Where Lines Converge

            Where Lines Converge

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            When passing by a mirror this morning, I thought, “Lord, oh dear, I’m composting.  Well, aren’t we all but that’s no consolation.

            Which thought led me to a memory that shook me to my bones. My Aunt Mary, at 90, who had composted a lot by that time, said to me, “I’ve outlived all my friends. There is nobody with whom I can talk about how it used to be.

            “And many can’t hear me when I talk about how it is now,” she continued.

            Which memory led me to several threads, lines converging to a point of shared thoughts and ideas.

            That’s what it often feels like living here. I have no history shared. I have only the present. It is a complicated situation. Sometimes I’ll start to tell a story about my past, realize my audience of one or two is not listening, stop the story and nobody notices. I find that amusing. We are all so into ourselves.

            With poetry, I can talk to my past.  I had finished a poem that I couldn’t have written a year ago because back then I still figured I had to wait until everyone died because what if someone recognized him-or-herself.   

            Yes, I agree. My reluctance to write certain experiences was ridiculous. It’s hard to be honest when you can’t be honest. Not only that, people see only what they want to see in my writings. And, what I intend does not matter one whit. We all read what we need.

            I was playing with my poem on the computer when I heard from Cheryl. She talked about how good it was to share feelings of guilt and to be able to talk with our group of friends about family situations with honesty.

            In England, Karen and her husband were dealing with a health scare. She felt safe to tell us about how scared they were, how relieved they were getting help. 

            Ellie chimed in with her experience with skin cancer, caught early, which she is treating with a cream.

            Denise admitted that it is still hard for her to share deep thoughts and feelings with others. She agreed that sitting home alone in one’s head is a sure road to depression.

            Cheryl wondered how much of our reluctance to speak our reality came from our families, from the ways we were taught.           

            All the metaphors we inhaled and ate and digested became a part of who we are. From “Don’t hang your dirty laundry on the line for the neighbors to see” to “don’t toot your own horn”, we were taught to keep it all, good or bad, to keep it all to ourselves.

            A dozen years ago, when our small group of high-school classmates agreed to keep in touch regularly, to get to know one another, we began by sharing little bits and pieces. We found we hadn’t known one another at all. And our families were a total mystery.

            Gradually we earned trust; we began sharing the larger pieces of our human puzzle, the pretty and the ugly, to be met with understanding, support, tears, laughter.

            How can we know ourselves, how can we know our friends, until we can speak freely words which are true? When I tell you what is going on with me, I get to hear myself, my thoughts, my worries, fears, hopes, dreams and helplessness. Sometimes I laugh, I cry, I cringe, I shrug.

            For me it is a great huge tinsel-wrapped gift to be able to talk to you, to my friends, my family. I don’t even know what’s true for me when I’m in the middle of it. I need to hear my own words.

            Even in the same family, we each speak a different truth. It is important that I understand and speak my own truth. And if nobody else understands, that is none of my business.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 23, 2018

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Girl on Bike, Woman in Red Car

            Girl on Bike, Woman in Red Car

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            It’s a mystery. I hear Jack Webb’s voice (Sargent Joe Friday) in my ear. “Just the facts, Ma’am. Just the facts.”

            July 25, a sweltering sunny afternoon, my granddaughter Antoinette, rode her bike down Kendrick, a side street in Glendive, Montana.

            At 3:30 her Mother sat in her office, recording client notes into a file, waiting for her 4:00 appointment, when her phone rang. “Mom, come get me. I wrecked my bike. I don’t know where I am.” She was on a street she rode every day.

            A woman, whose name we do not know, took the phone and told Dee Dee that Antoinette was on the lawn of the church.

            Meanwhile the woman who had picked Antoinette off the street and helped her to the grass, laid the bike beside her, waited for Dee, got into a red car and drove off. Thank you for stopping and helping, whoever you are.

            Dee’s office was five minutes away. She rushed out of her office, leaving the door open. Dee helped Antoinette into her van, stowed the wrecked bike in the back and drove straight to the hospital Emergency Room.

            At the hospital, Antoinette admitted she remembered nothing. She rode along the street and then she was in the street, down and hurting. Obviously she had a concussion. Her right arm was broken, third broken arm. The flesh on her hand was skinned back. Road rash covered her left leg knee, thigh and shoulder. Her right knee has either a hairline fracture or severe bone bruise. And, she hurt all over.

