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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