Distracted

Distracted

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            When our Rancho gardener comes in the morning, Leo often asks me, “Sondrita, how is your wonderful retired life?”

            “Yes,” I say. We laugh. We both understand my meaning. “Yes, wonderful.”

            Wonderful, beyond any plan I might have dreamed.

            But, each day is filled with distractions. Take today, for instance. I get up, make my bed, drink two mugs of coffee, strong and hot, the way I like it. Order. Precision. On my mind is a vague desire to bake cookies. Oatmeal. Chocolate oatmeal. Vague desire firmed up. I set my empty mug in the sink, thinking to find my recipe. Out the window . . .

            The sun, now an hour into the day sky, has taken away the shadow around my tiny backyard patio, under the jacaranda. I go outside to sit a few minutes, warm these bones, get inspiration for my column this week. I placed my blue metal rocking chair beneath a hummingbird nest, empty this past month.

This morning a pair flits around the nest. I wonder if these are the fledglings which grew up in “my” nest. Checking property rights? Here and gone.  I should go make cookies, then write.

Jim walks over, sits in a rocker. We both settle, silent. Eventually, Jim says, “Aren’t we a pair of sloths?” “Contented is the word I’d use,” I counter.

Partridge doves have made a sloppy nest, disreputable housekeepers, in an air plant attached to the branch just over that way a bit. Tillandsia are everywhere, attached to branches, telephone and electric wires. The plants thrive on nutrients from the air and occasional rain.

“My doves aren’t very good parents,” I tell Jim. Because I sit out under the tree daily, I’ve learned to pick distinct pairs. “Maybe their clutch isn’t full yet,” Jim offers.  “Maybe they get distracted,” I say. An hour passes in this desultory way.

“I came over for Qi Gong,” said Jim. “Instead we Qi talk,” I said.

Jim leaves. I go back to the house to bake cookies. I still don’t have a writing topic.

Before I can gather ingredients for cookies, I decide I should make a real meal. I’m hungry for my chicken potato salad. Gather potatoes, eggs, pickles, onion, cilantro, leftover chicken. Put eggs and potatoes on to cook. Now, where is that cookie recipe? Book or box? Chocolate cookies should be good for inspiration.

Oh, I haven’t watered the new plants today, the daisies, geraniums, lavender and kalanchoes we planted, to begin replacing my dead bulbs, victims of dastardly corn worms. Back outside, I hook up the hose and give new flowers a drink.

An iguana is feasting on a daisy. I shoot the iguana my version of evil eye.  Ugly lizard gave it back. “Go ahead. Fatten on my flowers. I’ll grill you on the barby.”

Back to the kitchen. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. I wonder if the iguana would substitute for chicken in my salad.  Mustard and mayo. Seasonings. Eat a small bowl and refrigerate the rest for later. 

Leo comes by to ask if I need anything from town. “Leo, what does iguana taste like?”

“Chicken,” he answers with a straight face. “Sure,” I say.

I shuffle through my recipes and find no directions for preparing iguana.

A cup of tea sounds good. I take tea and a book out under my front patio in the shade. It is too nice outside to be inside. I read for an hour. Better get to the cookies.

Before I get to my door, I hear the bell on my gate jingle-jangle. Here comes Julie.  “Do you have time to take a break?” “Of course. Let’s go around back and watch hummingbirds and tanagers in the bottle brush. 

We drop into the red rockers on the strip of patio behind the house and smell the flowers. That is when we hear the distinctive call of the cuckoo bird. He is magnificent and large. I locate him in all his beauty in the top of the jacaranda, the cuckoo and an entire zoo of yellow warblers.

We sit until the sun drops behind the horizon. Tomorrow I’ll bake chocolate oatmeal cookies, as long as I don’t get distracted.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 14, 2019

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Be Happy, Don’t Worry

                        Be Happy, Don’t Worry

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            Yes, I know, the song says “don’t worry, be happy” and I reversed the order. Which comes first, chicken or egg, or does it matter and who cares?

            What I noticed is that when I am happy, I tend not to worry. However, it is within the realm of possibilities that worry is a vastly underrated activity.

