Hit Might Be the Ar-thur-i-tis

               Hit Might Be the Ar-thur-i-tis

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               I woke from my dream with that southern hill-country woman’s voice in my ear. The voice, 

the memory, from past years, was triggered in that non-linear way of memories, by a phone conversation with my daughter the previous day.

               My oldest granddaughter is in a precarious place in her life. A baby with babies. Jessica is young, alone with two babies, lonely, no job, no direction and thinking biologically instead of using her logical brain. I remember those feelings; I was young once.  

Harper’s father sent her train tickets for a visit. Harper is Jess’s older daughter, my great-granddaughter.  Jess wants to leave three-year old Harper for a few days with her Dad, whom she has not seen in two years, while Jess goes off with old friends and has fun. I say this with complete understanding of and compassion for Jess’s need to escape fears and uncertainties she lives with daily. 

What we know of the father’s family is that Jess would walk into a situation fraught with high risk that the other grandparents could snatch her child, among other dangers.

My daughter’s quandary, of which her sharing has given me ownership too, is, where are the borders between interfering, helping, and enabling? Jess is an adult. Well, a baby adult. We know. We understand. We once were all-wise baby adults too, making decisions with body-parts disconnected from brains.

Dee Dee gave Jessica a home when the baby, born to a mother flying high, was a mere six hours old, adopted her and raised her. Jessica is a beautiful young woman and a good mother. But we don’t forget the years of work with a severely fetal-alcohol damaged child, the lack of understanding the consequences of her actions, the areas of brain damaged beyond repair.

We know the dangers. We know the consequences. We know the pain which has no end. We’ve walked that road of bad decisions, my daughter Dee Dee and me, separately and together.

We cried, slobbered on the telephones. Jess is an adult. She’ll make her own decisions, good ones and otherwise and we cannot control her, only love her.  

So I took that to bed with me last night and in that night-time anti-logical way, mixed family worries with recent X-Rays of my own body, riddled with arthritis throughout.

Dreams and memories merged into horse-back riding across the plains, miniature blue buffalo, and a visit with my own mother when she lay dying in a hospital in southern Indiana. Dreams are another anti-logical mechanism.

My mother was committed to the hospital and left my life when I was four, back when there was small understanding of mental illness and treatment thereof.

The visit, when I was in my 40s, was no dream. My mom was a shriveled up little thing, I could have held her on my lap. We spent hours just loving each other without words, forgiving and accepting forgiveness.

Across the hall an elderly man lay, also silently dying. He had a stream of relatives in and out his hospital door. One morning I overheard his wife complain. “Ah don’t right-ly know, “she said. “Hit might be the Ar-thur-i-tis.”

I’ll always remember that scene. When nothing seems to work, when life is a muddle-puddle, when faced with the impossible, I think, Hit might be the Ar-thur-i-tis.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 26, 2018

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Slantways, Like a Crow

Slantways, Like a Crow

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            That morning while eating a plata de fruta on the patio, ten feet from the incoming tide, a family of Tenates, Grackles to you and me, swooped onto my table.  They look like ill-groomed clowns, like they got up on the wrong side of bed and forgot to comb their hair.

While I believe sharing food is good and honorable, these birds are of the crow family, and like their northern relations, are unrepentant scavengers. I invited them to leave. They grinned, all six of them, and perched on the chair opposite me.

            I laughed. I enjoy the antics of these birds. They seem to go about their lives with a ‘come what may’ attitude.

            With that laugh, I got it. In the very back closet of my mind, high on a shelf, I had formed a puzzlement of wonder at my unusual behavior. Why did I, in that spur-of-the-moment decision, jump on a bus to Mazatlan, for no discernable reason? I got it.

            I’m no adherent of geographic solutions to problems. Changing locations seldom solves any sticky situation. But, different surroundings, different people, different atmosphere, can jog one into a different perspective.

            Let’s face it. My perspective, my thinking patterns, had gotten dull and stale as last week’s moldy bread slathered with a helping of self-pity and topped with the “if onlys”, a sure slide into depression had I eaten the whole sandwich.   

            My trip had been a nice break. With the sound of the surf pounding the sand still in my ears, coming home felt like moving backwards from high summer into early spring, wearing a new pair of clean glasses making colors and lines sharper, more vivid.  

