Simply Life and the Little Things

Simply Life and the Little Things

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            My friend Dick is gone from our lives. We feel sad. We feel relieved he no longer suffers. We feel guilty we couldn’t take away his pain and confusion. We will miss him, his kindness, his motor cycle rides to Malta for lunch, his incredible stories.

            Dick and Jane. Who would have thought I’d have ready-made such good friends when I moved from Washington to Montana. Dick and I were in the same class in school but we didn’t hang out together. We’d reconnected when I visited Dick at the VA Hospital in Seattle where he’d had surgery. We kept in touch by phone. Dick told me stories of Jane, with wonder in his voice, long before I met her.

            Dick tried to talk me out of moving from Washington. Montana is too harsh, too drastic, he told me. Well, there is truth to that. But truth is what I needed and I had to find a piece of that in Montana.

Dick and Jane “took care of me”. They made sure I was okay. When roads were icy and I needed to go to Havre for physical therapy, Dick drove to Harlem, picked me up, fed me after therapy and took me home. Now that is a friend. As Jesse, another classmate of ours said, “Dick is a good man.”

Shortly after Jane told me Dick had died, I was in the Cathedral in Etzatlan with other friends, three of whom also knew Dick. I sat for a while in the front pew thinking of him, tears streaming my face, tears I could not stop. Ah, Jane, it is hard.

Meanwhile . . .

Today sand sifts between my toes, surf caresses my ankles, while Steve, Theresa and I walk to Tony’s On The Beach for breakfast. We have only four days for me to show them my Mazatlan. Already, they love Mexico like I love Mexico. Today we designated as a beach day. We’ll settle under a palapa, talk, read and fend off beach-junk vendors. Perhaps, if we are hungry enough later, we’ll walk the other direction to Pancho’s for coconut shrimp. 

It’s the little things that matter. On the bus trip from Zapopan to Mazatlan, Steve put his water bottle in in a cup holder on the seat down by his calf. I saw that. Looked down by my seat and I had one too. My eyes bugged. “How did you find that? I asked. “On all the bus trips I have taken, I never knew there was a cup holder.”

“I learn something new every day,” Steve told me.

“Me, I’ve always tried to corral my water bottle and juice can between my feet to keep them from rolling all over the bus.” I had an empty seat beside me so that gave me two cup holders. I felt rich. It’s the simple little things that matter most.

Simple things, like a Montana sunset which cannot be beat for size and glory. For intensity, I’ll put up tonight’s Mazatlan scarlet sunset, smaller, more contained than a Montana sky, but unmatched as the fiery globe dropped into the Pacific.

Simple things like taking three hours to dine on a patio on the beach; three hours that flew by as a minute.

Simple things like remembering stories of Dick. One time Steve came to Montana to help me with a large work project.  Dick met him, holding a cardboard sign with his name printed in black marker, at the train station in Havre. Dick drove Steve over the icy roads to Harlem to my home. By the time they arrived, they were friends.

These are my people.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 26, 2018

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Seeing Through Other Eyes

Seeing Through Other Eyes

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            We don’t see ourselves. We aren’t able. Even surrounded by walls of mirrors, we only see glimpses and reflections. And I’m talking broad scope here. Not just the outside package of who I am. But the me beneath my skin and the life I create.

            So I delight in being able to share bits of my daily life with friends from afar who come visit. Sunday morning Steve and Theresa from Washington arrived tired and bedraggled after an overnight flight.

            Steve and Theresa are beneath the skin kind of friends; we’ve, over the years, shared blood, sweat and tears. We know where the bodies are buried. There is ease and comfort with this friendship that we’ve built simply, on daily life, no pretensions.

            “Mi casa es su casa” means more than mere words to me. I delight when people walk in to my place and are as at home as in their own place.

            From the entrance gate through patio and into my casita, my friends were entranced. And, like other friends who’ve been here, one look and they quit worrying about me, quit thinking I might be stranded in a foreign land.

            We are packing a few things into a few days. This is their “first” trip here. Next time, they said, after being here a mere day, they will stay at least a month.

            Imagine, coffee, croissants and fruit on the patio in the mornings. Dinner at the plaza while a group of musicians from Guadalajara performed on a stage set up in the street. A drive up to the Mirador, the overlook on the mountain with a view of the whole valley. Eating shrimp beneath the palapa on the edge of Laguna Colorado out by San Juanito de Escobedo. Egrets, cranes and white pelicans fishing in the lake. Cattle grazing across the fence.

            Come with us to the pyramid site of the ancient culture of Guachimontones. Afterwards, a stop to see Carlos and Brenda and their reproductions of artifacts and musical instruments of several native cultures.

Or a day in San Marcos where we go, shop to shop, to Don Ramon, Don Chuy and Don Chonito, all masters of clay pottery, each with his slightly different style. The sadness is that none of these men’s children or grandchildren wish to carry on the culture. Technology and making real money is more exciting.

The obsidiana shop is a different story. Two young men use the old ways modified with a foot-powered grinder, to produce tools, reproductions of artifacts and jewelry from beautiful volcanic obsidian. They travel the area to festivals and events to display and market their wares.

