Walking In A
Winter Wonderland
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Admittedly, my wonderland is different
than your wonderland. My wonderland
lacks the beauty of new-fallen snow with crystalline flakes painting the
landscape pristine and pure. Neither does mine include snow-shovels, car engine
heaters, ice on the roads or frost on the windshields. Not that I have a car,
but you know what I mean.
Although cannas and hibiscus
continue to bloom and the geraniums look gorgeous as ever, winter snapped us
hard and fast a good month ago. Every night my thermometer plunges to 40. Forty is acceptable if one lives in a heated,
insulated house. My casita is neither
heated nor air-tight. It is downright cold.
I reluctantly crawl out of bed and
into long johns, a heavy skirt or jeans, two sweaters and a shirt, sometimes float
a zarape over the top. Make boiling hot coffee and go outside and sit in a patch
of sun until I warm up. Okay, this is hardly hardship. By 10:30 or 11:00, I’ve
generally peeled off most of the layers or am down to one sweater or have
changed into my “normal” clothing, cotton pants and blouse. Around 5:00, I begin adding layers until time
for bed.
This morning I sensed a difference in the
air—perhaps a winter reprieve. The local people wear parkas when it gets this
cold. I no longer own a winter coat, so I pile on the layers.
When I think I have it hard, I look
for the iguanas, sunning on the top of the brick wall. Iguanas, immobile in the
cold, only crawl out during the heat of the day. No good-morning greeting from
my drain-pipe iguana until May.
Blackbirds by the thousands,
including red-wings and yellow-heads, flock across the sky, wings rustling like
the noise of a freight train. Dust devils skitter down our dirt driveways.
Farmers have begun the annual burning of the cane fields,
preparation for harvest. The night air is smoky, like a campfire with a tinge
of burnt sugar smell. Every morning I sweep black curls of ash from my patio. Huge over-laden cane trucks crowd the highway,
moving sugar cane from field to the molasses factory in Tala.
It’s now been three weeks that I’ve
been without my bankcard to access pesos. My own fault; I didn’t keep track of
my expiration date. The good news is that my daughter put my card on a UPS
truck for delivery to me—eventually. Montana to Mexico—could be a couple more
weeks. Meanwhile, beans and tortillas is no joke.
While my pile of pesos has dwindled
to near-nothing, I keep my eyes and my mind on my true riches, the beauty which
surrounds me, the peaceful life I’ve created for myself. Nobody is going to let
me starve.
Winter or summer, no matter the
season, I suspect that without internet, I would have a more difficult time
living here. Or I would be writing a lot of letters longhand. Remember those? I
keep in touch with close friends, with my kids, almost daily. We laugh
together, cry over crises, share everyday news.
Last week I met another couple of English-speaking
women, Anna and Michelle, who live in Oconahua, just up the road a piece. They
opened a weekend pizza place.
Horst, a snowbird who lives in Washington half the year and
San Marcos the other half, has returned. Next week John and Carol will be here.
Our circle of friends is constantly expanding and contracting. Real riches.
Sometimes I make it sound like we
are one big happy family. Like in any family, we squabble. But we are
super-aware of our vulnerability. We depend on one another. So we work out the
wrinkles. This week one of us is running all around the mulberry bush trying to
gather troops for war instead of going to the source and stating the problem,
seeking a solution.
As Jim says, each time somebody stirs up the dust, that
person becomes our teacher. I’ve learned (more often) to look at my own
reactions, to find my own peace and let the person with a problem work it
without my “help”. I don’t need the hassle. Eventually the dust will settle
with no dead bodies.
Meanwhile, my laundry on the
clothesline makes a pretty picture with pants and shirts dancing in the slight
breeze. My plants are watered. My floor is mopped. Beans simmer on the stove. Winter
is here. Life is good.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
November 30,
2017
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