Whims and Wing-dings

                                    Whims and Wing-dings

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December comes to a close with Christmas. Whether one believes the Birth of the Christ Child to be myth or metaphor, history or hysteria, is of no matter. My belief makes it neither one nor another. The timeless story is filled with all one could want: drama, animals, mean people, travel, shepherds, kings and a Baby.

In my own personal dictionary, incomplete, abridged, and filled with mis-information, the definition of Baby is hope. After a year such as 2019, who can argue that we need all the hope we can gather around us. Our babies might redeem us, us and all our mistakes.

This past week has been a hum-dinger. Hum-dinger, again from my dictionary, is a bird of extremes. 

It flies about shedding feathers of red, orange and yellow, seldom nests, can create havoc or gentle excitement, depending on how one welcomes its rackety voice.

Life on the Rancho reached a state of quiet. My heart doc cleared me for surgery. My bone doc was on holiday. My life felt like somebody pushed ‘hold’.

Pat and Nancie, with Pat’s son Chad, hied off to Puerto Vallarta.  Chad invited Leo to go to PV to zoom the zip lines with him; both young men single and of similar age. Leo was sitting on the fence unable to make decision.

While minding my own business, along galumphed a whim. A whim is sort of like a horse, sort of not, is of many colors, passes by in a flash and if one is to catch a whim, one must be quick. I grabbed the whim with one hand, the phone with the other and called Lani.

“Lani, let’s you and me and Leo go to Puerto Vallarta, just for three days.” Being one for adventure, Lani said, “Yes.”

So off we went, just like that. We stayed in the first, oldest, original (Love those redundancies!) hotel in Puerto Vallarta, a beautiful hotel, very Spanish in style and color and architecture, our rooms overlooking the beach.

I’d never been there, so for me, this was a marvelous trip through plains, desert, mountains and jungle to the seaside. Lani and Nancie walked the entire malecon, shopping all the way. Pat and Chad and Leo spent the day zip-lining. (Is that a verb?) I lounged around the hotel, enjoying the surf, watching people. I loved every minute—we could have stayed one more day. Or longer.

Sunday I saw my orthopedic doctor for another couple hours of my questions. He scheduled surgery for the 26^th, a slightly belated Christmas gift which left me with jitters and excitement, not necessarily in equal measure.

And now we welcome a New Year, with, of all things, another Baby, as we “out with the old and in with the new!”

Some of us will gather with family and (more) feasting, or football on the tube, or skiing in the mountains. The Ball will drop in Times Square, fireworks will flash, lighting skies around the world.

And some folks will throw a wing-ding.

Back to my dictionary: Wing-ding, a creature of facets difficult to describe, neither fish nor fowl, neither dance nor song, (but generally possesses elements of each), is physically active, a sport of sorts. Reputedly, it is quite fun to throw one.

So, amongst the feasting and football and fireworks, let’s gather our babies, old and new, and give them lots of loving. They are our hope.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 26, 2019

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Breakfast at Calano’s

            Breakfast at Calano’s

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Lani and I sneaked off to breakfast at Calano’s this Sunday morning. It is something we do now and then. We don’t go often, usually, like today, on a whim. If you don’t ride whims, you are missing out.

I recommend jumping on every whim you possibly can.  

Since Lani and I are the only full-timers here; over these few years we have developed a special friendship. This little outing has become a small enjoyment to which we look forward. It’s nothing special except that we make it special.

What a surprise to walk in the door at Calano’s and find that the owner has begun painting the walls, needed, yes, needed in this building, at least 300 years old, which has undergone many changes, many uses, different lives.

The restaurant is housed in an open courtyard, flanked by tables along the two roofed sides. An indoor eating area is situated along one end, kitchen on the other end. Potted plants fill the open space, with vignettes here and there, composed of antiques such as the cabinet record player from the 40s and a telephone table with embroidered cloth and a Bakelite rotary telephone. Traditional Mexican music from a long past era greets us.

The menu is simple, food good and plentiful. I ordered my usual, huevos ala Mexicana con frijoles y tortillas. It’s a good day for comfort food.

It’s been a rough week. I lost another good friend, one of the best, to that Grim Reaper.

And Leo’s sister, a beautiful young woman whom I’ve come to know, is in bed with dengue fever, also known as break-bone fever, with good reason. There is no cure, no medicine to help. Tylenol, said the doctor. Amparo’s sister, husband, mother-in-law, and Leo are taking care of her and her two little girls. It’s a worry.

Lani and I ordered the special coffee. (You might liven up your Christmas morning coffee with cinnamon sticks and chocolate syrup. If you are of a mind, a splash of Kahlua would not go wrong.)

For us, Calano’s has become a place we unwind. When we walk in the door, we enter another dimension, much visited and comfortable.

Unlike places where Christmas décor and gift items show up on store displays in August, this week in Etzatlan heralds the beginning of the shopping frenzy. To me, it seems like Christmas in Mexico is more like the Christmas when I was a young child.

The tree with all the requisite glitter and glory takes pride of place in the gazebo in the center of the plaza with the tree lighting ceremony, Cathedral bells, civic speeches, just three days ago.

