Tequila
Lifts Her Skirts
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Sunshine! After a solid week of
all-day, all-night rain, the sun shines. Tropical Storm Lidia whooshed
unrelenting rainclouds our way before veering off with a huff into the Pacific,
energy dissipated.
We nestle in a mountain valley dominated by Volcan de Tequila,
or Tequillan, “the place where they cut”. Volcan de Tequila has been inactive
for 220,000 years but once spewed obsidian throughout an extensive area. People have mined obsidian here since ancient
times.
Since she no longer threatens to
erupt in temper, blue agave plants, the main ingredient in the Mexican drink,
tequila, cover her magical gentle slopes.
After a week of modestly hiding her
feet in thick clouds, today Volcan de Tequila lifted her skirts. She
coquettishly hides her face behind a white-cloud fan. We turn our own faces
toward her, with ancient veneration.
I take a break from chores to sit on
my patio and breathe in the rain-cleaned air. I cannot get complacent about the
quality of light. Colors appear deeper. I’m more acquainted with the washed
colors of the sun-drenched plains. I marvel at this phenomenon, difficult to
describe.
The greens are greener. The red of
the red geranium petal is more intensely red. It is as though the light shines
onto and through, penetrating every leaf, every petal. The common yellow
butterfly is more yellow. Nothing looks drab. Every color is “in-your-face”,
shouting for attention. These are not prairie wildflowers, hiding behind
gray-green leaves, afraid of sunburn. I know; I just anthropomorphized plant-life
but that comes close to how I feel.
My sheets hang on the line, wafting
in the breeze. I keep an eye on the eastern horizon, birthplace of afternoon
rain clouds. (There is balance to this strange nature; if I leave my clothing
too long on the line, bright blouses will sun-fade to shadows of former color.)
I unpin laundry as soon as it is dry. Showers spring overhead in minutes. If
clothes get wet, oh well, they’ll dry again.
I’m reminded of a strange practice I
grew up thinking important. We used to line-dry the laundry, bring it indoors,
sprinkle each item with water, roll it burrito-shaped and place in a basket to
await ironing. We ironed the damp clothing dry! Does anyone else remember this
quaint practice? Does anyone remember ironing? Why did we do that? Why did we
quit?
While I check if my laundry is dry,
I see a new iguana has taken residency in my drain pipe by the clothesline.
Nobody I ask remembers why the useless drain pipe to nowhere was installed or
what purpose it fulfilled. I found last year’s iguana, old and gray, dead
behind a brick wall several months ago. This new iguana is darker, younger than
the grandfather I first met. The old man tolerated me with a cold eye and
turned his head, unmoving. The youngster scurries into the crook of the pipe,
unsure of my intentions.
A crop of new-born iguanas scurries
among my plants, crosses the patio, suns on the wall, gorges on hibiscus and
canna lily flowers. If all lived to maturity, I’d need to declare open season.
I’ve not seen proof, but I imagine the young creatures are food for birds,
especially the ever-present vultures.
I see another crop of leaf-cutter
ants, carrying bits of hibiscus flower to their storage center. No mercy; I add
ant poison to my two-page-long garden list.
Just when I think my
garden has reached ultimate perfection, I notice that the ice plant flanking my
front door needs to be repotted; the lavender has exceeded its use-by-date.
I plan to huck out the rock-garden surrounding the stump and
roots of a once dangerous pine. I’ll enrich the soil, discard some original
plants, especially a creeping vine, too vigorous for the small space. I’ll add
moss roses.
My “five-dead-trees” have black leaf. A trip to Centro Vivero
to consult with David heads my list. I’ll replace oregano and basil, decimated
by the ants. This time I’ll put them in
pots, along with the rest of my herbs. That means I’ll buy more pots though I
said I wouldn’t after I shamed myself by counting 97 pots around my patio.
My list is long. But where would I be without the pleasures
of my garden, constant attention though it requires. The sun still shines. My sheets
are dry. Drain-pipe Iguana poked his head out of the pipe and gave me the
stink-eye but didn’t scurry back underground. Volcan de Tequila winks shamelessly
in the distance. I see a whole world of
wonder when I choose to look.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
September 7,
2017
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