            It wasn’t until the family got home and Chris, Antoinette’s Dad took the bike out of the car, that they realized that the “accident” was not as simple as believed. Her brand new bicycle was crumpled, the handlebars not just loosened but bent out of shape and the brake line had ripped apart. The tires and seat were twisted. Antoinette’s bike helmet has two holes in the top as well as a long scrape the length of the helmet.

            Those are the known facts. You tell me what happened.

            Antoinette is twelve years old. She’s had mild cerebral palsy since birth. Luckily her disease is not severe.  From birth she has had physical and occupational therapy and she is encouraged to stay physically active. She typically rides her bike a couple hours a day when weather allows.

It is a month later and Antoinette still has no memory of what happened. She has intense headaches and still suffers high levels of pain.

            Glendive is a small eastern Montana town, population about 5500, just off the freeway. Everybody knows everybody.  They are good people, just like our neighbors. Kendrick Street is not a main thoroughfare. Nobody reported the accident.

            Obviously Antoinette didn’t hit a rock in the road and lay down her bike. Who hit my granddaughter? I have many questions and no answers. We’ll probably never know.

            I’ve un-intentionally laid my bike down on the rutted gravel roads I rode around Harlem more than once back in the day. Worst I ever suffered was skinned knees and gravel bits welded to my palm. Something is really wrong in this story.

            It’s a good thing Dee Dee is a bike-helmet tyrant. (Dee said moms of CP kids tend to be tyrants.)  If she weren’t, I might not have a granddaughter.

            I know it seems silly to our generation. None of us ever wore a bike helmet. There was no such thing. But if you don’t have one and can’t afford one, I might know somebody who’d get you one.

            Schools are back in session. Kids are walking and biking, laughing and talking. It is up to us to be alert. Please, please, please, watch out for our young ones.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 30, 2018

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And the Cat Came Back

And the Cat Came Back

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            I consider myself a pretty practical person. Yet I find myself incredibly sad, from time to time, mourning the death of Cat Ballou. I had an opportunity several weeks ago to adopt a new kitten from Ballou’s mother’s latest litter.

            “No. I leave in two months to see my family. It wouldn’t be right for me to take a new kitten and then abandon her for several weeks.” See, practical.

            Yesterday morning Nancie phoned. “Can you come over to visit?” My cousin was leaving the next day, back to Washington. We had already made plans for me to spend a few hours with her, so her call surprised me.

            Surprised, that is, until I walked through her gate and saw a rag, a bone and a hank of hair lapping milk from a dish on Nancie’s patio. “Nancie, you are a sneaky sly one.”

            I sat down, lowered my hand and twiddled my fingers. The scrawny cat came over and nuzzled into my fingers, leaped into my lap, stuck her nose up to breathe my breath, settled into a circle on my lap, and purring, fell asleep.

            “I can’t take her. I leave in two weeks.” The other three women on the patio nodded their heads. I smelled a sinister plot.

            I’m no expert on guessing age but this feline was gangly legged, what I call a teen-ager, still more kitten than cat. “And, she stinks.”

            “Let’s bathe her,” and matching action to words, Nancie jumped up, got a basin of warm water, a shampoo and towel. Next thing you know, the cat was in the water, limp in my cousin’s hands, getting a good scrub. I took her in the towel to sop up the water.

            She obviously had been handled, by children. She didn’t object to any indignity. I’ll bet some little girl dressed her in baby clothes.

The cat, just as obviously, had been lost, abandoned, chased away, or somehow on her own for a couple weeks, at the least. She had appeared at Nancie’s door, starved, with several small scratches and a larger wound on her hind leg, was no doubt wormy and maybe mangy, her coat beyond cartoon scruffy.

To add to those indignities, the poor thing is ugly. She’s part Siamese, part Calico. She has splotches of gray, tan and black on her white body, with yellow markings on her ears and kinked Siamese tail. Blue eyes, of course. She was not one to elicit, “Oh, you poor, poor, pitiful thing, come home with me.”

Despite my hard heart, I took her home. Fed her. Made a bed with a Mexican blanket in a large animal crate, smeared Bag Balm on her owies, and held her most of the afternoon.

Cat, dishes and bedding are relegated to patio. At dusk I went inside and closed my door. I figured if the cat was still there in the morning, I probably own a cat.

This cat has been around people. She’s not a yowler. We both had a peaceful night. She greeted me with purrs, weaving through my legs when I went out in the morning to feed her.

I leave in two weeks. If she is still here when I get back in October, then a cat owns me. By then, I’ll know her name.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 16, 2018

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The Wrath of Ralph

The Wrath of Ralph

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            Rule # 1: Never write when sick.