Beginning today, tables and booths of Christmas items line the plaza. Stands, tables and kiosks full of glittery treasures, seemingly by magic, appear in front of tiendas and in the parking spaces on the street.

Children hope for, expect one or two gifts, from Santa and Baby Jesus. One does not see wretched excess. Can you tell I’ve become a curmudgeon? Bah!

In my own yard, I have a tree shaped of interwoven vines with a star atop. I wrapped it with a swag of gold, hung red and blue globes, simple and rustic.

Christmas is important here in Mexico, a time for family, for celebrations. My cousin Nancie and I will go to Mass at the Cathedral, not Midnight Mass, but an earlier service, easier on our bones.

I had hoped to find a new hip in my Christmas stocking but it looks like a lump of coal. I’ve adjusted my hopes for a hip New Year. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 19, 2019

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Parsing the Fear

            Parsing the Fear

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On a Saturday I saw an orthopedic specialist. He said, “I can fix your hip and leg.”

I’m kind of backward when it comes to medical issues. I didn’t go to him for a fix. I went for a referral to somebody who could make me those horrid ugly black shoes where one shoe is built up with a two or four or six inch sole—you know the kind—the ones I’ve been too vain to consider.

The doctor also told me the ugly black shoes would not help. I like to think I am smart. I like to think I knew my problem and shoes were the fix. Not even close.

Lent being too far ahead to wait, I had decided to give up vanity for Christmas. You might have overheard me make the pronouncement: no surgery ever again.

I like to think I’m flexible rather than flakey. Within two hours I was wondering how soon we could schedule the knife.

On Monday I went to the hospital in town for the round of tests. Routine stuff. Blood, urine, X-Rays, EKG and others I cannot translate.

On Thursday I went to the heart specialist for his readings. Five pages of excellent, excellent, excellent. Then he got to the EKG and frowned. I knew I had a heart and I knew it had been broken many times. But I think that is normal.

“Not so good, not so good.” He took my blood pressure. Frown deepened. Your blood pressure is way too high. I cannot recommend surgery.”

I blanched. How can that be? Historically I have low blood pressure. I always have low blood pressure. I think I may have thrown a mature version of a fit. The fit hit the wall and bounced back to slap me.

Maybe he felt sorry for me. Maybe he felt I needed a week to settle into the idea of medicating the problem. The kind man gave me a week to bring my blood pressure down to an acceptable level. 

Now that I think about it, that sounds crazy.

I’m so medically ignorant I had to consult Senora Google to find what blood pressure is normal.

He didn’t tell me how I was to accomplish this minor miracle. I’m a friend of the benefits of regular meditation and Qi Gong, a kind of meditative exercise. I can’t remember quite when I quit. Why is it so hard to maintain good habits and so easy to backslide down that slippery slope? 

On the phone with my daughter, Dee Dee, a mental health counselor, I whinged and whined. She, being calmer and smarter than me, said, “Mom. You have been walking in fear ever since you fell, back in September.”

“Bingo,” I said. “That is when the high blood pressure started. I’ll bet on it.” It’s true. Every step I have taken since I fell has been hesitant. I’m glad they didn’t test my adrenaline level.

I also have the misguided notion that if I can understand a problem, I can control it. It seldom works that way but I like the illusion.

Simple little changes in my routine include morning sun time under my jacaranda. This stately gentleman tree whispered to me, “Dune”.

Years ago my son Ben said, “Mom, read this. You’ll like it.” I did. I whipped through the “Dune” series. A simple paragraph stuck in my mind:

Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

I love my children. They are so much wiser than I am.

Meditation, Qi Gong in a chair, regular conversations with my trees, chats with myself about fear, blind luck, the phase of the moon, Hershey’s Chocolate Kisses, who knows? In a few days I have lowered my blood pressure to what I hope is acceptable.

If, however, I am living in my own LaLa-Land of Illusions, I’ll swallow the bitter pill.

*”Dune” by Frank Herbert

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 12, 2019

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Sometimes the hard stuff . . .

                                    Sometimes the hard stuff . . .

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I’ll dither around before I talk about that which I need to talk. Because that is the way I am. Look the other way. Put my head in a bucket of sand. Pretend I don’t need you.

In truth, it’s been a rough couple of weeks, what with losing phone/internet service for one of those weeks. That was an eye-opener. Try it. I’d have sworn I didn’t use my computer, except for writing, more than an hour a day. Well. Well. Well. Fooled myself. Sure did accomplish a lot of small put-aside tasks, little things, like moving the stove and cleaning under, behind and around, during those ‘found’ hours.

Then Thanksgiving. We went traditional this year: turkey, stuffing, mashed spuds, giblet gravy, sweet potatoes, veggies of variety, cranberries, fresh bread rolls, pumpkin pie—the whole roller coaster. Nine of us, five Mexicans and four gringos, each stuffed to a personal level of discomfort.

Lani took it upon herself to tell our Mexican friends the traditional Thanksgiving Story, the one we were fed from first grade onward, the pretty story. I sat on my lips. The room got real quiet. Nancie said, “Then we killed them all.” That was a show stopper.

Then we ate pie.

Montana life is harsh, hard on bodies. There is hardly a one of us not physically damaged in one way or another. Especially those of our own era. We are happy to tell you all about it.

