Just Walking in the Rain

                                                                Just Walking in the Rain

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

            “Just walking in the rain. Getting soaking wet. . . People. . . stare at me. . . saying who can that fool be.” That fool be me.

            Gloriously, deliciously drenched. Three hurricanes this month held promise of rain and then either drifted out to sea or fizzled into nothing. Not a drop of rain in months. Then one morning, the skies burst. I waited for a pause in the downpour and headed out for a walk. A block from my casa, the sky unzipped right on top of me. I loved it. Instantly I was dripping, sopping, soaked with warm rain.

            I felt like a kid again, running through the sprinklers or playing on the lawn during a summer rain. When did we start grabbing raincoats and umbrellas and boots? Why?     

            A few steps to shelter, beneath an umbrella of a tree, thick with waxy leaves, waiting for another pause in the downpour. The sweet elderly, and I say elderly with trepidation, man who walks his dog and kisses my hand when he sees me, shared my shelter for a moment. We laughed at the wonder of our first real rain of the season. He kissed my cheeks, European style, and moved on. A young woman walking the center of the street, paused, gave the universal arms akimbo sign for “What can you do.” We laughed, sharing the moment.  

            The main street, Sabalo Cameron, roared curb high and over, like a creek in flood. Buses sent plumes of water shooshing over the sidewalk. I changed my intended direction, scooted around the corner to shelter at the fruteria. When patches of blue appeared and the rain settled into a gentle sprinkle, I picked up my laundry next door at the lavanderia. Back home, I peeled off wet clothes and hopped in the shower.  

            The entire month of June, albeit following a perfect sub-tropical winter, Mazatlan had sweltered under a tropical depression, with three in-line hurricane threats off shore, Hoovering up any breeze, leaving air soggy with moisture. One might drown by breathing. One need not lift a finger to be bathed in sweat. “Mucho calor”, the greeting of the day, while sopping one’s brow. Overhead, a flat blue sky.

Following that gift of rain, I checked the forecast daily, hoping for a repeat performance. Rain was often predicted. But weather follows its own whims. I wooed each puff of cloud like a desperate lover. The next three days dawned blue, clear and white hot. I hold tight to the promise of the monsoon season, July through September. But most of August and September I will be in Montana. Do you suppose it might rain?

Finally, this morning the western sky loomed purple as a fresh bruise, clouds heavy with promise. I scooted out the door to the lightest of sprinkles, like baby kisses. I never got wet. The drops dried on contact. But I enjoyed the promise. Monsoon rains are around the corner. People tell me after a rain, comes the steam bath. I don’t care. Bring on the rain.

When I got home I swabbed my floors and drenched the potted plants out my front door with the mop water, a leftover habit from too many drought years.

Though it goes against my Puritan upbringing, I’m going native. I understand why offices close for the sweltering afternoons and people disappear from the sidewalks. Activity, chores, projects get scheduled for the polar ends of the day.

Old habits are hard to break. At first I napped sneaky siestas, accidents of sleep, hiding from myself. Guilt finally slunk around the corner. During the afternoons, without conscious thought, I enjoy a half-hour nap time while my ancestors who formed me with their sensibilities roll in their graves.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 25, 2015

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Road Not Taken

            The Road Not Taken

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

            I could have been a surgeon. That is one possibility. Political geography, architecture, and anthropology; intense fields of interest. I sigh at lost possibilities.  Now and then I think about them, the latter three.

            Raised when and where I was, none of the above vocations were realistically within my reach. Nurse, secretary, school teacher; my limited options. I didn’t have a passion for any of them but knew the first two were out of the question so settled on the teaching course, at which I was a success, then a failure and once again, a success. Life, eh. Then I went on to other vocations as my life twisted and turned on the roller coaster.

            Back in the Jurassic Times, in high school, we were subjected to a series of tests. One that sticks in my memory showed that among other abilities, I tested high in mechanical aptitude. Made no sense to me. I could give a fig about cars and how they worked. It took years to realize cars, for me, had nothing to do with mechanical ability. Your story may be different.

            It’s true. Often I have an uncanny sense of how things work, how to take apart and put together. At times I’ve been able to make certain items, a wringer washing machine comes to mind, work even better than before it broke down, even with the extra parts left over. I never did figure out the extra parts. However, items frequently have unnecessary extra parts. I’ve assembled hundreds of Christmas toys. Trust me.

            So why surgery? Where there is a need . . . My daughter Dee Dee is plagued with an extremely painful knee. Oh, lord help us, do I ever have experience. My right knee was shattered in a car accident years ago. I had three surgeries in as many years and lived with increasing pain for the next forty-some years. At which time I had knee replacement surgery.