 Consider this. Almost without fail, the things I worry about never come to fruition. When bad things happen, it invariably is something of which I never thought to worry.

            If worry prevents bad things from happening, isn’t worry a good thing? Shouldn’t I then worry more?

            Logically, this is an excellent argument for worriers to worry more. If enough worriers worried about enough dire disasters, perhaps the world would be without disaster and everyone would/could be happy.

            Oh, dear. Would that eventually create and equal and opposite reaction of bad things happening because people no longer bothered to worry thus creating an inevitable backlash of no happiness? I worry about these kind of things. Somebody has to do it.  

            I have a temporary neighbor, renting a casa around the corner and across the way, who worries about really strange and dire things. I’ll bet anything that you didn’t know there is a mad scientist twirling dials and pushing buttons on a strange device hidden somewhere in the Arctic, controlling nature disasters all over the globe—things such as volcanoes, tsunamis, earthquakes, blizzards and hurricanes. Yep. He swears it is so.

            Not only that, but this man claims that jet flight vapor trails are purposely used to spread poison chemicals meant to kill us all off, to what motive, he didn’t say. And our drinking water is laced with sedatives to keep us a mild and compliant people. Yep. Obviously the sedatives don’t work.

            This sweet man tracks sightings of Big Foot and gets his information from that most impeccable of sources, Face Book. (Is that one word or two?) Elvis lives.

            I’m glad this man worries about such phenomena because I would never think to worry over such. I worry that iguanas will find a way into my screen-fence and eat my lettuce, a very selfish worry, indeed.

            Not that I am worry free or do not know how to worry. At one time in my life, I assure you, I was a world class worry-wart. I worried about everything. I worried for you. I worried for me. I worried for the starving dog in the alley.

I worried you wouldn’t like me. I wrote scripts in my head. If I said this, then you said that, and then I replied thus and such, and you would then say the other, and on and on and on. None of these imaginary conversations ever happened but they occupied my mind untold hours, long into dark nights.

            I worried about things over which I had no control. I worried about stuff which was none of my business. I worried imaginary scenes which would bring me to tears at the sheer tragedy. I must have enjoyed it, because I worried like that for years.

            One day a light bulb switched on letting me see that my worry, script writing, and tears, were about futile attempts to control outcomes of interactions over which I had no control. It seems so simple now. I fired myself from the job at which I had hired myself.

            I would like to tell you my worry obsession went away overnight. No, I had to catch myself at it over and over for years. For one thing, I had felt like I was all alone in life. I did not share my fears and did not learn to laugh at myself for a long time.

            Today I am surrounded by people who accept that life is hard, tough things happen, trouble comes. They don’t worry about it. They deal with it. They surround themselves with friends who help. And we laugh a lot.

            Bobby McFerrin says it best, “In every life we have some trouble. But when you worry, you make it double.” I will add that each time you share a trouble, you cut it in half.

            So let me tell you about what happened to me when . . .

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 7, 2019

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Tequila, Pole Dancing and More Tequila

            Tequila, Pole Dancing and More Tequila

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            Yesterday John and Carol, Leo, our gardener, and I took a trip up to the top of the sacred Mountain, Volcan de Tequila.

            Tequila Mountain dominates a huge section of Jalisco, can be seen from Guadalajara as well as from my own yard. We are aware of its majestic presence whenever we think to notice.

            John had walked over the day before to ask if I would like to join them. I hesitated a few seconds, shook myself and said yes to a chance to see more of this country I have come to love.

            Perhaps I might explain my slight hesitation. After my first run-about with John and Carol, I had said loudly that I would never ride with John again. He is a terrible driver. Carol, bless her and she is right, of course, says John is the best, safest driver she knows. And, of course, I have taken my life into John’s hands since then, mostly to nearby restaurants. 

            On one such trip, John asked me if I were afraid of his driving. “Scared” is the word he used. I gulped and said, “Yes, in certain situations,” and blathered it all out. Perhaps he had noticed me white knuckling the passenger door. Perhaps he’d caught me slam my foot on the passenger-side invisible brake. So, John knows. This is not secret stuff I’m revealing.