            Since the rains began mid-June, we’ve had rain in Etzatlan nearly every day. Real rain. Rain to fill the city wells, which had dropped to the level of a bucket or two away from restrictions and water rationing. Sunshine days. Thunder rules the nights.

            Corn and cane crops are shooting up well past the elephant’s knees. The agave fields are a brighter blue than I’ve ever seen in this dry country.

My own garden does me proud, a salad buffet for the iguanas, except for the roses. Jewel-toned beetles, blue-green in the sunlight, munch the soggy rose petals as fast as they open and the leaves look coated with rust. Ortho and pruning shears to the rescue. I’ll soon have a bed of naked rose stalks. They’ll revive.  

I have a pot of beans simmering on the stove and a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the counter. Papaya for dessert. And I’ll slide into my hot tub for a soak before bed.

Instead of despair, I see hope. In place of work, I see fun projects. I’m surrounded by all manner of creatures that talk to me when I make the effort to listen.

I’ll tell you, it is good to pay attention to those silly crows. They know how to live.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 19, 2010

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I’m Not There; I’m Here

            I’m Not There; I’m Here

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            I like to mix my metaphors. Images impossible evolve. In partnership with Jim, I bought a pig-in-a-poke, a hot tub that wasn’t working.

            Between Jim’s persistence (stubbornness) and Josue’s electrical knowledge, said pig works like a hot-diggity-dog. To me, it’s a gift of finest sensibilities. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Our horse on pig’s trotters didn’t have a full set of teeth; no matter, easily (cheaply) resolved.

            With tub fully functioning, precipitating daily dips, I discovered it best to wait until the sun went down to indulge. The UV index here hits the extreme zone daily. Which led me to want/need an umbrella. Explored options via internet. Said umbrella that would work properly cost five times the cost of the tub. Sheesh.

            Leo and I put our heads together and chewed our brains. Several restaurants in town have open courtyards with an overhead canopy of mesh-material. Might that work?

            Three days later Leo installed my sombra canopy. It’s perfect. Total cost of $55.00. And it shades my two south windows, thus keeping my casita cooler. I indulged in shady afternoon dips (as opposed to burning sun splashes).

            Purely on a whim, the other day I boarded the posh autobus from Zapopan and ran away to Mazatlan. Even now, I’m not sure my motivation to leave perfection, a working tub, a new shade, garden growing like Jack’s magic beans, sunshine days, rainy nights, for a country of high humidity and scorching temperatures.

            Because I could? Because I love Mazatlan? Because . . .

            This trip already had an ominous beginning. I’m almost afraid to leave my hotel room. Almost superstitious.

            Ominous. Our bus was delayed by four unusual security stops along the highway.

            Then I arrived to a packed lobby, thousand-thousand persons, all checking in. My name made the bottom of the list. Two hours later, hot, tired, shaky and crabby, I entered my room and collapsed. Threw open the windows and turned off the air-icer.

            Crawled in bed at 6:30. Pitiful, I admit. Phone rang in the middle of the night. Woke me from dead sleep. “Please close your windows. It is storming.”

            Indeed. Spectacular lightning over the ocean. The wind had whipped my curtains out the window, flapping in a wild attempt to sail the seas to China.

            I complied and collapsed back into bed. All I could think was I’d have to replace shredded curtains. I was too tired to inspect them. That would take, what, two minutes? No, I chose half-sleep worry.

            Once fully awake, in the morning light, I inspected for damage. Curtains were intact. I delivered a small propina for the night manager, in gratitude for the middle-of-the-night wake up. Cheaper than new curtains.

            Then I sold my morning soul to a time-share presenter in exchange for a week of internet which would have cost me the equivalent of three months service at home. Sheesh. I managed to squiggle through without too much slime.

            This was not my ideal holiday. I headed to my room to recuperate.

            Only to find that the elevators in the lobby were all out of order. There are four elevators to the Tower. And one set of stairs. I had chosen to stay in the fancy place.

            As I contemplated trudging eighteen flights of stairs with a cane, a maid descended to the lobby. She opened the elevator door. Several of us rushed past her onto the elevator and ascended, gratefully. Am I the only one seeing a pattern?