I know how to do this. I have empathy. I don’t want my girl to go through decades of pain.

Knees seem fairly simple. A vertical slice with a sharp knife, roll aside the flesh, saw the top and bottom bones off, throw out the middle section. Replace with a ball joint (I’m sure I can find one in an auto or farm machinery parts store) with a post welded onto each end. Drive the posts into the leg bones, wrap the flesh back around, and fasten the two sides together with hog rings and wait for it to heal. Smear daily with Bag Balm and it will hardly leave a visible scar. Voila, a new knee and no more pain. A simple mechanical solution.

So I told Dee Dee that all we need is a Skil saw, a hot glue gun for cauterization, hog rings and pliers. Her husband Chris joined the conversation and said he had a chain saw. Crude, but it will work. Her father has fencing pliers and hog rings. I have the glue gun.

Dee said she refuses to let Chris and me near each other. Why not? We love her. We want to help.

Of course, we have a few loose ends to tie up. Anesthesia, for example. But, hey, we are talking about the good old Montana frontier do-it-yourself work ethic here. So the good old frontier anesthetic should be good enough. And my daughter is not a drinker, so a small amount of “medication” ought to do the trick. Chris said he’d hold her down.

There is one little bitty drawback to this plan. Blood. Blood renders me unnecessarily and helplessly queasy, particularly my own children’s blood. In fact, back when I was considering the big three decision, nurse, secretary or teacher, blood knocked out the first option without question.

Chris suggested a swig of frontier medication might work wonders on my squeamish stomach before letting Dee Dee finish the bottle. And, of course, historically there is well documented evidence that frontier physicians relied heavily on this self-medication to remedy all manner of social ills. I’m not crazy about that option. But I figure this is just one of the small problems, easily solved.

Let me think on it. After all, surgery is a simple matter of mechanical dexterity. I hope there are not too many extra parts.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 18, 2015

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Life Without Logic

            Life Without Logic

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Envy me if you wish. My living room ceiling leaks drops the size of tadpoles. The wind stirred by Hurricane/Tropical Storm Blanca, like an angry sieve, filtered a heavy layer of grit over everything in my casa. The entire week has been muggy with temps in the nineties and air as heavy as water.  

            Mama Dove has taken her pair of baby doves, scruffy creatures, through basic flight instruction. The first day, as mama dove called encouragement, orders, from the top of a palm in the opposite corner of the courtyard, the babies perched on the edge of the flower pot nest and flapped their wings. The next day they flapped, lifted off the runway, and flew away into the mango trees. I witnessed it. What is this world coming to? The children are not old enough to have a license.

            Every morning I hobble out into the courtyard to harvest mangoes which have dropped in the night. I eat mango: plain mango, mango with yoghurt, mango with every fruit, mango in salad, mango sauce on mahi-mahi. I mince mango and store it in my refrigerator freezer. I give away great bags of fresh mangoes. The second tree is a different variety of mango which hasn’t ripened yet. I fear I may begin to disdain my favorite fruit.

            In my explorations of local eating establishments, I have never found mango pie on a menu. So I created mango pie in my kitchen. I cannot eat a whole pie, so I shared my pie with Carlos when he came to take me to the market, with Marie, Sylvia and Reuben at the corner Luncheria, with Johnny at the tienda across from the resort, Pueblo Bonito. With strangers. Wonder if I could create a cake.

            When I walked out my door I could hear the surf over the sounds of traffic on the main street. This is unusual, another by-product of Hurricane Blanca. I walked down by Pueblo Bonito and cut behind to the beach. The surf was high, waves shooshing one on top of another. I walked the beach down to Tony’s by the Bay where I stopped for breakfast. When I left my house, I had not intended to eat out. But I decided to sit and watch the water. For the price of breakfast, I stuffed myself like a pig, took home enough food for a second meal, and “rented” a table for an hour and a half of mesmerizing wave watching; a bargain.

Carlos stopped by to ask if I had another piece of mango pie. So I took advantage of opportunity and had him drive me along the malecon during the height of the dancing waves, wind whipping the spume up the seawall and across four lanes of traffic. Carlos said this week the fishing will be spectacular. Storm water moves the fish inland. Ordinary moments sublime

            A wise man once told me that we are incapable of seeing ourselves. That’s one reason why we need people in our lives. Others act as mirrors, teachers, truth-tellers, thorns. I remembered those valued words from Bob when I read Evelyn’s message: “How wonderful, Sondra, you took the plunge and re-invented yourself in another place.  And after a serious operation you are out laughing at the grim reaper, laughing and running to the nearest beach to walk, swim and sit in shade. You have a full life, well lived and enjoyed. How I envy you.”