            We left early in the morning, took sweaters, jackets, scarves, hats and gloves. It is cold on top of Tequila and the wind always blows. We drove into the city of Tequila, an hour drive from Etzatlan, through the center of town, on up the cobbled road to the top.

            I made that sound so easy. Cobbled road. Narrow. Built around fifty years ago by the communications companies to service the towers atop the mountain, right at the edge of the caldera. Cobbled, not necessarily maintained. We bounced like b-bs in a pinball machine, over, around and through potholes, washouts, and gullies which interlaced the cobblestones like gaps in a first-grader’s teeth.

            Straight up, the mountain tops out at 9,613 feet. Mountain roads do not run straight up. Our ascent took two hours, maybe longer. The scenery up the mountain is worth every bounce, jounce, and jerk.

We stood on the edge of the caldera and marveled at the tall rock stupa standing in the center, gaped at the sheer size of the bowl.  When we turned our backs on the caldera, a huge Monopoly board of fields, cities, smaller pueblos, arroyos, highways and dirt roads spread before us like a skirt reaching across the valley to the mountains to our south.

            What goes up must come down and so did we, so did we, down through the oak forests, through the pines, onto expanses of blue agave fields from which comes the drink which gives the town its fame today, and into the center of the city to find food.

            Complaining of hunger, we followed Leo through the Plaza to a restaurant he had in mind. Five men in bright beaded regalia stopped us in our tracks while they prepard to re-enact the sacred Danza de Los Voladores (Dance of the Flyers), or as I call it, the pole dance. It is a spectacular sight. We watched with appropriate respect and awe. I’ve seen the flying pole dancers three times now and it seems more phenomenal each time.  

            Four men secured with rope halters dangle from the platform high atop a pole and swing upside down in ever-expanding circles until they reach the ground and upright themselves. While they are swinging, a man atop the pole plays a curious instrument combining the music of a pipe and drum.

            On to the restaurant, we satisfied our appetites with a variety of delicious Mexican foods; my choice, shrimp in tamarind sauce. A duo serenaded us, singing in perfect harmony. Our waiter attempted to ply us with offerings of flavored tequilas: chocolate, coffee, mango and almond, oh, my.

            The town of Tequila is home of the Jose Cuervo distillery among many, many others. I suspect all that is needed to make tequila, like any home brew, is a few agave plants, a vat or two and copper pipes. Copper? I don’t know. I’ve heard home brew can be had.  

After our day on the mountain, content with filled bellies, we headed home, happy. Despite my trepidation, perhaps aided by my silent vigilance, John drove us home safely, mouthing the instrumentals, shouting out the song with one word, “Tequila”.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 31, 2019

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Merry Christmas in January

            Merry Christmas in January

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Dear Lee and Roy,

Imagine my surprise when Leo handed me mail this morning. He climbs the stairs at the Mercado every Monday morning to check my mail box. I suspect the real reason Leo checks mail every Monday morning is his secret penchant for deep-fried stuffed gorditas the Senora makes, just down the hall from the Correo office. Stuffed with cheese and jalapenos. Dripping grease.

I came as close to dance as I am capable when I held the envelope, Christmas card size, in my hand. I saw your name label at the top left corner. I carefully peeled open the seal, pulled out the glittery Christmas wishes. And whooped.

The Christmas card you sent me is beautiful, the only real card I received this year, so I treasure it doubly. Immediately I was transported back to Christmas Day. An imaginary Christmas Day, I admit. I‘ve never been to your home.

Nevertheless, I imagined the smell of roasting turkey coming from the kitchen, a pumpkin pie and an apple pie cooling on the counter, out of the reach of the shaggy dog, yours or one that belongs to your son. Do you have children?

I imagined your family sitting around the living room, a daughter popping into the kitchen from time to time, lifting lids of various pots and pans on the stovetop. The living room floor a-clutter with gift wrap, perhaps grandchildren playing Monopoly in the corner, wishing they were playing computer games instead, but respecting the day for you.