            Rule # 2: Do whadevah ya gotta do.

            It’s a virus, I’m sure. Caught it from a hug from Josue, who thought he’d eaten bad mangoes. Four days ago. Mangoes good. Virus bad. Hugs good.  I’m not going to live under a blister-pak.

            I twist myself into knots in order to avoid paying obeisance to the toilet god, Ralph. Fortunately, neither my stomach nor my mind felt hunger that afternoon. I felt listless. I should have seen the clues.

            Next day, you couldn’t have forced food past my lips. The very idea clenched my gut and enhanced my mental picture of myself, on my knees, in the little chapel, paying my respects. Both mind and spirit abandoned me. I wanted to die.

            Day three, I ate bread, a little melon. Energy low. Could see shadows of human on the horizon.

            Day four, enough is enough. I felt better. Ate breakfast. Ralph tapped me on the shoulder. Not now, I said. I need to catch up on all the work I didn’t do the last three days, right?

            Prepped pineapple and mangoes to eat later. Washed dishes, dusted, swept, mopped. Collapsed. Ralph returned in fury.

            No article from me this week. I’m very sorry. I’m on a retreat. A rest. Seeking refuge in book and bed. Making peace offerings to Ralph.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 9, 2018

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The P O, a Prayer and Poetry

The P O, a Prayer and Poetry

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            I live at #3 Nopales on a small piece of the Rancho Esperanza set aside for a dozen or so retirement homes. That’s the sum total of any pretense to an Americano community in this still traditional small village of Etzatlan. It’s not an official government-recognized address. No mail delivery.

            Jane emailed me that a woman she knows, a woman without benefit of email (How quickly we believe if we do it, everybody does it.) would like to correspond with me. This is not my first such message.

            But it is the first time I addressed the issue in a non-convoluted way, by-passing third party relays and such non-workable ideas. I often have great, even brilliant, ideas that don’t work.

            The local mail service is in a corner office above the Mercado. A tiny corner office. Mail is delivered by bicycle carriers from blue pouches hung on their battered bicycles. Everybody knows everybody in that small town way. There is little need for individual boxes. The mail boxes off in the corner take up about three feet by four feet of space. Little keyed doors just like ours.

            I presented duplicate copies of my passport, my electric bill to prove where I live, my Residente Temporal card. The amiable clerk filled out what seemed an inordinate number of pages of information on her computer while I stood waiting at the counter. 

            This happened to be an unusually hot morning, one of the few in which it had not rained in the night, in this, the rainy season. Not a breath of air reached the upstairs office. Mucho calor!

            A half hour later, when the clerk finished my application paperwork, she explained that she had to go downstairs, across the street, to the internet café to print the papers for me to sign. The office did not have its own printer. This is not unusual. I’m used to it. Didn’t bat an eye. This is business in a small village.

            I secured a chair from an office next door. Sat and waited. There’s always a line at the internet café.  And of course, everyone knows everyone else. Chit chat of the day. This is not unusual. I picture all this while I wait. I’m used to it. No problema. I have a chair.

            An hour later, I signed numerous pages and now have a key and an official snail mail, real mail address: APDO Postal #3, 46500—Etzatlan, Jalisco, Mexico. Please do write.

            I grabbed fruits and vegetables in the Mercado downstairs and headed to the car which was parked on the side street by the Cathedral.

I was suddenly and inexplicably visited with an overwhelming urge to go inside the Cathedral.

            I sat in the ancient wooden pew and burst into tears. I think that might be prayer. Wordless, no entreaty, no requests for help, no expectations, no thanksgiving, just hot tears. Twenty minutes later, I thanked the Great Spirit and was ready to go home. 

            After washing my face and putting away my groceries, I sat down to work on my poetry.

First and foremost, I am a poet. Ha—wait a minute—I saw that. I saw your eyes glaze over. All poetry is not vague or incomprehensible. I believe my work is accessible, easily understood, simple even. I write everyday stuff in everyday language.

I’ve been invited to read at the monthly gathering of poets at Poulsbohemian Coffee in Washington in September. This is a great honor for me, to once again share my poetry with friends where I once lived.

            So as long as I’m sharing personal information, let me also share this. I have begun an online forum for my poems: www.montanatumbleweedpoetry.blogspot.com. Please join me. I promise to not confound you.  

            It occurs to me that Mexican mail, prayer and poetry have commonalities. I’m never sure the message will get through, it might take a while, and the response might not be what I most want. But why should that stop me?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 2, 2018

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