigid about my coffee. I’ll drink any kind of coffee as long as it is hot. Coffee at the Diner, coffee with friends, coffee while traveling; I’ll drink it without complaint.
But, I confess, behind the closed doors of my own home, I am a coffee snob. Each morning I grind my designer coffee beans fresh. I carefully bring water not quite to the boil. I measure an exact heap of ground coffee into the pre- heated glass jar of my French press, pour the water evenly over the grounds, set the top on the jar, and cover it with a special quilted cozy (that I made myself). I wait the requisite four minutes, plunge the press downward to separate the grounds from the delicious dark liquid and pour steaming aromatic coffee into a heated mug. This process somewhat resembles a Japanese tea ceremony minus the kimono. I retire to the living room, my current book in hand, to savor my morning coffee.
On my recent holiday in Mazatlan, Mexico, I decided to breakfast at Juanita’s. I first wandered into Juanita’s a few years ago, following a hot tip from Tony, a beach vendor. He said he eats there and the food is always good. And he is right. The garlic shrimp cannot be bettered, nor can the price. One can walk by and not notice the few red and white checked oil-cloth covered tables with plastic chairs sitting beneath the corrugated tin roof held in place with crooked tree limbs. A concrete wall separates Juanita’s from the store next to it. This wall is covered with philodendron, ivy, ferns, and bougainvillea, all planted in coffee tins and plastic buckets. A row of Aloe and cactus separates the tables from the sidewalk. Back from the tables is a miniscule “store” with snacks and drinks. And behind that is the kitchen. Juanita’s is not on the tourist map.
I sat down at a table and when Manuel (I asked his name) handed me a menu, I ordered coffee.
He indicated two men eating at the adjacent table to let me know the coffee came in a jar of Nescafe. “Oh,” I said with a slight wrinkle of my nose and ordered orange juice instead. Breakfast was excellent and all for forty pesos. Juanita’s quickly became my morning hangout.
One morning Manuel placed cups of steaming milk, a small jar of Nescafe and a bowl of unrefined sugar before a couple at the other end of the table where I sat. “What is that?” I asked him. “Café con leche,” he responded. I watched while the couple each spooned a half teaspoon of coffee and a like amount of sugar into their milk. I was intrigued. So I told Manuel I’d like to try this café con leche.
When the hot milk arrived I measured the coffee and sugar and stirred them into my milk. Oh, my. It was better than good. It became my morning drink of choice in Mexico.
After I flew back to Seattle to spend time with my children and grandchildren, I missed my café con leche. So I stealthily set out to search for the necessary ingredients to make my own—namely, Nescafe instant coffee and unrefined sugar. Stealthily, because I didn’t want my friends in the coffee-drinking capital of the world to see me buying a jar of instant. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t sure I could find Nescafe in the outer reaches of Montana. I stopped at the coffee display of a giant super market, amazed. Nescafe offered me a choice of gourmet, House Blend, several flavors, and decaf . I chose “Clasico” because the jar label was printed in Spanish.
I hid the jar in my basket beneath bags of sea salt and fresh strawberries and went in search of unrefined sugar. I picked the sugar that most looked like that which I had spooned from the bowl in Juanita’s.
I still make coffee with my French press. But some mornings I reach into the darkest corner of my pantry and extract the jar of Nescafe instant and the sugar bowl. I heat the milk in my smallest pan, pour it into my cup, and measure half a teaspoon of instant and half a teaspoon of sugar. One sip and I am transported to Mazatlan and Juanita’s. Ole!
HDN: Looking out my back door
Sondra Ashton
February 9, 2012
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After years of living in Seattle, it is no surprise that I developed a taste for exotic coffee. Certainly more exotic than everyday Folgers. I’m not rigid about my coffee. I’ll drink any kind of coffee as long as it is hot. Coffee at the Diner, coffee with friends, coffee while traveling; I’ll drink it without complaint.
But, I confess, behind the closed doors of my own home, I am a coffee snob. Each morning I grind my designer coffee beans fresh. I carefully bring water not quite to the boil. I measure an exact heap of ground coffee into the pre- heated glass jar of my French press, pour the water evenly over the grounds, set the top on the jar, and cover it with a special quilted cozy (that I made myself). I wait the requisite four minutes, plunge the press downward to separate the grounds from the delicious dark liquid and pour steaming aromatic coffee into a heated mug. This process somewhat resembles a Japanese tea ceremony minus the kimono. I retire to the living room, my current book in hand, to savor my morning coffee.
