To State the Obvious.

 

To State the Obvious.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Life is hard.

I’m fortunate. I never had to go through the shock of ease ripped away. Life for me was always hard. I thought that was normal. I still think it is normal. I’m aware of how easily we rewrite our own histories, making them fit some drama-trauma of excuse. I try to hold myself to standards of emotional honesty.

I’ll give a hard life credit for my ability to find beauty and peace and love in small moments. Ease and comfort have never been my goal. I’m quite capable of choosing the rockiest road all by myself.

Having said all that, I’ve never faced a tsunami of mud or experience my house shatter around me in a tornado or live with fear of Eboli or live in a cardboard box under the bridge, although I’ve had the fear of being under the bridge in the cardboard box with starving children.

I used to pace the floor, telling the Great Mystery that if the box under the bridge was next, okay, but I’m not going alone. I told the Great Mystery, whatever that means, that he-she-it would need to be there with me. Somehow, some way, a job popped up, rent got paid, the power wasn’t shut down, we had food to eat and work to see us through to the next bridge.

See, I’m fortunate.

For me, life is winding down. I’m in my 80s with all the pains and age deterioration that goes with waking up another day.

Life is hard.

I just got word that another close friend has cancer. First, I told him, as I’ve told others, “No. I forbid it.” Sure, that helped a lot. Then I wrote a long letter letting him know how important he is in my life and how much I’ve always cared for him.

Life is hard.

We just got ripped with a destructive hailstorm accompanied by wind from four directions and two inches of rain in two hours. The part of Mexico where I live is lush with vegetation, greenery abounds. Amazingly, here on the rancho, none of our houses were seriously damaged. No trees were uprooted.

Everything was shredded. Thick skinned plants such as my Madre plants, succulents, my pineapple, the papaya, all look like they contracted small pox. The papaya fruits which are close to ripening look like they are bleeding with small pox. Tree and plant debris cover the ground.

The following days, every morning, my back yard hosted sixty or seventy birds, foraging through the grass and debris, searching out goodies all kinds.

For some reason, the ants proliferate. All kinds and sizes and colors of ants. The leaf-cutters have obliterated my oleanders and dancing-skirt plant and crepe myrtles, among others, leaving naked stalks and branches. I feel itchy crawling on my skin and generally find the culprit to be one or another of the ants, which I crush without a qualm. No Zen from me toward ants. Having said that, I let three different kinds of spiders live, with a shrug of kindness. I don’t claim to understand myself.

Life is hard.

I hurt. My insides are a mess. My outsides are rusting, broken, missing parts, falling apart, out of gas. I could bore you with physical complaints, but, they bore me more. I figure I’m past eighty years so I should hurt. I do.

I’m fortunate. I woke up this morning, got out of bed, had coffee, measured the night’s surprise of rain fall, let my dog slurp all over my hands, baked a batch of cookies.

 Life is good. Hard doesn’t negate the good. I learned in my early years that I could choose to find goodness or to live in despair. To me that choice is a no-brainer.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Even the Earth Cries

 

               Even the Earth Cries

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

For me here in central Mexico, the week has been extraordinarily quiet and peaceful.

I am well aware that all around me is a world in flood, beset by fierce winds, on fire, people, families, entire communities lost, wars and rumors of wars.

My friend Sandy wrote me that one of the greatest joys in life is savoring good food.

Instead of an article, I’m sharing a photo taken in one of my favorite markets, Etza Fruts. Pepe, the proprietor, always has a smile and a good word for every person who passes through. His market is filled with fresh fruits and vegetables, grown locally and throughout Mexico and Central America.

Sometimes I like to simply stand in the middle of an aisle, just for a moment, close my eyes and inhale the various scents, especially of the exotic (to me) fruits. The vegetables have their own earthy scents. I am a fortunate woman, indeed.

Looking Out My Backdoor

Sondra Ashton

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Family

 

               Family

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I was hanging laundry on my rotary solar dryer when I could hear the phone ringing in the house. I don’t carry that thing around with me. When I went inside, I checked to see who’d phoned and called Leo back.