I can see your Christmas tree, decorated with ornaments saved from more than one generation, lights flashing and tinsel swaying when the cat decide to bat the bottom branches. For a few moments I traveled to your home.

When Leo handed me my mail, I was sitting in my blue rocking chair, basking in the sun on my little corner backyard patio beneath the jacaranda tree, watching the hummingbirds  flitting back and forth with feed for the babies in the nest above my head. I don’t know which kind of hummingbird it is, perhaps a Brown violet-ear. There are five pages of hummingbirds in my Birds of Mexico and Central America. It’s a puzzle to match beaks and feet.  

An Amaryllis is in bloom today. Five have bloomed, out of the four-hundred from last year. The first one bloomed Christmas Day, flowered and promptly fell over dead. None of my bulb plants survived the corn borer plague. Farming, phooey. This beauty is doomed to die too.

I planted Geraniums in my largest Amaryllis bed. The others lie fallow for now. Nothing seems to bother geraniums, neither ants nor iguanas nor corn worms. I am just superstitious enough to want to bite my tongue.

Tanagers are playing in my bottlebrush tree. A cuckoo fluttered through the jacaranda, the kind with orangey feathers and a long tail with black and white markings.

And I discovered the little green and yellow bird with the high nasal voice that I hear every morning is a Euphonia, aptly named. I am not good at identity; I don’t have binoculars, necessary for the details, but I love my garden full of flowers and birds.

I imagine you looking out your window, watching Chickadees pecking in the snowy yard, flocking in your Caragana hedge. Flickers seem not to bother about weather. We both have Flickers though yours are larger. Your flowers are in winter sleep, but daffodils and tulips will emerge in the first warm days of spring. I miss that. But I don’t miss the snow and ice.

Thank you for this gift, a renewal of Christmas out of season. I see that your card is postmarked December 7. Mail between our countries sometimes runs slowly. Must be the cold start.  

Give our mutual friend Jane a hug for me. I can imagine you all meeting for tomato soup at the 4-B’s, coffee cups steaming, maybe eyeballing the pie case.

Thank you for making my day special.

Sondra Jean Ashton

APDO Postal #3

46500 Etzatlan, Jalisco, Mexico

Keep those cards and letters coming, folks.

Sondra Jean Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 24, 2019

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Oh, for pity’s sake!

            Oh, for pity’s sake!

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            Those words came out of my mouth with full exclamation stop. And nobody near with ears to hear.

            Among other things in this mysterious and strange aging process, things like talking with myself, I have an emerging propensity to use phrases I have not heard since I was a child; phrases I snubbed, vowed never to let pass my more educated, sophisticated lips. Ha.

Yesterday I returned from my week on the beach in Mazatlan. With a severe shortage of gasoline in the state of Jalisco, among other Mexican states, returning had its moments.

            Mexico has a weird new president, Lopez Obrador, whom I most admire for taking a stand against government complacency and gangland corruption.  More to the point of weird, he started with his own office, weird things like refusing the opulent presidential palace, sending his guards home and flying coach on commercial airlines. Weird. That kind of weird.

            Seems that huachicoleros, a criminal gang by any other name, have had a payday for years beyond counting, stealing billions of pesos of oil annually from Mexico’s pipelines.

President Obrador said, “Stop it!” So the government shut down certain isolated pipelines most vulnerable to these illegal taps and diverted fuel to trucks and rail cars under heavy guard. So oil flows but by a sluggish, complicated process.

Consequently, stations which bought black market fuel are shut down. Other stations have long, long, lines of customers in cars, burning gas, creeping up to the pumps, hoping for a fill up, before tanks run empty. That is, both car tanks and gas station tanks.

So, yesterday, as I said, I returned home to Jalisco from a week on the beach in Mazatlan. Being the selfish person I am, you wonder why this gasoline “crisis” should bother me. Well, so do I; so do I.

My diesel-fueled bus goes direct from Mazatlan to Zapopan, a municipality which comprises a huge portion of Guadalajara. (From what I am told diesel fuel is readily available, a boon to public transportation, shipping and farmers.) Leo generally picks me up at the bus station for the more, or less, hour-long drive home to Etzatlan.