Personally, I think we are all nuts. It’s the way we were raised. Buck up, kiddo. You can rest by and by, in the fall when the work’s all done. Those final three words make that line a joke.

Me, I was T-boned on the highway near Harlem, on my way home from Northern, February, 1968. I’ve had near fifty-two years to contemplate ever-present pain.

Out of that, I devised my own on-a-scale-of-1-10 physical pain chart. I’ll keep my thoughts on emotional pain to myself. You are welcome.

#s 1-6 are negligible, everything from hangnails and papercuts to frostbite, bad backs, strained muscles. By #6, I might seek out medical aid, depending on the tolerance level of the particular day and efficiency of over-the-counter pain medications.

Level 7 pain cannot be ignored and aspirin doesn’t work. Doctor, please help. At 8, it is a good day to die. By 9 I’m afraid I won’t die. And #10 is Call Dr. K.

I’d had too many 7 bordering 8 days when I said, “I give up.” Went to see Dr. Francisco Jose Cruz Armenta of Universidad de Guadalajara, my clutch of hip X-Rays in hand, pre-surgery (five years ago), post-surgery, and one year ago.

A new X-Ray and two hour exam-consultation later, with my pictures all lined up on the light panel, even I could follow the progression and understand my problem.

A prosthetic hip, in much-simplified non-medical terms, consists basically of a roof, a ball joint and a post. Roof and ball joint are fine. The post that fits down into the leg bone (I know, makes me queasy too.) has slipped, hence the pain, for which there is no simple solution, neither herbs, acupuncture, chiropractic, physical therapy nor large infusions of tequila.

Dr. Francisco must have noticed my crestfallen look, because he said, “I can fix it. It’s not easy. It will be a difficult procedure for you. But I can fix it.”

I left my macho in Montana and burst into tears.

This man assured me he can replace the post part of the prosthesis and fix the damage. He said I’d walk the day after surgery and go home the next day, pain free, once the incision healed. I half fell in love with him on the spot.

I have to jump through hoops first, a raft of tests, blood, heart, lungs and such. I’m an emotional wreck. I’m elated. I’m scared. I’m apprehensive. I have more questions. I waffle over my decision. Do I? Don’t I?

I’m not alone. For that I thank you. A yellow canary is flittering through the crinkly leaves of my avocado tree. Air Force jets from the Base in Guadalajara loop the sky in practice doodles. The sun hangs beamish. I’m scared. That might be the most normal thing I am right now.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 5, 2019

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Good afternoon, this is not Sondra.

Good afternoon, this is not Sondra.

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After calling my mom for several days, and impatiently wondering where she has gotten up to without alerting me to her travels, I found out her phone and internet lines have been cut. Leaving her all out on her own, with only her friends and local animals to talk to.

She does have a Mexican cell phone which costs about $13, so you know how great that works. I never call it unless she’s traveling, so this wasn’t my first thought.

When I finally received the news, she was stranded incommunicado wise from telegraph and smoke signals, I wised up and called her cell phone. I had to laugh, because the reason she is without phone and internet, is because a giant dump truck raised his bed and drove through town, cutting all the wires. This happened in Glendive this year, so I am thinking it must be common to forget the big old dump is lifted.

The expert came out after three days and looked at the wires, and said the job is too large for him and he will have to get hold of the main headquarters. Guadalajara. Does that mean weeks? Mom is better at this manana thing than me. I’m more of an “I want it. And I want it now”.

When mom answered, she sounded like someone who hadn’t used her voice in days. Ok, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration. I found out she had just come home from a ranch family Thanksgiving potluck. She had turkey, dressing, and everything else imaginable. There were nine people enjoying each other’s companionship.

Mom was a bit disturbed that I had not been imagining her broken and wounded in a hospital. I told her I would have known. We have a weird spidey-sense with each other. If I’m distressed, she knows and calls me. Same for me with her. The spidey-sense didn’t tell me about the dump truck though.

The upside to this, mom has been jotting down more poems and article ideas. She says this with glee, because she sends them to me to post. A dozen poems a day sounds daunting for me to post. If you love her poetry page, you’ll be getting more soon. Ish. Manana.

 Mom informs me manana doesn’t mean just tomorrow; it also means sometime in the future. I’m hoping it means tomorrow.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!

Dee Dee Robart for Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 28, 2019

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My “Almost Mexican” Fiesta

My “Almost Mexican” Fiesta

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This was not my idea, to have a party. It was sloppily put together. Any party, even pot luck, takes a lot of work. I didn’t really want to do it. I was tired and in pain from the long bus ride. Bah humbug.

I rode the bus, one more trip to Mazatlan. In the four-year process, all that was left for me to do was pick up the card moving me from temporary to permanent status as a resident. This is not citizenship. I’m not dual. Too old to think about that.

In October, the senorita behind the desk at the Oficina de Migracion had said to me, “Ten days.”

I lifted my brow.  She made the universal hand sign for “more or less”. I waited three weeks and a few days before returning.  Wheels of government.

Residency status allows me to live in Mexico without leaving the country every six months as required with a tourist visa. And I whiz through customs in the “Mexican” line, which is quite nice. I’m ignorant of other benefits and whether there be any.  