On my recent holiday in Mazatlan, Mexico, I decided to breakfast at Juanita’s. I first wandered into Juanita’s a few years ago, following a hot tip from Tony, a beach vendor. He said he eats there and the food is always good. And he is right. The garlic shrimp cannot be bettered, nor can the price. One can walk by and not notice the few red and white checked oil-cloth covered tables with plastic chairs sitting beneath the corrugated tin roof held in place with crooked tree limbs. A concrete wall separates Juanita’s from the store next to it. This wall is covered with philodendron, ivy, ferns, and bougainvillea, all planted in coffee tins and plastic buckets. A row of Aloe and cactus separates the tables from the sidewalk. Back from the tables is a miniscule “store” with snacks and drinks. And behind that is the kitchen. Juanita’s is not on the tourist map.
I sat down at a table and when Manuel (I asked his name) handed me a menu, I ordered coffee.
He indicated two men eating at the adjacent table to let me know the coffee came in a jar of Nescafe. “Oh,” I said with a slight wrinkle of my nose and ordered orange juice instead. Breakfast was excellent and all for forty pesos. Juanita’s quickly became my morning hangout.
One morning Manuel placed cups of steaming milk, a small jar of Nescafe and a bowl of unrefined sugar before a couple at the other end of the table where I sat. “What is that?” I asked him. “Café con leche,” he responded. I watched while the couple each spooned a half teaspoon of coffee and a like amount of sugar into their milk. I was intrigued. So I told Manuel I’d like to try this café con leche.
When the hot milk arrived I measured the coffee and sugar and stirred them into my milk. Oh, my. It was better than good. It became my morning drink of choice in Mexico.
After I flew back to Seattle to spend time with my children and grandchildren, I missed my café con leche. So I stealthily set out to search for the necessary ingredients to make my own—namely, Nescafe instant coffee and unrefined sugar. Stealthily, because I didn’t want my friends in the coffee-drinking capital of the world to see me buying a jar of instant. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t sure I could find Nescafe in the outer reaches of Montana. I stopped at the coffee display of a giant super market, amazed. Nescafe offered me a choice of gourmet, House Blend, several flavors, and decaf . I chose “Clasico” because the jar label was printed in Spanish.
I hid the jar in my basket beneath bags of sea salt and fresh strawberries and went in search of unrefined sugar. I picked the sugar that most looked like that which I had spooned from the bowl in Juanita’s.
I still make coffee with my French press. But some mornings I reach into the darkest corner of my pantry and extract the jar of Nescafe instant and the sugar bowl. I heat the milk in my smallest pan, pour it into my cup, and measure half a teaspoon of instant and half a teaspoon of sugar. One sip and I am transported to Mazatlan and Juanita’s. Ole!
HDN: Looking out my back door
Sondra Ashton
February 9, 2012
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
My Homecoming
My Homecoming
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mom decided to take off for the balmy warmth of Mexico and left my brother and I to fill in for her. There is no way I can fill her creative shoes, but I’ll give it a try.
This summer I came back to Montana for the first time since I graduated from college. Oh, I’ve been back for visits, but flying in and out is just not the same as driving. Driving makes the experience more solid for some reason.
I loaded the typical mom van with husband, 2 daughters (18 and 5), luggage for 2 months (after all we would be gone 2 weeks) , toys, games, movies to entertain, snacks to feed an army, and 3 dogs. Picture one of the dogs being a petite English Mastiff. Yep, we were loaded to the gills for this adventure.
As soon as we got out of Seattle snarling traffic and crossed Snoqualmie Pass it was a heavenly drive. I never really notice how wound up tight I am until I get out of the traffic in this region and get back to normal drivers. I love when you meet in the middle of a lonely stretch and both drivers give a friendly finger lift of acknowledgement. They do that in Seattle also, just with a different finger.
After seeing 17 deer on the sides of the road and a semi grill, I decided St. Regis was a grand spot for our first night. We camped in a cabin built at the turn of the last century with a spent rifle casing in the yard. Enough said.
The next day began bright and early and we hit the road. After living in Seattle for 4 years, it is amazing how fast one gets acclimated to 45-68 degree temps year round. 104 when we hit Glendive was a little bit of a shocker. It’s a dry heat I told the kids. Somehow, I had forgotten about all the bugs. Dogs and kids had a great time chasing all the grasshoppers.
