Gloomy in Glendive

Gloomy in Glendive

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            I would like to tell you it is all about the weather. I would be lying. Even though it seems like rain has followed me from Washington to Glacier Park to Harlem to Glendive, I am simply not that powerful.

            I do not make the rain. Much as I would like to think it is all about me, it is not. Nor is it all about the weather. Weather is weather. Variable. Today weather is rain. This is Montana. Tomorrow weather might bring a heat wave. Or it might snow.

            This week and a half is for Family. My older daughter and her family, to be explicit.

            The players: My daughter, Dee Dee. Her husband, Chris. Their daugher, Antoinette who is twelve. And their older daughter, Jessica, who has two babies, Harper at three and Kyla, one and a half.

            Jessica graciously gave up her bedroom to me. The bonus, for me, is that I get to know her baby girls.

            When I arrived in Glendive, my Dee Dee was in a tizzy over her own housing. The family has been planning to move—in a year. Suddenly, they were given notice that the owner has other plans that take precedence over their own plans. They have to move. So much for plans.

            Can adult children have meltdowns? Of course. This adult mama almost melted alongside her daughter. It is allowed. Adults have more understanding of where we are when we dissolve into a puddle on the floor than the average two-year-old And we did not stay on the floor and stomp our feet. Scream and cry? Well, a little.

            My daughter has visions of living in cardboard boxes under a railroad overpass. Oh, dear, I am afraid I passed that image down to her through some weird genetic transfer. I wanted to rescue her. I cannot.

            She and Chris will find a house. Their sense of panic will recede. They will not paste newspaper for insulation onto the walls of an abandoned barn. Older and wiser, I know this. (That sounds really good, doesn’t it? The older and wiser part.)

            I have told her for years that they needed to get out of that moldy old house. So, panic or no, moving is a good thing.

            Now, for the bad news. Our baby girl, Kyla, happy and bouncy and full of love and kisses, the little flirt, woke one morning crabby and cranky and warmish. After a round of tests, the doctor put her in ICU. Her white cell count was dangerously high. The doctor quickly ruled out meningitis or cancer. They are shoving antibiotics into her veins, hydrating her, and lots of poking and pinching as well as every kind of test. But they cannot seem to find the cause. Or they are not telling us their suspicions. (Maybe a good thing.)

            We human creatures, helpless most of the time, seem to think if we just know what “it” is, then we can control or fix it or make it go away. When we find out what “it” is, we usually find that we are still helpless.

            Kyla’s illness certainly puts our small woes into perspective. It is difficult to worry over one’s paltry concerns when a baby is suffering. Everyone pitched in to take care of Harper while her Mom is at the hospital with the baby.

            What next? I said it. Snow. Big deal. Snow is simply weather. When September waved good-bye, she went out with an evil cackle of witchery, piling snow over Montana. October stomped in, boots crunching through frost, snow and a glaze of ice. This is Montana.

            I’m headed home to my little casita and what flowers the iguanas have not eaten. I would whine, but nobody would listen.

            Weepy eyes, runny nose, scratchy throat and all, still, I sing, “But I’m on my way, won’t be back for many a day. My heart is down, my head is turning around, I had to leave a little girl in Glendive town.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 4, 2018

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Can't Iron My Birthday Suit

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            Two dozen Harlem High, Class of '63 grads, arrived at the Great Northern Lodge in for our 55th Class Reunion. Hugs, jabber, huge smiles: we provide instant love, just add self.

            I blurted, "We can no longer say, 'My, you have not changed a bit.'" I am not sure anybody appreciated my comment. Truth is, undeniably, we have changed. Life has its way with us. But we are still us. Maybe more us. Pretense and posturing fell away over the years. Better usses. We still say, "You look wonderful." We tell the truth.

            Because we, at an all-school reunion in 2005, committed to meeting annually, our depth of knowledge of each other, our feelings for one another, our acceptance of every wrinkle and wart has increased. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

            Undoubtedly the highlight of this trip has been the Red Bus Tour through the Park. Jesse arranged for us to have our own bus. The day could not have been more perfect. Or was the highlight Jesse and Jim banteering with one another in the way of two (older) men, better than vaudeville.

            Driving from the mountains onto the high semi-arid plateau of north-eastern Montana is like entering an alternate universe. I do love the Big Empty. Especially in the fall when the very air reflects golden, when the grains are harvested, when antelope dot the stubble fields.

            Ah, Havre, I see changes. You are a vital community, an anchor for a wide, wide area. I hope the seemingly negative changes, with three important stores closing, will be metamorphosed into new life, Phoenix out of the ashes, so to speak.

            My good friend Jane and I started our morning with breakfast at the 4Bs, for memory's sake. I ordered tomato soup and grilled cheese for breakfast. Used to be, when my Dad picked me up at the train station, that is what we did.

            Popped in for hand shakes and hugs with Tim and Pam at the news office. Walked over to talk with Rick at the Grateful Bread and pick up a couple loaves of the staff of life to take on to my cousin Shirley in Harlem.