I love to take my friends to Tonala, to the tianguis, the street market where artisans of every imaginable craft display their handcrafts alongside tourist-junk imports from China. Even when I say there is nothing I need, I always buy something, this trip no exception. I bought a half dozen large clay pots for replacements. Two of my older pots with cactus are cracked and one is falling apart. 

We always try for a group gathering at Restaurante Don Luis, up on the mountainside. Kathy and Richard, Lani and Ariel, John and Carol join us for gab over huge plates of nachos. 

The best times of the week were sitting on my patio in the evenings, quietly sharing our hopes and concerns. With the new moon just past, the sky is dark velvet with stars hovering like low-hanging fruit we could reach up and pluck.

Seeing myself through the eyes of Steve and Theresa makes me feel rich and blessed and warm and much loved.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 19, 2018

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It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To

It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To

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            Setenta tres. Seventy-three. I bought a fancy chocolate cake yesterday at my favorite pasteleria. I’m invited to dinner at John and Carol’s house tonight. Nobody knows it’s my birthday and I ain’t telling.

But I’m taking my cake to share and will get great and secret pleasure from having a party when nobody else knows it’s my party.

Day on top of day, the years have a way of rolling past. Getting older doesn’t hold the same pizzazz and crackle for me that earliest years held. Remember the day you turned six? That was a real landmark.

Ten is another for me, and I’m not at all sure why. Twelve was a disappointment. Sixteen, for all the hype, was neither sweet nor remarkable. At twenty-one I was two weeks away from having a baby girl.

I have photos of myself when I was thirty-four in which I look to be an old, old woman in her sixties. Photos don’t lie. That was the emotionally most painful, lowest point of my life.

At thirty-eight, my photo shows a young woman who likes herself and has hope. I’d like to say every year got better but life holds too much variety and we all know that would be a lie.

Forty-nine was a blur. All I could think was ‘almost fifty’. When fifty came, I’d already lived the angst. A lot of foo-foo-rah for nothing. What is one more day?

Seventy-three I am and living a life I could never have dreamed at sixty-three. Fortunately, my body is relatively free from pain and that is a huge happiness factor, believe me; I’ve been in the other camp and I know the difference. Emotional pain is every bit as debilitating. When pain is present, celebrating the good stuff takes guts and a heaping helping of denial. My opinion.

Last week I met a woman from the near-by campground. She asked where I lived. I described the location. “Oh, you’re the garden. I walked by your place.” That’s as good a description as any I’ve heard. I’m the garden.

One of my red geraniums is so vividly red that it looks like liquid. I want to dip a paint brush into the flower and paint the world. This morning that cheeky squirrel ran over my naked feet as though I were not attached. Amaryllis, though only a few are yet to bloom, still stand tall in the garden, this their fourth month of show-off trumpets on stalks.  

Magnolia, jasmine and roses mingle their scent with a purple flower that has a cinnamon-like tang. Every day I see something new. A tiny seed settled onto my palm, a gift from the wind, propelled by a feathery plume. I’ve no clue what it is; a mystery seed bearing life.

My five-dead-trees are in full leaf. Again, this year, I insisted, “They are dead. Look, twigs are dry and brittle.”

“No, just wait. They will leaf in March, remember,” Leo said to me. I shook my head, negating the possibility. I am wrong. Buds in March. Leaves in April. Flowers in May. Is that a kind of birthday?

Seventy-three.  Tonight I eat dinner with friends. I share my chocolate cake. Next week Steve and Theresa from Washington will arrive to visit. The dead trees might be in flower while they are here. I can hope. Leo shakes his head, “May.”

No matter. Have you ever seen a mother-in-law-tongue in bloom—beautiful yellow flowers on a tall stalk? Jade and asparagus ferns are flowering. There is no shortage of beauty.

Leslie Gore sang her song of tears at her party and I can cry at mine if I want, but maybe, instead of tears, I’ll have my cake and eat it too.  

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 12, 2018

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Iguanas and Other Sentient Life

Iguanas and Other Sentient Life

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            That iguana spit on me today. I stood below him, next to the wall in my front-patio courtyard, watching him soak up the sun. He turned his head, looked me in the eye, and spit. Well, that’s a fine howdy-do.

            No manners. But, maybe, like many a youngster, he had a valid complaint: “She looked at me.”

            There’s a pair of what I call teen iguanas, middle-sized, who sun at the top of that particular section of wall.

            You should see them skitter up—or down—a vertical wall. Yet, despite Velcro feet, often I see, or hear, the iguanas fall from the top of the bricks down to the ground. Maybe they jump.

            I spend an inordinate amount of time watching iguanas, contemplating behavior. Theirs, my friends, my own.

            Julie came by this morning. She is leaving tomorrow for her Minnesota home. We sat for an hour observing tanagers, warblers, hummingbirds and bees in my Bottlebrush tree. Today is the first day for the bees in such great number. They must have a nearby hive. It was a peaceful way to say good-bye. Julie will be gone several months, back in the fall.