After the sun started to head to bed, my youngest couldn’t contain herself any longer and had grandpa out saddling his newest horse, which became hers. For the week in Glendive, daily rides were a must. She even rode the second day, right after breaking her arm at the family picnic. Glendive has a beautiful hospital, full of very nice people.
It was sad leaving family and friends in Glendive, but we headed to Harlem for the next leg of the journey. The road was mostly empty, with occasional semis until we hit Highway 2, then we saw a vehicle every half hour or so. My favorite part of this journey was seeing the billboard for Ft. Belknap Casino stating “It’s more fun than feeding the cows”. I took a picture and sent it to my friends at Tulalip Tribes where I work. They have a huge casino and I asked whether they thought this might be a new advertising trend.
We arrived at Grandma’s and took over. Her cats, formerly ours, hit the old shed and didn’t come out until we went to bed every night. The mosquitos all welcomed us and feasted at every opportune moment.
I have so many memories from Harlem and Hays. I couldn’t believe how many changes there were, and how much was the same. I took the kids on several drives and I would tell stories as we went about my different memories. I had always talked about the tree where I used to go to smoke cigarettes because I figured the leaves hid the smoke when I was 9. I was sad to see it had been cut down and is now just a stump. I wondered where the young went to be sneaky now.
All these memories got me really thinking about what I want to do with the next 20 years of my work life. I am a mental health therapist and was planning on finishing my doctorate in the hopes of getting that “I can conquer the world” feeling back. After sitting around the campfire with a friend I had graduated with, she said she had the same reason for getting her doctorate, and it didn’t work. I thought of what I really had always wanted to do, and it was law school. I stayed up all that night thinking of how I would love that.
I drove through the rest of Montana, Browning, to Idaho, and back to Washington in a fervor of excitement. As soon as I got back I jumped online and signed up to take the Law School Aptitude Test. I believe 50 is not too old to start my new career.
I’m not going to law school to work in a big law firm or make millions, I want to move home. I feel the need to move home and let our youngest grow up in a place with strong community values. I want to wave at neighbors and bake when someone is sick. I grew up with that. My children have been all over the U.S. and Japan as a military family. They know what’s out there in the world, but they don’t know what it’s like to have roots. Now that my husband is out of the military, it is time to get back to my roots. I’m ready to come home. So watch out Montana, the Robart’s are headed back home.
Dee Dee Robart (Rattey) for Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 26, 2012
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mom decided to take off for the balmy warmth of Mexico and left my brother and I to fill in for her. There is no way I can fill her creative shoes, but I’ll give it a try.
This summer I came back to Montana for the first time since I graduated from college. Oh, I’ve been back for visits, but flying in and out is just not the same as driving. Driving makes the experience more solid for some reason.
I loaded the typical mom van with husband, 2 daughters (18 and 5), luggage for 2 months (after all we would be gone 2 weeks) , toys, games, movies to entertain, snacks to feed an army, and 3 dogs. Picture one of the dogs being a petite English Mastiff. Yep, we were loaded to the gills for this adventure.
As soon as we got out of Seattle snarling traffic and crossed Snoqualmie Pass it was a heavenly drive. I never really notice how wound up tight I am until I get out of the traffic in this region and get back to normal drivers. I love when you meet in the middle of a lonely stretch and both drivers give a friendly finger lift of acknowledgement. They do that in Seattle also, just with a different finger.
After seeing 17 deer on the sides of the road and a semi grill, I decided St. Regis was a grand spot for our first night. We camped in a cabin built at the turn of the last century with a spent rifle casing in the yard. Enough said.
The next day began bright and early and we hit the road. After living in Seattle for 4 years, it is amazing how fast one gets acclimated to 45-68 degree temps year round. 104 when we hit Glendive was a little bit of a shocker. It’s a dry heat I told the kids. Somehow, I had forgotten about all the bugs. Dogs and kids had a great time chasing all the grasshoppers.
After the sun started to head to bed, my youngest couldn’t contain herself any longer and had grandpa out saddling his newest horse, which became hers. For the week in Glendive, daily rides were a must. She even rode the second day, right after breaking her arm at the family picnic. Glendive has a beautiful hospital, full of very nice people.
It was sad leaving family and friends in Glendive, but we headed to Harlem for the next leg of the journey. The road was mostly empty, with occasional semis until we hit Highway 2, then we saw a vehicle every half hour or so. My favorite part of this journey was seeing the billboard for Ft. Belknap Casino stating “It’s more fun than feeding the cows”. I took a picture and sent it to my friends at Tulalip Tribes where I work. They have a huge casino and I asked whether they thought this might be a new advertising trend.