“Would you like to go for breakfast?” I’d had oatmeal/avocado cookies with coffee an hour earlier. “Of course, I’d love to go.” I figured I could fit in breakfast and call it lunch.

I didn’t even ask where. Leo headed out of town toward San Marcos. My mouth, which knows its own mind, prepared itself for lengue. I told my mouth not to get so uppity. Lengue is a specialty and they run out early. Sure enough, Leo pulled into the roadside eatery.

This place must have a name but I don’t know what. It’s built like a three-sided shed with the open kitchen at the back, tables, large and small, at the front. The floor is shale gravel.

Leo is a pleasure, always respectful, with a full bag of stories of family, friends and community. We both are weather worriers. We care about our land, our surroundings.

After rain nearly every day through June and July, we turned the corner into August, historically the month with most rain, and August became October. October, with morning cloud fogs, winds, tall grasses browning. No rain. It’s a worry. A big worry. Even the quality of light shouts, October!

This is a beautiful morning, too lovely to bury ourselves in worry. The sun is shining, quickly burning off the foggyf cloud cover. The breeze is light and pleasant. The mountains are still lush from July rainfall. What’s not to like?

Leo’s tamales, rich with pork and red salsa, a side of frijoles, looks good. My lengue, smothered in green tomatillo salsa, tops a cheese-filled gordita. Two versions of heaven on plates. We dig in. I know my face mirrors my satisfaction.

Halfway through my meal, I sat back a moment and started laughing.

“What?” Leo asked. “This is so perfect, Leo. Just look around us. Look at the mountains, the view, the fields across the highway crowded with corn taller than any Oklahoma elephants’ eyes, in full tassel, perfect food in front of us, surrounded by people having fun.

“Leo, the family sitting behind you, three generations, talking and eating and seeming to love life. You don’t fake that. The couple beside us over there, same thing. The older couple just came in, greeted and hugged the family behind you, squeezed the baby, and now, look, they are hugging the couple next to us. That’s pure community, good neighbors.

“This is a perfect morning for me. I know I’m not part of the families but I feel like I share with them anyway, even out on the perimeter. Thank you for bringing me, Leo.”

“What would you be doing if you were still at home?” Leo asked.

“Mopping my floor,” I replied. “Of course, I’d really rather be home mopping than here enjoying the great day, great company, great food.”

This is where I live. This is my life.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

Still dry in August

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Living With Lizards

 

       Living With Lizards

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Last night when I swished back my bedcovers and hoisted my legs into bed, a small creature slithered from top to bottom of the bed on the other side. My immediate fear was of a scorpion. My fear was immediately relieved by my astute scorpion knowledge. This critter was too skinny, it didn’t attack and the outline shape didn’t fit. Whew!

The part of me which wanted to ignore my bed partner was overruled by the part of me which had to know. Out of bed and around. Oh, cute. A baby gecko, about two inches long. I left the child perched on the lower corner and climbed back into bed.

I know an adult gecko lives in my bedroom. I’m familiar with it, used to her presence. She’s lived with me for months, perhaps years. I give it no attention except an occasional, “Nighty night.” She likes to hang onto the window screen, hoping a mosquito will slither through the mesh, which happens. It talks to me most nights. I don’t speak lizard, so I’ve no idea what she says. In the daytime, the gecko hangs out behind a picture frame.

When I first moved to Etzatlan, whenever I would spot a lizard, any lizard, seen because they move so quickly, I would startle. You know. The involuntary jump, heart in throat, squeak response. Lizards come in several sizes, colors, styles. They blend into their backgrounds so well, you hardly know they are around until they move. Those little guys are whip fast. In short time, lizards became background to me. I see them everywhere, and now I hardly register that they are present.

Of course, there are iguanas too, a different creature entirely. I appreciate lizards, including the geckos, for eating ants and flies and mosquitoes, of which, there are too many. Iguanas are vegetarian, favorite food being my hibiscus blossoms, preferably each eaten in a whole gulp. I’ve considered making iguana soup, or iguana on a stick. Tastes like chicken, right?