            Some years the leaves turn from green to brown, seemingly overnight, no in-between. This year autumn is ablaze with color, the greens turning to shades of red and gold. Harlem, barely a blip on the map, is beautiful.

            I went with Shirley to play pinochle at Kennedy"s where laughter outweighed skill. I had my newly revised "last will" notarized at the library. Small towns do have advantages. One never knows where one might find an essential service.

            Lady Luck was by my side. The home-coming parade rolled and marched and pranced down Main Street while I stood waiting to cross, triggering  memories of past parades. My cousins, second cousins, once removed, Truth and Titan, marched in the band. Go Wildcats.

            Next week I will be in Glendive with my daughter and her family.

            Next year Harlem hosts an all-school reunion celebrating the 100 year anniversary of the school. That is the rumor I hear. Our class is making plans. This year our class celebrated our 55th. We all celebrated, if that is the appropriate word, our 73rd birthday.

            Karen said, "Not me. I turn the numbers around and celebrate my 37th."

            Lola said, "Well, for 37, you sure didn't hold up well."

            So much for fooling mother nature. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 27, 2018

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Blue Haired Lady on the Move

Blue Haired Lady on the Move

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            When this gray-haired Grandma left Mexico for Washington, I filled two suitcases, large and small, with clothing I have yet to wear, with gifts to give, with everything possible I thought I might need, most of which I have not needed. Or wanted.

            At home in Mexico, I live a minimalist life. On the road, I have not learned how to survive with two pair of pants, two shirts and a toothbrush. Sadly, I am constitutionally incapable of traveling lightly.

            Not to mention, my minimal (?) shopping while in Washington. I have picked up a few items. Even though I unloaded gifty things I brought for family and friends, for some reason the ratio of unloaded items to items to reload in inversely proportional. Little things, like canning lids with bands, impossible to find in my small town. Larger things like printer ink cartridges. And sheets, just because. Not to mention a couple other essential unmentionables.

There might be a universal law in effect here. To my consternation, friends told me snow fell in the mountains. Our class reunion is in Glacier National Park this year, so that is my first Montana destination. Conditions are such that one might freeze or fry.

I am not worried about the fires. I feel kinship with Sam McGee. However, I do not “do” cold. In a small panic, I bought waterproof hiking boots, two jackets, gloves, a hat and two sweaters. (Thank you Goodwill.)

Consequently I made a dry run with my suitcases and was forced to come up with a Plan B. I filled a box, hiked it to the post office and mailed it to my daughter where we will meet up later.

Once I give my daughter and family the remainder of my gifts, I am certain to have room to stuff everything back into my suitcases in October. Between now and then, I cannot allow myself to buy or accept one more item. None. Nada. Zero. That’s all folks.

Maybe one more pair of jeans. But that is all. Really.

So where does the blue hair enter the picture? I have never been one to fuss with my looks, have never dyed my hair. So my natural me is gray/brown. Five years ago, I might have said brown/gray. Such is progress. Or is that regress?

Bright blue is the result of a granddaughter-grandmother bonding experience, instigated by Kristen, my son’s girlfriend. One afternoon she painted portions of our hair blue. I rather like it, despite a few startled glances from strangers, offset by gracious comments. Both Lexi and I have a few striking blue strands on the right sides of our heads. It is fun. And in a couple weeks, it will wash out. Fun with an end-by date.

When I get off the plane in Great Falls, you will recognize me. I am the blue-haired lady in the parka and mukluks, lugging entirely too much stuff behind me.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 20, 2018

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The Sublime and the Frightening

The Sublime and the Frightening

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I would like to tell you that my trip time in Washington is all sublime, that every moment is perfection, that my head is in the clouds with happiness. You would call me out on it, right?  You might sing, "Liar, liar, pants on fire."

So let me start with the sublime, the uplifting, the part I am trying to hang onto and not let go.

My time with family takes first place in my reckoning. My son Ben, my granddaughter Lexi, our talks are most precious.

How do I put into words my gratitude that my son is doing so well, is nearing four years clean after three years on the streets, a time in which we were estranged? It is not easy for him. He works hard at cleaning up the debris of his past, of creating  a new road for his life.

It does not help that I live 2500 miles from family. Or, perhaps, it does. It makes us conscious that time together truly is a gift, not to be taken lightly.

Know what has been best about being with Lexi, my granddaughter? We have several times, simply sat and talked. Nothing dramatic. Just talking. Listening.

Our passion for gardening is the glue that makes Kristen, Ben's girlfriend, easy to know. I like her. I have met her family. Good people, which in Montana terms is high praise.

Steve and Theresa, who visited me in Etzatlan in April, are putting together a proposal to offer for a casa on the Rancho where I live. So you might imagine, our time together is full of lots of plans, laughter, exchanging ideas and information.

Then the icing on the cake of my sublimity: Saturday night, as featured reader, I read my poetry at the Poulsbohemian Coffeehouse on Front Street, a monthly event, twenty-five years in the running. It has been twelve years since I have been able to read my work to an audience of poets.