 “They”, the elusive they, my well-meaning friends, bullied me into hosting a celebration for attaining my permanent residency. I had jumped through all the hoops, paid all the fees, made government-ugly photos, pressed my fingerprints on the inkpad again to prove I’m still me, and signed, without reading, reams of paper written in Espanol, fine print and all. All to hold my green card in hand.

Yes, bullied into a party. All I wanted to do after a five-and-one-half hour bus trip home was sleep for two days. Wishes and wants—all fantasy.

Okay, I said. I’ll wait a week. But Carol leaves Tuesday and Janet flies out Wednesday. Okay, that leaves today, Saturday, to plan and tomorrow, Sunday, for the party. I gave up, gave in, and gave out, simultaneously. One day to prepare.

Potluck it will be, I said. My patio. Sunday afternoon. Come one, come all. They came.

I arranged and re-arranged my patio, set up for twenty. I set up three small tables and one large table. Leo helped me. We used every chair I own and borrowed a few.

I made a pot of beans with my secret special ingredients, one of which is cinnamon. Try it. I made tamale pie with pork carnitas, an American modification of a Mexican staple.

(Tamales require two women, minimum, a large kitchen and a full day to make. I’ve done it. I can put together tamale pie, which tastes the same as tamales, by myself, in my tiny kitchen, in three hours.)

Leo moved my skeletal friend, Homero, (Homer in English) to the front gate to be a greeter, complete with a Mexican “flag” banner and notice that his girlfriend (me) is now Mexicana. Not quite true, but “almost”.  Homer is my Main Man.

Friends streamed in. We set abundant dishes of food on the counter in my outdoor kitchen. Salads, pies, casseroles, ice cream, corn bread, tortillas, tea and lemonade.

We mingled, we ate, we laughed, we talked. I’d set up the tables in such a pattern to make it easy for people to move around, change places, visit one another after we’d eaten to stuporous repletion.

I felt so special. These friends came to celebrate with me, to rejoice that I had completed a long process that makes it easier for me to live here. But it wasn’t all about me.

Magic happened. We celebrated one another. We celebrated with ease, with goodwill, with pure goodness.

The sun went down, sky turned pink to gray. My friends, one by one, reluctantly turned for home. We didn’t want the party to end. The party I didn’t want to host! We each went our way feeling like we’d strengthened our bonds of friendship. Magic.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 14, 2019

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Adept in the Ways of Sloth

                        Adept in the Ways of Sloth

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Nobody told us. Well, nobody told me. I’m from a family of workers, obsessive workers, one might say. In my family, sloth is a mere breath removed from slovenly and slatternly. Nobody ever said choices were available. Not that I would have availed myself of other choices, probably, life being what it is. Work being a necessity for survival.

Until the day I retired myself to a quiet corner of another country. Thus removed from everyday obligations of my former life, I’ve time and opportunity to explore other options for being.

It’s not easy to shift gears. I’ve not seen any self-help books toward a lazier way of being. There are no gurus pointing the way to this so-called lesser life, none that I’ve seen.

In fact, quite the opposite. The words “sloth” and “lazy’ are rife with negative connotations. The notion of inactivity is sneered at, considered unhealthy, un-American, sinful, never mind the flowers of the field which neither sow nor reap.

On particularly lazy days, I struggle with guilt. I try not to let it bother me. Generally I manage to overcome it.

I could whitewash my sluggardly ways with more socially acceptable terms: meditation, prayer, contemplation, rumination, reverie, cogitation (I like that one), study. But, no, I’m becoming a master at simple, unadorned sloth.

My home is acceptably clean. My garden is no more overgrown than my neighbors’. Despite my sluggardly ways, I finish daily chores of seeming importance.

Projects of various kinds linger in the wings, awaiting their time to take center stage. Like today, for instance. Lingering on my ironing board is a piece I’ve quilted plus backing, patiently waiting for me to pick it up and transform it into pillow coverings. In the kitchen I’m drying tarragon. Soon I’ll pluck the slender leaves and share its goodness with neighbors. I’ve two pair of capri pants that I intend to dye with dark, dark coffee.

None of my projects are urgent. None of these projects take much time. And herein lies the key to sloth. Time.

In this land of “manana”, time is my friend. Manana might mean tomorrow. Or it could be used for next week. Or any number of days hence.  

So I prioritize what is most important to me at the moment. Other parts of my life are directed purely by whim and interruptions.

Today Samantha came over to ask for help with curtains, help I’m glad to give. Kathy and Richard leave tomorrow, not to return before April. So I walk over to their casa for a last visit. Nancie and Pat are coming over in an hour just to sit for a visit under the jacaranda.

And so my days go, filled with friends, filled with sloth, filled with butterflies.

In the cracks and crevices between these above important things, I go to town to put pesos on my Mexican cell phone. I buy my bus ticket for a three-day jaunt to Mazatlan. I pack my suitcase.

Next week I might make my pillow slips. I might dye my pants. I might strip dry leaves from my tarragon.

For sure I’ll visit my friends. For sure I’ll read books. For sure I’ll set aside time for lizards, hibiscus the size of dinner plates, and the butterflies, ah, the pretty whirling butterflies.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 7, 2109

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Beware the Devious AI Toothbrush

                        Beware the Devious AI Toothbrush

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“This is the way we brush our teeth, brush our teeth, brush our teeth. This is the way we brush our teeth, so early in the morning.”