Back in bed, my mind wanted to play a game: If a mama gecko hatches one egg, how many eggs might a mama gecko hatch? I told my mind, “Shut up and go to sleep. I’m too tired to play.” Sometimes that works. Do they lay eggs? That started a whole new train of thought? Where is papa gecko? Is the gecko I heard outside my living room window really inside my living room? Soon the boxcars began lining up on the siding.

I’m tired and a tired mind makes up its own stories. Do we need a daddy gecko? How many geckos live with me? Do they go outside? How do they get inside/outside? Chug, chug, toot, toot. I recalled picking up two kernels of gecko, uh, evidence, from beneath my coat rack by the door. Finally, the train motion lulled me to sleep.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A Pie Eyed Mess

 

          A Pie Eyed Mess

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 It’s been a rough week for me and my pooch, Lola. I’m a mess. Lola is doing better than I am and she’s the one who limped home bleeding.

I’m going to fill in a bit of the back story for you. Sky is about a year and a half old now. Up until one day in April, Lola and Sky were good play buddies. Sky often accompanied Lola and me on our walks and it was a pleasure to watch their running-dog games.

On the day play turned mean, another dog attacked Lola. Sky watched, tilted her head and you could almost hear her thoughts, “Oh, so that’s the way it’s done.” Sky joined the fray. This took an instant, rolling Lola and biting at her. I began yelling and wielding my cane, lot of good that did, but the dogs let go, Lola raced home, unhurt.

From that day, Sky lay in wait, on the alert to bully Lola. Lola scampered home multiple times. Lola is not and never has been an alpha dog, despite her age.

Most days I could talk Sky down so the dogs could play. About a month ago Sky got a new companion, Cloud, a street dog rescue. Both dogs are big. Sky is not dumb. She taught her new mate everything she knew. Some days Lola would not leave our yard. I kept on the alert.

I was out cutting a magnolia flower from my tree outside my wall. I like to put a magnolia in a small bowl and have the scent waft throughout the house. All of a sudden, there was this unholy racket, barking, squealing, yelping pain. I screamed, “No, no, no.”

I’m not about to separate fighting dogs. My yelling stopped the pair of aggressors and Lola limped home, bleeding freely from her front leg. Her back, thick with long hair, was coated with slobbers. I couldn’t find any other owies. Lola would not let me touch her leg but the purple stuff sprays everywhere.

I kept a watchful eye on Lola in case we needed to go to the vet. Lola is fine, healing quickly, hasn’t even picked her scab. I’m a mess. If I were a dog, I would pick.

I let the neighbor dog owner know what happened. He won’t take any action. Dogs will be dogs. That’s true. One thing I know, true or not, is that once a dog has tasted blood, they will go for it again. It will happen. Dogs will be dogs.

I’ve rearranged outside time for me and Lola. I’ve a large back yard, so Lola has plenty of running room. I use the back gate for our shorter walks, out of the line of sight.

I’m a mess. I don’t feel safe from dog attack, not for Lola, not for me. I could easily be mowed down in the middle.

 Lola is part of my therapy. She senses my unease and gives me extra attention. I know, it should be the other way around. 

My other therapy is my oven, my go-to stress relief. I baked buns. I made crackers. Yesterday I whipped up a leek pie. Today I made an apple pie.

I could do worse. It keeps me off the street. My few neighbors benefit. I share with Lola.

And, I’m filling my freezer.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Oh, Dem Bones

 

Oh, Dem Bones

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It’s Sunday morning, cloudy sky, stormy in the area with weather lurking. I just walked next door to see if Janet needed help. I can do little things. Open a can of cat food. Cut up a pineapple.

Thursday, Janet was lugging a full garbage can of garden debris, walking backward, tripped on a jutting brick, and broke her right arm. Yesterday our Bone Doctor set her break and put it in a cast.

All of us women on the rancho are enamored of our Bone Doctor. He’s the man who fixed my hip. He’s more than just a pretty face. He works and teaches at University Hospital in Guadalajara and comes to Etzatlan on Saturday. Our little hospital brings in all kinds of specialists. 

Janet and I are the only gringos still on the Rancho this summer. We know we need one another. More so when any one of us sustains an injury. Others around us pitch in to help. People are good that way.