Leo called me, “My car broke. And there is no gasoline. I cannot come get you.” “Not to worry,” I said. “I will take a taxi.” He actually called six times trying to figure out best way to get me home. Each time I said the same. I am the only one not worried.

While on the bus, an hour out of Mazatlan, I got a call from Josue. Actually, He called four times, throughout the six hour trip. He had gas, would pick me up. Then, he did not have, did have, did not have. I said, “Not to worry. I take taxi.”

The sweet young man (They get younger every year, notice that?) who helped me with my bags after I got off the bus in Zapopan tried to convince me to take the local bus to Etzatlan.

 I did that once. Cramped molded plastic seats, knees beneath chin, at least a hundred stops along the road, no exaggeration, plus stops in every tiny pueblo and hamlet along the way. Three hours later, barely able to move, I brushed off the chicken feathers and goat slobber. I really do not want to repeat that trip, ever again.  

I held up my cane, pointed to my hip, said, “Mucho dolor.” The young man nodded his understanding, signaled the taxi driver next in line. Within minutes, my handsome young driver, all of fourteen, whisked me down the highway to home, a drive of forty minutes with so little traffic.

With my own eyes I got to see cars at the few open stations stacked in lines two and three kilometers in length.

So when I got home, I checked Mexican news for the straight skinny on the gasoline situation. While frustrated, most of the Mexican people I know support this short-term inconvenience in exchange for long-term benefits. Neighbors do not just jump in the jitney for every whim. Necessary trips can be managed.

In my search for information, I also discovered there is considerable worry with how the shortage in Mexico could affect the United States. The chief concern voiced in our country was that there would not be avocados for the Super Bowl parties.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 17, 2019

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Every day a different day

Every day a different day

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            This morning I walk down to Tony’s On the Beach for breakfast. I call it a walking meditation because naming it such makes me feel better about my small steps, snail pace.

            Once again I am in Mazatlan. Kathy and Richard asked me if I would like to join them for a week on the beach. Who would say no?

            It has been three years now since I lived in Mazatlan. Tony’s is in my old neighborhood. Oh, the changes. Each time I come there are changes.

            Economy is booming if one may judge by new construction; condo towers shooting up like corn stalks on every vacant beach lot. On the short walk to the restaurant I had to dodge around heavy construction equipment three times.

            When I first knew Mazatlan years ago, all, and I mean all, the construction labor was manual. One seldom saw a simple backhoe. Men climbed makeshift ladders with buckets of concrete mix; descended with buckets of rubble. Now cranes replace an entire work crew.

            Today the body snatchers were out in force. Hector. Oscar. Rudy. Alberto. No, no, no and no. I do not want to pay for my vacation with a morning sitting in a deadly shark-infested room listening to a time-share presentation. Politely, no. I walked on up the street.

            Sitting at a table, plata de fruta y huevos Mexicana in front of me, the ocean surf at my feet, I fall in love again with Mazatlan. I fall in love a lot. Most restaurants are family affairs. The same men serve my food who were here my first trip to Mexico.

            I miss Mazatlan, my friends. I miss the street activity. I miss Jose with his bucket of shrimp for sale every Monday morning, the two little boys who push the camote (sweet potatoes) cart round the neighborhood each evening, the man with the cart of brooms, dusters, mops and impossibly long brushes, the elderly gent who pedals his bicycle daily, searching the curbs for cardboard to recycle.

            Each season the beach changes shape. Hurricanes come and go. Water reconfigures, carves, piles up dunes or flattens the beach. Last summer the beach was steep, difficult to walk unless one were a side-hill gouger. Today the sandy beach is a table top, welcoming.

            Fish jump close to shore. Where are the birds? No fisher birds, no pelicans in sight. No frigate birds sailing the wind waiting to pirate a flop of fish from the bill of an unwary pelican.

            In the last couple weeks I have learned that five people, each of whom meant something important to me, are gone. It is a hard and sad thing to lose people in such a close cluster. Francis, Juanita, Wanda, Tenny and Maxine.