News headlines to nursery rhymes, that’s me. When I read that a toothbrush has been devised with artificial intelligence, that ditty swept full blown through my mind.

How nice, I thought. Aw, a new relationship. “Uh, hate to mention, but you need to pay more attention to your left lower molar.” “Gee, thanks. Will do.”

With rolling eyeballs, I dismissed the thought. But like a lot of nursery ditties, this one hung out with me all day which meant I inevitably gave further thought to the idea of a toothbrush with artificial intelligence.

Relationship. A new relationship. Yes, perfect analogy. And like many a new relationship, this one has all the inbuilt propensities for disaster. Having had a disastrous relationship or two in my past, I’m rather an authority. I know of which I speak.

It starts innocently enough. Golleeee, an intelligent toothbrush. You surely will enhance my life.

A really intelligent toothbrush will keep silent at this point.

Once familiarity sets in, things change. “I wish you’d take care of your teeth before you shower, not afterwards—drives me nuts.”

“You neglected to squeeze that last shot of toothpaste from the tube. Waste not, want not.”

“By the way, during laboratory trials, we used XXX Brand, not that inferior YYY that you use. I do wish you’d change brands for me. XXX Brand is guaranteed to clean 25% better than YYY in lab tests in which I cooperated. And 80% of sub-intelligent human test participants agreed that XXX tastes better.”

“If you really cared for me, you’d quit drinking that nasty ol’ coffee and tea. Your teeth are awfully stained; surely you’re aware.”

By this point I’m ready to smuggle an old-fashioned brush on a stick into the kitchen and begin teeth hygiene on the sly.

But AITB won’t shut up. “I hear you, Traitor. Get back in here and brush, brush, brush. NOW!”

I suppose I could live with that kind of personal interference if the AITB kept its interference, I mean influence, to the boundaries of my mouth. But this is, of necessity, a relationship, remember?

And lest you think it far-fetched that I call this a relationship, remember, the TB contains some manner of intelligence. Harken back, if you will, to when you were a toddler and would not go to sleep without Blankie or Lambie Pie or Teddy and they were inanimate objects. Point made.

I almost can guarantee it will take little time for AITB, which you no doubt will have named by now, though perhaps not a flattering name, sorry, I digress, to move from “I wish you wouldn’t eat garlic” to “Slept in today, did you?”

Soon enough you will hear, “You spent how much on that? Do you really think you needed one?”

The day the toothbrush says to me, “Do you really mean to wear that in public?” is the day I go to the less-desirable section of town and after discrete inquiries, hire a hitman to abduct the tooth device on a day when I’m gone and behead it with a machete.

You don’t expect me to do it myself, do you? After all, I have a relationship with him, it, that. I can’t just toss him in the trash, can I? I can’t bear to listen to its pitiful screams, after all, once, we loved one another.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 31, 2019

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Phase of Moon, Juxtaposition of Planets?

Phase of Moon, Juxtaposition of Planets?

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Ever have a day when everything you touch turns to mud?

For one thing it is raining. Tropical Storm Priscilla hovers off the coast in a direct line up and over the mountains to the west. Not far in a straight line but not even airplanes fly ruler straight; certainly not proverbial crows.

Nevertheless, storm brings clouds bring rain. Rain is a good thing. Rain is precious. I like rain. It’s just that I’d made outdoor garden plans for today. Be flexible, right?

Shifted gears. Now I’m dying.

I wear cotton clothing. Capris non-descript ‘natural’. A rainbow of traditional-style blouses. Problem is, that pesky ol’ sun bleaches everything white while it hangs on the line to dry. Periodically, I mix vats of dye and revive my blouses. Coffee or tea work well to restore tint to pants.

I fill a small pot with a little water, plunk in the dry cube of pressed dye, turquoise blue, which I bought in a farmacia in San Marcos, and set the pan over the burner to simmer.

Carol (from Minnesota) filled my mind with distraction. She arrived at the Rancho the first week of October, ill. She had attached herself to a virus while visiting relatives in Tuscon. Carol has breathing problems on an ordinary day. Despite being sick, she flew here to stay in her casita while her partner John flew to Nepal to climb a mountain.

Ill. Such a little word. Carol couldn’t breathe, couldn’t eat, couldn’t move, go away, I just need to sleep. Everybody hovered around her, being nurse, doctor, advisor, pest. Everybody but me; I have no nursing skills. Ask my children who spend thousands in therapy.

We were worried. We didn’t want Carol to die. She is our friend. We didn’t want Carol to die on our watch. Self-preservation. Hey, we’re human.

Distracted, I left my casa to go see Carol, left the pot with dye beginning to burble happily toward a simmer, propane merrily flaming.

When I returned home, more than a few minutes later, my pot had runneth over, runneth dry, filling the air with a stench of over-heated metal.

My first thoughts were neither kind nor gentle. You dummy. How could you walk off . . . Oh, no . .. 

It’s the beginning of the end, senility has set in. This is the first sign. You are doomed, woman. This week a cooking pot. Next week you’ll need a minder. Oh, no, what to do!