            I had my friend Carlos drive me to Callecita for carnitas de atun, a favorite meal in a favorite place in Old Town. On the way back we mussed, by minutes, a huge slab of window-wall glass that fell from a second story bank building onto a white SUV. If I were superstitious . . .

            In my room, I worked a system of open windows, curtains to the walls, chairs in corners, with low risk for storm damage. In bed early. Dreamed of soaking in my tub.

            No further mishaps. As I said, I’m not superstitious. I’m not.

            Thunder rumbles the skies. Rain has come, has gone, will come again. It’s a good day to hang out under a palapa on the beach, contemplate the seas, book nearby, stay out of elevators and off the streets.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 12, 2018

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Everything Changes

Everything Changes

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            Remember when the Big Store in Havre was Buttrey’s? What a magnificent place to shop, in the Atrium, with an escalator. That was truly “down town”. And Havre boasted many, many smaller stores, enough to satisfy any shopper’s needs.

            Then the Mall on the hill was built; things changed. Stores closed in the center of town. The Mall struggled, filled, struggled. Another big store came to town. An independent grocery left.

            My heart lurched when I read that K-Mart, Sears and Herberger’s are due to close. To me, these seemed to be community keystone stores. Things change.

            Havre, the community and the area it serves, is an anchor for people from hundreds of miles around, including a steady stream of visitors from our northern neighbor. I’ll watch proudly, hopefully, while Havre bucks up, takes it on the chin, and comes up with a plan for revitalization.

            Years ago I learned that often a “disaster-of-the-time” enables me to make changes for the better. The curse becomes a blessing. Often, not always. Depends on me.  Am I willing to step beyond my comfort, go out on that fragile limb and make a drastic change?

            This morning I asked Leo to take me into my little town for a shopping. “A shopping.” That is the way I want to say it.

            We could drive to Guadalajara where every Big Box store created lives. Last year I walked into one of the largest malls in the world. Inside is a store with shoes, a pair of which costs more than my net worth. Fascinating as that mall can be, I was uncomfortable.

            The first stop today was at the egg lady’s. This woman in her 90’s in very poor but behind her humble door, back of her dwelling place, she has a large courtyard with garden and chickens. I buy my eggs from her.

            Across the street I sent Leo into the plastics store for heavy trash bags for lawn clippings. I went to the candy store next door for coffee caramels and Hershey’s kisses. My neighbor Erica is ill and chocolate cures everything.

            Next stop the Farmacia Similare for my anti-inflammatory, the only “real” medicine I take. Around the corner is the Comex where I stocked up on throw-away brushes, a liter of marine varnish and one of black paint for metal. I want to spruce up my gate and my patio furniture.

            From there we whizzed around another few blocks, parked and walked to the Mercado where I filled my basket with mangoes, nectarines, tomatoes, onions, peppers, bananas, broccoli and a baking potato. And peanuts, so I can make peanut butter.

            The next tienda supplied me with cheese, also crema for which there is no exact equivalent in our stores, and a jar of Nescafe Decaf, for those rare times I want an afternoon coffee.

            Up the block and around another corner, I bought la licuadora, a blender to us, from one of our small appliance stores. I didn’t think I’d ever buy one. I get by without electric appliances. But I have grown fond of the aguas made with liquefied fruits and vegetables. A blender makes that job easier than my by-hand method.

In another store I found a new dust pan. My old one broke. Our dust pans here are on poles like a broom. No need to stoop to the floor.

            I finished my shopping with a clutch of fresh cinnamon sticks, long as my forearm, from yet another tienda. I prepare my morning coffee with all the pomp and circumstance of a Japanese tea ceremony. Grind beans, heat the French Press, put in coffee and a measure of stick cinnamon, pour on boiling water, cover and brew. Ah, the flavor.

            Everything changes. In the last year, the powers that be in our little town let be built two Big Box stores, to the consternation of the majority of the people. Some like one-stop shopping. Personally, I like “a shopping” which routes me all around town to the little tiendas.

            Tiendas. Malls. Down town. Out of town. Remember when you ordered from Sears or Monkey Ward and took what you could get? The future is the present and past combined. We order online, without touch or real knowledge, and hope we can live with what arrives. Changes?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 5, 2018

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