With the exception of two short pieces, I read all new work, written in the past year. I stood before the mike in terror, knees and hands shaking. Once begun, I settled down and enjoyed my reading, enjoyed the responses from my audience.

I walked out that night needing weights on my feet to keep me from floating off into the cloudy night sky. It was hours before I scraped my self off the ceiling onto my bedcovers and was able to get to sleep. What terror! What fun!

Flip side. Last night at dinner with Larry and Ellen, two long-time favorite friends, I felt a foreign object in my mouth, along with my food. I fished it out. A crown from a molar. Okay, it is not the end of the world.

Got up this morning, threw a load of clothes in the washer, and somehow missed keeping aside an article that bled blue onto a favorite white Mexican blouse.

While the blouse soaked in bleach water, I worked on an article, not this one, the one I began days ago. Entire chunks of my article disappeared. I am still learning how to use this new device, but losing whole chunks, while writing new chunks, is more than disconcerting.

Meanwhile, Kristen called around to dentists. They all want to do hundreds of dollars of research into my mouth before being willing to reattach the lifted molar.

At that point, I considered screaming. But who would care, other than myself. I next contemplated throwing tooth, blouse, new tablet and my entire body off a cliff. Fortunately I have forgotten where the nearest cliff might be.

I calmed down, washed the bleach out of my blouse and rinsed it, newly white again. I threw my old article into that little trash can at the top of the page. With Ben's help, I was able to start a new document without having tablet monster eat chunks. And I just might try to wait until I get back to Mexico, where I can walk into my dentist office with tooth cap in hand and walk out a few minutes later with device re-attached for a modest amount of pesos.

Tomorrow I meet for lunch with Sharon and Gary, get the grand tour of their new home. Sharon hosted the first poetry group I joined and had a huge influence on my writing. Afterward, we will go together to Nancy's poetry workshop. I have to soak up all I can when I can.

The next day long-forever friend Vidya and I meet for lunch and a rummage through Goodwill, a favorite  hangout for both of us. One never knows what treasure one might find among the trash. I doubt either of us care. It is about being together, catching up, laughing, which we do quite well.

And, on to Montana. See you soon.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 13, 2018
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Little Things Mean a Lot

Little Things Mean a Lot

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When one has pared one's life down to the bare essentials, little things take on incredible importance.

I arrived in Mexico City with forty minutes to make my connection. Airports are designed in such a way that domestic flights and international flights are situated at opposite ends of the real estate. I think it is a universal law.

Having had previous experience with said law, I always request wheel-chair service. Rogerio ran, and I do mean ran, with me from deplane to replane. I was less worried about me making the connection than my checked luggage making the connection.

Rogerio deftly maneuvered me through the pack heading down the boarding ramp. Through a window on the ramp, I spied my two suitcases sitting on the tarmac, waiting to be shoved aboard. I crowed with delight. Out loud.

I'm too old to be embarrassed at my reaction, rather extreme. But, hey, I was excited. My body and my bags would arrive in Seattle on the same flight. A little thing. Big importance.

My son Ben and I had had numerous conversations about my arrival. He was going to take the day off work and pick me up. "That's silly," I said. "I arrive at 8:00 PM. By the time I get through customs, it will be after 9:00. I'll take the Airporter transit. Probably arrive at midnight. You take the next day off."

Somehow that passage translated to my son that I was flying Tuesday instead of Monday. A very little glitch.

At 9:45 my luggage and I boarded the Kitsap Airporter Transit van. A nice young man from Florida called my son for me and left a message so Ben would know to pick me up at the Keyport AM/PM. I arrived. No son. The very kind driver of the van made a second call for me, left a message. Ah, he must be on the way.

Perhaps I should explain that I don't have a US phone. I live in Mexico most of the year. It probably sounds incomprehensible to most people, but I get by.

After five or ten minutes, I began to feel a niggle of worry. Another young Navy man was waiting for his ride. I requested he make a call for me, this time to Ben's girlfriend' phone. Left message. Waited. Waited. Worried. My son lives a mere half mile away, at most. I could almost shout and he would hear me. Theoretically. If he were not in bed asleep.

Kitsap County is Navy country. I could go any direction and be on a Naval Base within minutes. So it is no surprise when another young serviceman drives up. He sensed my worry, fear, despair, confusion. I borrowed his phone and called Ben's Dad. Left message. Waited.

Desperation began to set in when my son drove up. "You're fired," I said, as I fell into his arms for a hug. He had been asleep, he explained, rubbing his eyes. "I thought you were arriving tomorrow." Oops. By then we were minutes away from tomorrow. We sorted out the mis-communication. Little things. Yep.

Today my son set me up with what is euphemistically called a  "burner" phone. I buy minutes as I need them, just like I do for my Mexican phone. Little things mean a lot: little words, a little phone, a little wait, standing on the corner, watching all the cars drive by.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 6, 2018

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