While scrubbing a tumorous blue mess that somewhat resembled a blob of dried goo from one of those aliens-are-landing movies of the ‘50s, I remembered that in 1987 I melted down two tea kettles. Same thing. Distractions. Forgive yourself, sweet woman, just distraction. Not senility. And I refuse to investigate this any further.

Many hours later, I pulled my pale blouse from its bath of turquoise, a splotchy mess. Today I failed to dye. Some days dye works a charm. Other times, not so. Maybe I should only dye beneath the light of a full moon. Will dye work better if I add eye of newt?

Clouds hover low to the ground, spitting a drizzle, gray as the day.

For my own edification, I compiled a list of my disasters of the day. I burned my cooking pot. Ruined a batch of dye. Ruined a blouse. Got bopped in the head by an avocado from my own tree. Watched Machete Jaws, my favorite resident iguana, chomp an entire pot of nasturtiums, leaves and flowers, payment for my sins. I chipped a molar eating shrimp. And fought off a case of pre-senility jitters.

Seeking solace, I ate my last bite of chocolate-caramel popcorn.

On a perkier note, I hear a whoosh. The yellow-head blackbirds have returned, rustling overhead like a whirlwind, making me smile.

Undeterred by a few rain showers, the Festival is in full swing. Today is the Blessing of the Corn. One street is blocked off for food vendors, all kinds of foods, traditional as well as pizza and burgers, but featuring dishes made with corn.

Carnival rides and games for children line the street another direction. Another street is blocked with vendors selling every possible item, from toys to furniture, clothing, traditional and modern, a ten-day street fair .

 Church bells and fireworks punctuate the silence, reminding me that tomorrow I go to town to participate in the celebrations.

If moon and planets hold us in their sway, doubtful as that seems to me, so be it. Some days, however, the best thing for me to do is hole up in the corner chair with a good book and a steaming cup of tea.

Maybe that is what the moon had in mind.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 24, 2019

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October, Sweet October

October, Sweet October

                                

October is the sweetest month, well, unless one is up to one’s hocks in snow, and not the first snow of the year at that! Betrayed by September, that generally docile month.

October, sing raptures of October. Hay is stacked, grain is harvested, garden largess fills rows of jewel-toned jars in the cellar. Yearlings crowd trailers on the way to market. Bank account is fat.

Whoa—don’t forget to sing flip side of that nostalgic song while meandering the autumnal path. Snow, gray skies, wind, winterize the house, the vehicles. Watch the flocks of red-wing blackbirds and geese wend southward and wonder if they have more sense than you.

Become aware the butterflies and hummingbirds have disappeared. Stock up on flashlights, emergency candles and an alternate source of heat should the power go out. Drag boxes of winter clothing from the attic, clothing to make the most skeletal person resemble the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Hunker down, sweetheart, it is a long road to spring.

Change the record to play something south of the border, down Mexico way. Autumn, my favorite season, makes its appearance here too, differently than up north. Here, rather than a ‘going away’, there is a ‘coming back’. Flocks of yellow-headed blackbirds darken the sky, swooping and sweeping in synchronization. Butterflies we haven’t seen in months return, harvesting sweet from flower to flower. A rainbow mix of birds return to nest.

Mornings are cooler, afternoons warm and comforting. The summer rains abate though last night’s storm gives lie to this statement after a long week of dry. Winds, hail and rain pounded my casita. Thunder shook the foundations, lightning worked magic for three hours, then receded to the background for the night, distant flashes like a candle flicker.

My bottlebrush tree, after a rain-drenched rest for summer, burst into bloom overnight. Hummingbirds are so profuse it looks like the tree is in motion.

But, most importantly, for this little town of Etzatlan, October means Festival. Officially, or traditionally, Festival is a ten-day celebration, this year from the 18^th through the 28^th. In actuality, there is something happening almost every day of the month.

Festival activities are steeped in religious tradition. Parades of all sorts (I especially like the tractor parade, or the corn parade, or the horses) end at the Cathedral for a blessing, gratitude for harvests, for life. Various statues from the Church lead most parades. Children from all the schools, all ages, have their own day for marching, singing, dancing and riding in pick-up truck floats. Bands and floats, dancers in indigenous regalia, all are included.

Earlier in the month, a procession of thousands of pilgrims march the Virgin of Guadalupe from Etzatlan to San Juanito where a feast awaits for the entire city and visitors. Streets are decorated with colorfully dyed wood-chips. Dancers and bands lead the procession. Prayers combine into a continuous song, miles long.

Another prominent event, spread over ten days before Festival, is the hosting of the Crucifix from the Cathedral at the homes of ten families from ten different Colonias. The street is blocked off, and curtains hung to make a tent. Each family provides flowers and candles in abundance. Chairs are placed for those who come to pray, to sit a while, to visit. The procession from Cathedral to Colonia is solemn and joyful. Family sit vigil an entire day and night.

This year Leo, whose family has hosted the event for years, invited me to come sit a while. I felt honored, grateful that Leo knew I would be respectful.  I sat for an hour, met other of Leo’s family, hugged those I knew, simply sat. When I left, I felt emptied out and washed clean.