            I sit high above the beach alone in the room and remember how each person touched my life, different times, in different ways, and it is good. The tuba from the oompah band below snakes into my consciousness and reminds me to smile. Yes, though some memories are frought with tension, each person has his part in making me who I am.

            Memory leads to memory until an entire patchwork quilt unfurls before me, each piece alive and vibrant. Tuba says smile, be grateful, so I do, I am.

            I lie in bed listening to the waves pound the sand, the distant call of a conch shell, the click of the refrigerator, people overhead moving the heavy marble coffee table across the floor.

            Tomorrow Carlos will pick me up to go to the Migracion Officina to find out when I need to show up next fall to complete my residente process. I snuggle into my blanket, breeze from the open window on my face, thinking how I am happy. And that makes me feel kind of sad.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 10, 2019

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The Mystery of the Purloined Scarf

The Mystery of the Purloined Scarf

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            The episode began innocently enough. I had walked over to see Carol about something so mundane I don’t even remember. She came out of her door with a stunning pink scarf wrapped around her neck. I commented on the beauty. Scarf and woman—they enhanced one another.

            “Do you know to whom this belongs?” Carol asked. (She really said, “Whose is it?” But I’m writing an adventure mystery based on a true story so I’ll tell it my way.)

            “I found the scarf after the birthday gathering the other night. I set it out on a table meaning to ask around and forgot about it. John and I leave later today for Chicago, so I should find the owner. Though I’d love to keep it. You wear scarves so I thought it might be yours.”

            “Yes, it might be. I draped the lovely snippet of fabric, soft and pliable as kitten fur, around my neck. I love it.” I heaved a sigh. (How often do I get a chance to write that line?)

            “Alas and alack. I cannot tell a lie. The scarf does not belong to me, much as I would like to claim it. I think I remember JRae wearing this scarf at your party.  Maybe she dropped it when you took her inside to show her the work you’ve done on your casa?“  Tom and JRae had taken off the morning following our birthday cake bash, back to the dreary winter rains of Washington.

            Sadly, though I dearly wanted to lay claim to the scarf, it is true, I cannot tell a lie. No, that’s not right. I could tell one but you would never believe me. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, every thought that crosses my mind telegraphs itself onto my face. I cannot get away with prevarication.  I’ve learned. Don’t try. So while my eyes lusted after the swath of pink wool, my mouth upheld honesty.

            “Can you see that the scarf is returned to JRae?”

            “Of course. I’ll give it to Leo to set inside her casa and I’ll let her know you found it.” Leo is gardener for Tom and JRae and has keys to their house.

            I hugged Carol, wished her a good trip to Chicago. Chicago and good do not belong in the same sentence, but, oh, well, such is life.  I slung the scarf back around my neck, accompanied the gesture with an evil cackle worthy of Oil Can Harry, immediately switched character and in my best imitation of Pearl Pureheart, returned to my own casa, where I hung the scarf on my coat tree until I saw Leo, meanwhile humming, “Here I come to save the day.”  

            Leo, scarf and my intention never crossed paths at the same intersection over the next few days. I draped my zarape over the scarf on the coat tree one evening. Out of sight, you know the rest. And so it went over the week, covered, uncovered, forgotten.

            Julie walked in this morning, snatched the pink scarf off my coat tree. “My scarf. Where did you find it?” she asked as she arranged it around the blue scarf already adorning her neck.

            I told her the story, glad I’d been remiss in getting it to JRae’s house.

            That night I wrote Carol and told her the whole saga of the found scarf.

            “And you believed her?” Carol said, with her own version of the Oil Can Harry evil laugh.

            The moral of the story is muddy. We all lusted after the scarf. Carol and I both would have gladly kept the found item. Our intentions were honorable. JRae, to whom we attributed ownership, never even knew about the kerfluffle, but had she seen the scarf, she would have wanted it. Julie recovered it.

            The above little fable proves I have no future in writing whodunits. I couldn’t even conjure up a decent villain. And the stupendously lovely pink scarf, turned out was a treasure Julie had picked up for a couple bucks in a second-hand store in Minneapolis.

I’d best stick with essays, poetry and letters to my friends.

Sondra Ashton

January 3, 2019

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