We arrived at Grandma’s and took over. Her cats, formerly ours, hit the old shed and didn’t come out until we went to bed every night. The mosquitos all welcomed us and feasted at every opportune moment.
I have so many memories from Harlem and Hays. I couldn’t believe how many changes there were, and how much was the same. I took the kids on several drives and I would tell stories as we went about my different memories. I had always talked about the tree where I used to go to smoke cigarettes because I figured the leaves hid the smoke when I was 9. I was sad to see it had been cut down and is now just a stump. I wondered where the young went to be sneaky now.
All these memories got me really thinking about what I want to do with the next 20 years of my work life. I am a mental health therapist and was planning on finishing my doctorate in the hopes of getting that “I can conquer the world” feeling back. After sitting around the campfire with a friend I had graduated with, she said she had the same reason for getting her doctorate, and it didn’t work. I thought of what I really had always wanted to do, and it was law school. I stayed up all that night thinking of how I would love that.
I drove through the rest of Montana, Browning, to Idaho, and back to Washington in a fervor of excitement. As soon as I got back I jumped online and signed up to take the Law School Aptitude Test. I believe 50 is not too old to start my new career.
I’m not going to law school to work in a big law firm or make millions, I want to move home. I feel the need to move home and let our youngest grow up in a place with strong community values. I want to wave at neighbors and bake when someone is sick. I grew up with that. My children have been all over the U.S. and Japan as a military family. They know what’s out there in the world, but they don’t know what it’s like to have roots. Now that my husband is out of the military, it is time to get back to my roots. I’m ready to come home. So watch out Montana, the Robart’s are headed back home.
Dee Dee Robart (Rattey) for Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 26, 2012
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
When Our Children Are the Age We Are in Our Minds
When Our Children Are the Age We Are in Our Minds
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Remember when we were six going on seven. Remember when birthdays were a joy, a cause for celebration, awaited with keen anticipation. Remember the excitement of twelve going on thirteen, becoming a teenager. Or counting the days until we passed that major milestone and turned twenty-one. Ah, the sweet expectations of youth. Then suddenly we were twenty-nine and heading over the hill.
A few weeks ago I enjoyed the Christmas feast with my cousin Shirley and her older son, Tim. While sewing gift pillows for Shirley’s grandchildren, Truth and Titan, sons of her younger son Terry, I pondered all the lost years when Shirley and I lived a thousand miles apart. We never got to watch our children grow up as playmates and friends. So I made Tim a pillow too, a quite large pillow, a consolation gift for the five-year-old Tim I never knew.
In the course of our conversation, Shirley mentioned that Tim had turned fifty. My head whipped around for an astonished look at Tim, who nodded his head, then back to Shirley. “No,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. With my keen analytical mind, I instantly did the math and agreed, “Yeah.” My oldest is forty-five. My youngest is thirty-four. How can that be? I myself have barely reached forty-five. Right?
Wrong. Oh, so sadly wrong. How can my daughter be forty-five? I think I am forty-five. I feel forty-five. I walk into my bathroom. I contemplate the stranger in my antique mirror, faded and spotted with age. The mirror. The mirror is faded and spotted with age. I don’t recognize the stranger standing on the other side looking back at me. The fat old baggage. No, I don’t know that strange woman. I know me. And she is not me. I know what I look like. I remember perfectly well.
I have not changed a bit. Well, maybe a little bit. But just the other day, let me tell you, I felt carried back in time. It happened like this. I was leaving the Big R pushing a cart full of cat chow and wool socks. As usual, the wind at the top of the hill was blowing, teasing my hair and mussing my clothes. But the day was balmy for December, almost like spring. And suddenly I was filled with such exuberance, such a feeling of vibrant youth that I wanted to run across the parking lot. So I did. I jogged behind my cart, hanging on, in case I lost my footing. For a few paces I ran. I laughed that I could do such a thing. Okay, so maybe it looked pitiful. But what if I had ignored the urge and walked sedately to my vehicle? I would have missed the joy.
Remember how our parents used to admonish us, “Act your age.” Did you ever answer back (silently in your mind, of course, so you wouldn’t be backhanded into next Friday), “But I am acting my age.”