Another pre-festival event is the hanging of the crocheted doilies, an all-year project. Often at the plaza or the Mercado, one observes men and women with a lap of plastic twine, crocheting large floral designs into octagons which will be connected to overhang entire streets. This year the city aims for a page in the Guinness World Records.

Watching the men hang the yards and yards of heavy doilies is an adventure in itself, with plenty of breath-taking moments as men hang out from electrical poles, hand over hand along the line to uncoil an overlap, or a foot slips from a ladder rung leaving the foot’s owner dangling precariously. Drama in the making and the completed effect is magical.

When did fireworks became part of every holiday, every birth, every death, every reason and no reason?  Especially in October, one wakes to booms before the sun rises, goes to sleep with booms until midnight.  Nightfall often brings spectacular displays as fountains of colors explode against the black sky.

I’m impressed at how seamlessly this little community, devout peoples, combine indigenous with traditional Catholic beliefs in every celebration. All events are family oriented. I believe the underlying strength, that which feeds and upholds all the people, is gratitude.

Hang out in the plaza. Here comes the parade of dancing horses. Buy an ice-cream. See the sunlight dapple the street as rays filter through the overhead doilies. Watch that group of boys run and jump through the struts below the makeshift stage, set up for traditional dance groups this evening. Serenaded by a trio of elderly musicians, good voices and a full mouth of teeth among them.

Makes you smile, doesn’t it? The feeling of gratitude is almost palpable

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 17, 2019

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Micro Slice of a Simple Life in Paradise

            Micro Slice of a Simple Life in Paradise

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When one lives in a tiny community, little things can tend to balloon into huge importance.

When I say “small community”, I don’t mean a place numbered in four digits, where you might recognize a couple thousand through ordinary daily contact: that young man with the pony tail works at the glass repair shop, the woman with red hair and big glasses clerks at the IGA and that over-dressed couple walks around the park every day with their dog, Riley. A place where you might know two hundred people fairly well and count fifty as friends.

Nope. I’m talking a community with a warm-body count averaging twenty or fewer on a daily basis. Oh, yes, one gets to know every person, quite well.

Flip side, my neighbors also get to know me! I try to keep this in mind.

The natural progression to this “getting-to-know” business goes like this. Oh, what wonderful nice neighbors. Except him. And she’s a total witch, know what I mean? One by one, warts and horns sprout.

My method of dealing with “getting to know you, getting to know all about you”, is to (yuck) ask myself, what is it within me that I react so strongly? When I put the focus on my own flaws, yours don’t seem so glaring. Mostly.

Eventually, tolerance, acceptance, respect and affection take over and I even forgive myself (sort of) for my critical, judgmental nature. Horns and warts are still there, but so are scars and wounds and nowadays, I find you kind of cute.  I think this is normal small-town neighborly stuff.

What worries me to distraction is that I have seemingly detected, nay, suffered “a sea-change into something rich and strange”* in my attitude toward critter life, especially those two banes of my existence, squirrels and iguanas.

 After harvesting my miniature corn field, I immediately replanted my last yellow kernels for a second crop. Three days later two-inch green spikes poked above the dirt. On the fourth day, the green spikes disappeared, leaving holes dug and paw prints.

I shrugged. A rather mild reaction.

In the afternoon, I spotted this same squirrel, her jaws locked onto an avocado, dragging the green globe across the patio to a “secure” area where she no doubt feasted. “Aw, isn’t she cute.”

This is the squirrel at whom I’ve cursed, pitched objects (missed), and chased with a broom.

Same story with iguanas although I cannot call them cute. I watch them gulp hibiscus flowers with aplomb and barely disguised affection. They need to eat too. Iguanas are my neighbors. Or maybe, it is that they let me be their neighbor.

I’m worried. I’m afraid this shift in my perspective is not normal.

Let me explain that I think a little critical judgment is necessary in everyday life. As is a bit of anger, wrath, and every other emotion, in moderation, mind you, in moderation. I might be accused of rationalization, but I think a full range of emotions keeps me healthier.

I worry when I suddenly display gushing affection for my former enemies. Iguanas and squirrels, I’m talking about. It is not healthy. Squirrel, who natters at me and teases me with impunity, I understand. She is cute. Definitely a rodent, but cute. Iguanas? Not so much.

See the big one atop the brick wall by my patio? Cute? I don’t think so. I have serious talks with him. 

He never bats an eyelid. If he spoke to me, and why not, he might say, “Who was here first, Gringa? Who owns the garden? Who owns the hibiscus? Who owns the tree? Who owns the corn?

Oh, yes. I knew that. I had forgotten. Even the animals know my faults and flaunt them in my face. And, even in my garden of Paradise, iguanas eat hibiscus flowers.

*”The Tempest”, William Shakespeare

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 10, 2019

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What you gonna do when the lights go out?

What you gonna do when the lights go out?

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Stand on the curb of any street in any town in Mexico and look up.  No, not that high. Those are just the ubiquitous buzzards, turkey vultures, also fondly, tongue in cheek, called the Mexican Eagle.

Yes, lower down, that’s what I want to show you, the leftover-spaghetti-mess of wires criss-crossing overhead, connecting each habitacion to power, cable, satellite, internet and phone services.