            Jim left last week for Missouri. I lost my Qi Gong partner but shifted my pattern and began morning walks with John and Carol. They’ll be here another month.

            There is constant coming and going on the Rancho. Three winters ago, Lani and Ariel were the only full-time residents. Within a few weeks of one another, Pat and Nancie, Carol and John, Jim, Kathy and Richard, Crin and I purchased homes. Another several months and we were joined by Tom and JRae and Julie and Francisco. All but Lani and I have homes elsewhere. Thus, the constant coming and going.

            My first two years, I pretty much had April to October to myself. I’m used to solitude. I lived the same pattern during my years in Mazatlan so I was used to being alone. This year the pattern is broken. A strange tantrum is being pitched inside me.

            I love my friends. I do. I’m sad when they leave. I am delighted that I will have my neighbors back, one or two at a time, in April, May, and June and July. August is unknown. September I’m gone. October and November most of my friends return for the winter.

            My strange little temper tantrum within is because I also want my solitude. Well, that’s me. I want it all. Given a choice between cake and pie, both with ice cream, my answer is “Yes”.

            So, there. Now that I’ve said it, it all sounds rather silly. Truth is, we don’t live in one another’s pockets. We each have our own lives, our own interests. When we get together, we do so because we want to be together.

            I like my friends and neighbors. And they like me. When they are gone, I console myself that I have my iguanas. I’m not sure the iguanas like me. Not one of my friends has ever spit in my eye.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 5, 2018

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My Simple Life in Purple Contemplation

My Simple Life in Purple Contemplation

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            This morning after Qi Gong, I told Jim, “I write my column today and my mind is blank.

            “Easy,” his reply. “Write about purple.”

            We were beneath the Jacaranda, which this week is a purple umbrella, sheltering fifty shades of birds burying their heads in each blossom, milking the honey-nectar.

            In that disconnected way that one thought leads to another, I knew that what I really wanted to write about is my simple life.

            “Jim, the more I pare down my life, the more important small things become. I see little things, always there, that I wouldn’t have noticed when I was so busy. Like last night, about the time you were watching the movie with Bonnie and Sam, the birds were performing a symphony so powerful that my knees collapsed me into a chair to sit and listen.

            “Or the three geckos I saw yesterday. Or the white amaryllis, the only white one. Or the large gray snake that slithered through my front yard and back out last evening.  Ordinarily, snakes terrify me. But that one was beautiful. I had to get closer to her just to look. Those little bits of beauty touch me deeply. Things that in my busy life I would not have noticed. Or not had time to notice. Same thing, maybe.

            “Purple, huh? Well, I’ll think about it.”

            My intention, in moving to Mexico, was to create a new life, not to pack my old life and drag it behind me when I crossed the border.  I’ve done it. My life is small. Pared down to minimalist proportions.

            For example, I brought with me one electric appliance, a food processor. I left behind a kitchen full of gadgets. My new juicer is a metal device with a cups at each end. Squeeze half an orange by bringing together the halves. My mixer is a wire whip. Or a large spoon powered by elbow grease. I do have a washing machine, quite old, non-electronic. My dryer is our ever-present sun. One hour on the clothesline or two hours in winter; clothing is dry. I do own an iron.

            I have one cupboard, two shelves, with dishes. Sigh. I do love dishes. But, I have all I need, all I can use, all local pottery.  Same with pots and pans.

I brought fifty favorite books, including my Shorter Oxford English Dictionary. Kindle satisfies my book obsession.

            Not feeding and maintaining an automobile has more than economic benefits. For example, yesterday Lani, Carol and I spent a good many hours in San Marcos, just up the road. In exchange for the trip, I bought lunch, a two-hour sojourn at El Parrel, hidden away on a back street. The food is always excellent; companionship a bonus.

            Kristen, my son Ben’s special woman-friend and sweetheart, said, “What about your one-hundred-plus potted plants, which take hours of watering every day? Doesn’t sound simple to me!”

            Oh, yes, that. I can explain. “Kristen, it’s all about containment. Plants grow here at a prodigious rate, obscene almost. When I got here, the yard was a jungle that I cut back mercilessly and started over. I figured the alternative to wild jungle was to contain plants in pots, especially things like jasmine, bamboo, mint and oregano. Otherwise, one day a lovely flowering plant; next day, one is out in the jungle with a machete hacking back the monster before it strangles you and eats your body for breakfast. So my hundred-plus pots are for containment. Which works. More or less.”

            In some ways, my life has always been rather simple. I never wore makeup or dyed my hair. No tattoos or body metal ornamentation.  But I like the looks of a streak of vibrant color in a woman’s hair. Kristen promised me she’ll make it happen when I visit next fall. 

            Which brings me back to purple.

Now that my hair is more silver than brown, I’d like to give a streak of color a try. It’s not forever. I’m leaning toward purple. A discrete steak of deep purple.

The sun is lowering in the sky. I shall change into my only purple dress and go sit beneath the Jacaranda, heavy with purple blooms, and await the avian sundown serenade.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 29, 2018

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