I’m not the only help she has. Others around will pitch in. Bonnie and Samantha surely will be checking on her regularly. Bonnie makes the best bone broth. Leo doesn’t work Sundays but I’ll bet you a homemade doughnut that he’ll call around a today to see if Janet needs help. Ariel will stop by to ask if she needs anything from town. Our friends from Oconahua will be by.

These are awkward days and Janet will make it through them with help. Needs keep us aware of how we are connected with friends and neighbors. Needs coupled with pains make us aware of how interconnected all the parts of our bodies are, other kinds of neighbors.

Break an arm and it’s not just the broken part. One’s entire arm swells and throbs. Fingers become useless. Balance is off. Every motion of our body needs to be thought through. Add worry and frustration to the pain and our whole digestive system goes bonkers. Muscles we didn’t know we had are called in to compensate for those which no longer can function. More pain.

Like it or not, we are made up of parts which work to be a whole. There is an old song that says it better than I can.

The arm bone’s connected to the pain bone. The pain bone’s connected to the heart bone. The heart bone’s connected to the neighbor bone. The neighbor bone’s connected to the community bone. The community bone’s connected to the County bone. The County bone’s connected to the State bone. The State bone’s connected to the Nation bone. The Nation bone’s connected to the World bone. The World bone’s connected to the  . . .

You and I are somewhere in the middle, shaking dem bones.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When Neighbors Were The News

 

          When Neighbors Were The News

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back when I was in high school, and, yes, that was an eye-rolling long time ago, I eagerly awaited the day when the weekly Harlem News was delivered to the mailbox, a mile down our driveway. We also received the daily GF Trib, but that was not as fun to read as the local.

Based on my own self, I’m confident that Everybody read Every Article, front headlines to back page sales ads. I might modify that to Almost Everybody read Every Article, since, after all, I read cereal boxes if nothing else was available. (Books were not allowed at the meal table.)

Of course, we read every scribble. The news was all about our neighbors, and what is more fascinating than our neighbors.

Each week, prior to press deadline, women sat down in front of their telephone with a list of reliable informants, other women, because back then, men were out in the fields or were  running the hardware store or insurance office and such, and dialed down the list, querying what was happening within the family and the area, jotting down every tidbit of gossip, I mean, news, which then made it into print, perhaps with judicious editing.

This homey style news reporting went on for years. When did such neighborly news quit being gathered? I knew that everyone in Harlem heard when Paul Ashton’s daughter, Sondra, living in Great Falls or Santa Cruz or Denver or Chicago or Missoula or Poulsbo, Washington, visited.

I suppose social media, in all its forms, replaced the neighborly news. It’s not the same. We do not all indulge.

I enjoyed knowing that relatives visited, that friends gathered for Sunday fried-chicken dinner after church, that somebody hosted cards Saturday evening, that neighbors gathered to harvest a crop when the owner broke a leg or was otherwise incapacitated. It’s small news, but important when our neighbor’s son or daughter at an out-of-state University wins a accolade of some sort. We need to know who might need a casserole delivered during tough times.

In the spirit of old-timey news, I report the following from my own back yard neighborhood:

It’s been a rainy, wet, week at Rancho Esperanza, but the daily storms did not curtail neighborly visiting, card playing, quick visits back and forth or over the fence.

Last Tuesday, Nancie, with her daughter, Julie, and Julie’s husband, Dan, arrived to spend a week at Nancie’s Rancho casita. Nancie is my cousin, so I have been doubly delighted to spend time with relatives.

Thursday Janet, from next door to me, invited those few of us here, for homemade ice cream. With her new-fangled modern ice-cream mixer, Janet can be dubbed our ice cream lady. Janet served a choice of vanilla with mango sauce or butter pecan. Several guests enjoyed a scoop of each. Those attending were the hostess, Janet, Lani and Ariel, Leo, Nancie, Julie and Dan, and my own self.

Sunday afternoon, following yet another storm, the above group, along with Leo’s two young nieces, met in town at the Mi Casa Restaurante for a bon voyage feast of traditional area foods. On Monday morning, Nancie, Dan, Julie and Lani fly off to homes in Washington State. The group table was soon cluttered with plates and bowls, empty of pozole, tostados, flautas and enchiladas. A good time was had by all.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________