When I lived in an apartment on a busy street In Mazatlan, for entertainment, I watched the men from CFE (electricity) or Telmex or Megacable climb a pole across the street and add another wire, string it across to its destination, and Voila, another connection made without removing any unused wires. Why not reuse a former wire? Not for me to know.

On some streets, the overhead wires resemble strange art installations. I imagine creatures in an UFO trying to decipher a message written in unknown tongue.

Here in our tiny colonia on the rancho, it’s no different. From poles at the entrance, at dirt-street intersections, overhead from house to house, spaghetti. I try to ignore the implications. The wires carry what they are designed to carry, so why worry.

History. I’m told at one time not that long ago, all the houses here (seventeen, not all inhabited at present), were hooked up to one electric meter. The residents figured out a system to pay the monthly bill. Rumor has it that bill-paying time generated a clutch of arguments, disagreements and on occasion, fisticuffs.

Which eventually led to separate meters for each residence. One spaghetti, two spaghetti, and whenever a casita gets a new resident, three spaghetti, four!

No shock or surprise to me when I returned from a two-week holiday in Mazatlan, and the power went out. Let me modify that. MY power went out. Only mine.

An interruption of electrical power is a nuisance. But one copes.

Called Josue to rescue me. He fiddled around and replaced a little black rectangular thingy inside the larger gray box. Said he’d not seen one of those burn out before and let me know there might be a problem that caused this problem, but for now, I had electricity again, and as soon as he had time, he’d run a check on my wires.

Twenty four hours later, my lights went out again. This was not a CFE problem. This was a personal problem.  

My thoughts veered to the strange. A mere three weeks ago I launched myself into space and put out my head lights—crash!—on a marble tile floor. Did I, in a past life, put out someone else’s lights? Is the Great Wizard-person of Life trying to get me to examine my conscience? Have I a problem that needs illumination? (Undoubtedly!)

While I’m being weird, Josue examined the wires, beginning at the source, and found the seat of my problem, a hot seat, so to speak. Out at the main breaker, where a wire, a ground and a wire, go into the big meter, one of the wires had burned to a crisp.

Josue explained. When those men from the past, Joe and Charlie and Ernie and Harry and Tom, once they’d cooled down from inept fisticuffs, after all, they were all in their 70s and 80s and it was not a pretty sight, decided to install individual meters, they went on the cheap. Why use copper wire and brass fittings when aluminum is a mere fraction of the cost?

Meanwhile, Josue and Leo ran a homemade rig from the power source next door to my electrical box and stole power for me so I’d have lights overnight and could keep my refrigerator running. I’ve seen worse solutions put into action.

Josue bought proper wire and parts and within a few hours had restored my service, complete with copper and brass in appropriate places. He fixed me up without adding to the overhead strings of noodles.

You might wonder about, you know, Code? I suggest you don’t ask. I might have to fight you.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 3, 2019

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Sometimes A Silly Notion

Sometimes A Silly Notion

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After two weeks at a beach resort in Mazatlan, I wanna go home!

Not that I don’t love it here. I do. I do. What is not to love? Fantastic balcony view. Comfortable room. Staff who treat me as though I am special. A city I know well. I sleep to the rhythmic seasong of surf pounding the seawall.

But . . . Oh, that trickster little word . . . But. I must make a decision. Nothing momentous. This is a small thing. Nothing to do with the fate of nations.

An unfortunate aspect of my psyche is that when a choice is important, I see my way clearly (in my own mind) and snap, decision made, for better or (often enough) for worse! Marriage? Cross-country move? Buy or sell house?  New job? I know my mind.

Give me something small to niggle on and I can make it last, complete with sleep deprivation, for weeks. In the past hour I have 1. Decided to return to Etzatlan with my friends. 2. To stay in Mazatlan another week, hoping for my residency paperwork to be completed. 3. To return in three weeks with Missouri Jim. 4. To take the bus to Mazatlan the minute I hear my card is ready, overnight and bus back. Whew. Wears me out thinking about it.

Stay now? Return later? I look at each option financially, logistically, physically, and as logically as I am capable.

Truth is, there is no wrong or right decision. Each decision has consequences, some well-hidden, over which we have no control or foreknowledge. No good. No bad.

No judgement. Take this scenario. I came to Mazatlan for beach time with friends. That’s good, right?

Three days along and I fall, land on my f’ord bumper, crack my head and batter my body? Oh, that’s bad, right?

If I’d never fallen, I would never have thought to buy the Cadillac of a marine-blue 4-wheel walker, which enables me to walk while battered but also is correcting my lurching hobble to a more balanced gait. So, hey, good thing I came to Mazatlan, fell and got a new walker, right.

Ha! Neither good nor bad. No judgement. Simply consequences.  Layers of consequences. Some more comfortable than others.

While I mulled choices of chocolate or vanilla, Hurricane Lorena made her presence known, earlier than expected.  Coconut palms bent northward into the wind. A beach umbrella flew past my head. 

This is not a Mary Poppins moment.

Skip the ice cream. I’m off to my room.

When the moment came, the winds and rains from the storm over, I decided to make the drive home with my friends. I made the decision based solely on my heart. I wanted to touch the walls of my own home. I wanted an avocado from my own garden, a papaya from my own tree, a sleep in my own bed.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 26, 2019

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