            Ah, Evelyn, with your three-story brownstone filled with art and books on a cobbled street in New York City. Maybe we are not aware of it, but we all are to be envied. 

Bless you, Evelyn. Before I could get the big head over all the positive praise, I recalled a number of equally close and wonderful friends, true friends, who think I am crazy as a coot. And, of course, other friends will fill in the blanks between the two extremes. Know what? All are absolutely correct in their assessments. We sift our observations and opinions through our own filters—can’t help it.

Now and then I shift and shake and scrub my “filter”. I owe it to myself to see my friends clearly, with grace and gratitude.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 11, 2015

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Heat Nor Gloom of Night

                                    Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Heat Nor Gloom of Night

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

            Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds reads an inscription on the James Farley Post Office in New York City, the unofficial postal creed.

            Maybe the creed also applies to the UPS. Although it makes no mention of tornado, hurricane, earthquake, tsunami or flash flood or volcano, I believe both delivery services strive to do a decent job.

            Through my own stupidity, I got tangled in a Brown Truck nightmare.

            Nearest I can figure I got stupid April 28.  Richard and I were walking the beach. Kathy was housebound, had sliced her heel on a broken bottle in the sand. Richard and I cut across the beach to the street so I could use the nearby ATM machine. We are long time friends with like interests. My mind was distracted with our stimulating conversation. I think I left my card in the machine. I’m not sure. I can create another couple possible scenarios, equally stupid.

            It took me two days to discover my card was missing. I checked my account. No activity. That was a relief. I emailed Debbie at Bear Paw, who had saved me from myself before this, asked her to stop the card, to issue a new one and mail it to my daughter who would send me the card via UPS.  

            No worries. In a couple weeks I would have a new card. Meanwhile, friends were in town. Then my cousin came for a week. I had places to go, people to see, things to do. I had pesos in my wallet. With rare forethought, because the exchange rate is excellent, little by little, I had put aside a small stockpile of pesos toward next year’s rent. Plenty for two weeks.  

            Sure enough, about the 12^th of May, Dee Dee called me. Mom, your credit card arrived. Because of our work schedules and because UPS in Glendive is only open 4:30 to 5:30 for shipments, Chris won’t be able to send the card until Friday.

            Chris is a trooper. He sent my packet out Friday the 15th. I figured it should arrive Wednesday. But just in case, on Tuesday, the 19^th of May, I submitted to voluntary house arrest. I didn’t want to miss the Brown Truck.  All week I skipped walking. I cancelled my weekly trip to my favorite market. For necessities, I walked to my local fruteria, up the street, around the corner, after 6:00.

            Monday, the following week, no Brown Truck arrived. (You might wonder why I didn’t track my shipment. In a fit of weekend housecleaning, my daughter inadvertently tossed the receipt.) By Tuesday I felt a hint of depression. Wednesday brought flutters of panic. Thursday, panic and despair and poverty. Two weeks in transit? How can this be? I was a mess.     

It gets worse. Friday, I was unfit for man or beast to be around. Chris, bless his heart went to UPS, told my sob story, got the tracking number.

            You will think I made this up. May 15^th my packet left Glendive. On the 16^th it went to Bismarck, Dickinson and back to Glendive, homesick already.  After a rest, on the 18 it went to Billings. Tough trip over the pass. Another rest. On the 20^th it went to Casper, Wyoming and Commerce City, Colorado.  Remember, severe storms across the plains at that time.

            On the 21^st it reached Vernon, Texas, by rowboat for all I know. It bounced around Texas a while, whooshed through the clearing agency in Fort Worth, passed to Mesquite and San Antonio, dodging tornados and sloshing through floodwaters, arrived in Laredo the 26^th.

            The shipment waded crossed the border to Columbia, Mexico the 27^th. Remember, at each stop, UPS picked up more goods heading south. On the map Columbia looks pretty small, so it was probably in Monterrey that the customs officials gave the huge shipment the stink eye and decided to inspect every piece before releasing it. Probably over coffee and donuts. On the 29^th, I was assured that my card had sailed through San Luis Potosi and on to Guadalajara. I was promised my card would reach Mazatlan and my quivering hand June 1.

            Well, I wasn’t going to hold my breath. But sure enough, Monday morning that familiar Brown Truck stopped in the street outside my door. I could feel my shoulders drop from my ears down to where they are supposed to be, loose and relaxed.

My envelope marked “Extremely Urgent”, opened and taped shut on two ends, had signed up for a seventeen day tour with sixteen stops.       

    

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 4, 2015  

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________