A couple years ago I was in Mazatlan, Mexico, with my friends Kathy and Melanie. I wanted to go parasailing. I wanted to parasail so badly that in my imagination I could feel the sensations of flying as though they were real. My friends put up a fuss. “You can’t,” they said. “Remember your banged up leg. If you go, you are on your own. We are not going to nurse you when you break your bones.” Finally the day came when I could put it off no longer. I went up, up in the air, tethered by a long rope to a boat way down there on the water. Oh, it was the most beautiful sensation, flying with the pelicans and frigate birds, just like I had imagined, times twenty. I’m glad I didn’t let my dear friends mother me. Now I parasail every year.
I’ve got to confess this. Sometimes I see a handsome young man and I think, “Oh, if only I were twenty years younger.” Somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my mind the gears whirr, “Look again, Chickie.” “Okay, so what I meant is, if only I were forty years younger.” Thank all the gods that ever were that nobody can read my mind.
So enjoy your gift, Tim, you hunk. Listen, kids, we are not ready for the nursing home yet. Maybe when we are really old, like about one hundred twenty.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 12, 2011
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Remember when we were six going on seven. Remember when birthdays were a joy, a cause for celebration, awaited with keen anticipation. Remember the excitement of twelve going on thirteen, becoming a teenager. Or counting the days until we passed that major milestone and turned twenty-one. Ah, the sweet expectations of youth. Then suddenly we were twenty-nine and heading over the hill.
A few weeks ago I enjoyed the Christmas feast with my cousin Shirley and her older son, Tim. While sewing gift pillows for Shirley’s grandchildren, Truth and Titan, sons of her younger son Terry, I pondered all the lost years when Shirley and I lived a thousand miles apart. We never got to watch our children grow up as playmates and friends. So I made Tim a pillow too, a quite large pillow, a consolation gift for the five-year-old Tim I never knew.
In the course of our conversation, Shirley mentioned that Tim had turned fifty. My head whipped around for an astonished look at Tim, who nodded his head, then back to Shirley. “No,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. With my keen analytical mind, I instantly did the math and agreed, “Yeah.” My oldest is forty-five. My youngest is thirty-four. How can that be? I myself have barely reached forty-five. Right?
Wrong. Oh, so sadly wrong. How can my daughter be forty-five? I think I am forty-five. I feel forty-five. I walk into my bathroom. I contemplate the stranger in my antique mirror, faded and spotted with age. The mirror. The mirror is faded and spotted with age. I don’t recognize the stranger standing on the other side looking back at me. The fat old baggage. No, I don’t know that strange woman. I know me. And she is not me. I know what I look like. I remember perfectly well.
I have not changed a bit. Well, maybe a little bit. But just the other day, let me tell you, I felt carried back in time. It happened like this. I was leaving the Big R pushing a cart full of cat chow and wool socks. As usual, the wind at the top of the hill was blowing, teasing my hair and mussing my clothes. But the day was balmy for December, almost like spring. And suddenly I was filled with such exuberance, such a feeling of vibrant youth that I wanted to run across the parking lot. So I did. I jogged behind my cart, hanging on, in case I lost my footing. For a few paces I ran. I laughed that I could do such a thing. Okay, so maybe it looked pitiful. But what if I had ignored the urge and walked sedately to my vehicle? I would have missed the joy.
Remember how our parents used to admonish us, “Act your age.” Did you ever answer back (silently in your mind, of course, so you wouldn’t be backhanded into next Friday), “But I am acting my age.”
A couple years ago I was in Mazatlan, Mexico, with my friends Kathy and Melanie. I wanted to go parasailing. I wanted to parasail so badly that in my imagination I could feel the sensations of flying as though they were real. My friends put up a fuss. “You can’t,” they said. “Remember your banged up leg. If you go, you are on your own. We are not going to nurse you when you break your bones.” Finally the day came when I could put it off no longer. I went up, up in the air, tethered by a long rope to a boat way down there on the water. Oh, it was the most beautiful sensation, flying with the pelicans and frigate birds, just like I had imagined, times twenty. I’m glad I didn’t let my dear friends mother me. Now I parasail every year.
I’ve got to confess this. Sometimes I see a handsome young man and I think, “Oh, if only I were twenty years younger.” Somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my mind the gears whirr, “Look again, Chickie.” “Okay, so what I meant is, if only I were forty years younger.” Thank all the gods that ever were that nobody can read my mind.
So enjoy your gift, Tim, you hunk. Listen, kids, we are not ready for the nursing home yet. Maybe when we are really old, like about one hundred twenty.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 12, 2011
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)