When garbage day becomes an event

When garbage day becomes an event 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As soon as I heard the smoke-belching diesel truck rumble off the highway into the Rancho, I grabbed pruning shears and artfully poked around in a pot of lavender on the front patio.

Well, I haven’t been off the ranch in two months. I don’t get to see many people. There are generally three men, sometimes four, swinging our garbage cans or lawn bags into the maw of the beast. They are friendly. They are young and strong. They wave. They greet me, “Buenos dias.”

I wave and grin and shout my best good morning. They probably think I’m easy.

The garbage truck dust cloud had hardly dissipated when Benjamin arrived in his little blue pickup delivering 20 liter water jugs. I bought three. Often he brings his eight-year old grandson to help with the empties. I enjoy Benjamin and his shy helper.

We always chat, inconsequential, good morning, how you doing, fine thanks, that sort of talk. When I went for surgery at Christmas, Benjamin was at the hospital to see his daughter and her new baby girl. Made me feel like I was distant family.

Some days are more eventful than others. My shower has leaked for a few weeks. I had hoped it would heal itself. Such hopeless hope is a failing of mine. Josue fixed it. He is the first person to step inside my door since mid-March when I asked my physical therapist to stop treatment. Josue and I danced an elaborate rigmarole around one another for safety.

Not an hour later I was on my ancient but lovable, like myself, stationary bike, peddling away when the gear-whichitbit that runs the chain fell apart at the pedal mechanism.

Leo rummaged in my tool box, took a gander, gave up and hauled my bike to the bike shop. The man there said, “This bike is really old. They don’t make them like this today. I’ll have to break the piece, make new parts and weld it back together.” Mexican men never say, “I can’t fix it.”

I hope the repairman can fix it. I like my old bike. We bonded. I also had been broken, given new parts and welded back together.

If you are superstitious instead of scientifically minded like me, you might think these break-downs happen in series of three. So why does my hot tub appear to have a short? Shower, bike, tub? Three?

Michelle and Ana drove in from Oconahua for a “gate visit”. Short and sweet, masked and distanced, we visit on each side of my wrought iron gate, keeping in virtual touch, sharing news and views.

Michelle threw me a bag of veggie seeds for my new bucket garden. I threw her a spare packet of sweet corn seed. Janet from next door heard the commotion and joined us.

We tossed around the idea of a sack-lunch get-together, a visit with each bringing her own lunch, mask and appropriate distancing. On further consideration, we decided to wait-and-see. Jalisco, has second lowest virus contamination/death rate of Mexican States at present, because of vigilant lockdown measures. Wait and see before we get too chummy.

Night came in a blaze of glory. Out my bedroom window looking just beyond Josue’s house, the sky glowed brightly, unnaturally, no, not a glow, a conflagration. I hurried, in my nighty, out to my gate where I could see the flames and hear the snap, crackle and pop.

Instant fear. Fire in the dry season. In a panic, I phoned Josue. He called whomever and they said it was a cane fire just beyond Samantha’s corn field (which is just beyond our houses) which has been harvested. Samantha plowed a fire guard, so all is well, he said. Still.

The men who fire the fields are highly skilled, I am assured, burning the knife-sharp outer leaves so the cane can be safely harvested by hand. Being a farmer at heart, I understand both pros and cons to this dubious practice. Still.

Just in case the fire got out of hand and we had to flee, I put on my clothes. Suddenly I was not one bit tired. I stood guard until the fire was a smolder, a smudge in the moonlight.

In my self-imposed isolation equal to life in a cloistered nunnery, I still have days full of friends and human interaction. The garbage truck lumbers into our rancho twice a week. Likely I’ll not see another soul until next garbage day.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 21, 2020

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

If I could ruin my life differently

            If I could ruin my life differently

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“I want to be fourteen again and ruin my life differently,” Kathy told me.

After that surprising statement Kathy wriggled past elaborating further than a mumble about kisses with a fellow cellist at music camp.

Harkening back to when I was fourteen, all I could think was “Ewww.” Way back then, “He looked at me,” would have put me, a late bloomer, in a dreamy swoon.

Kathy a long-time friend, is stuck in Canada, as we all are stuck-in-place for an indeterminate while. 

I’d say her life is idyllic and I believe she would agree.

But, hey, we all go there, wondering what life would be if we’d chosen Door #1 rather than Door #3.

So much for email. My backyard pulled me outdoors under the new-leaf shade of my jacaranda to survey my kingdom.

My long-tall cactus waved his arms seeking admiration for poking out its first flower, a dinner-plate burst of frothy white with yellow centers. I admired.

Kathy’s words stayed with me, niggling away. If I could step in a time machine and say, “Beam me up, Scotty,” I still would not want to go back to fourteen or any other age. Well, maybe forty-five. Let me think on that.

In the other corner, my Cascada de Oro, a truly ugly tree when its leaves fall off, has seemingly overnight burst forth with great clusters of golden flowers hanging from nearly naked branches like grapes on steroids. She also demanded admiration. I admired.

If I could go back in time, I’d plant her on the other side of the wall in place of that ugly little spike cactus. Today she is a floral beauty and will be for a month.  

Know what? I could plant another tree on the other side of the wall.

Know what else? I trust that you and I made the best decisions we could with the information we had at the time. Let’s leave it at that. Did we make some stinkers? You betcha. Or maybe you didn’t but I did.

Sure I’d love to think I could roll back the clock and avoid pain, humiliation and hurting others. I’ve made stupid choices based on lousy information or fear or despair or want or impulse which ended by smacking me upside my head. Maybe I needed the pain to learn better ways, hard headed as I am.

Hey, here comes Leo. I’m going to ask him to empty out more flower pots. We’ve planted several in lettuce and cilantro, and various herbs. “What do you think, Leo? It’s either we take out the stump garden (a rock garden filled with succulents) or plant corn in flower pots.”

Leo is a good help to me in sorting out what I want. “The stump garden is too pretty to rip apart. We can put corn in pots. Corn has shallow roots.”

That’s another thing that took me forever to learn. Ask for help. A foreign concept in my family.

Leo and I crowded geraniums into other flower beds, filled pots with new soil and planted corn. 

Sweet corn. From seed smuggled across the border by a friend.

Would I ruin my life differently if I could? Probably not. I’ve experiences that will haunt me to my grave. But I’ve also said “yes” to incredible opportunities, things beyond the imagination of a simple Montana plains girl. And I’ve had much fun along the way.

Oh, listen. The cicadas are here, first night this year. I love the local legend; the cicadas sing down the rains. We don’t look for the rainy season until we hear the click of cicadas that generates into a shrill to make me plug my ears.

Would I be here in my own little slice of Paradise had I chosen differently when I was fourteen? Probably not. I have a hard time believing I’m here as it is.

Had I not broken my arm in Harlem, I would not have happily moved to my little apartment in Mazatlan. Had I not visited my cousin Nancie and her friend Lani in Etzatlan, I would not be living in my little garden casita today.

Tomorrow? Who knows? I have a friend who advises, “Say yes to life.” Every day.

But, if I could ruin my life differently, I’d be wilder.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 14, 2020

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Creatures Great and Small

Creatures Great and Small

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Though not the least bit dangerous, Argentine Ants win the grand prize for pesky, irritating, prolific and impossible to be squashed with any permanence. You in the North Country don’t have to worry about them. So far they have learned to inhabit only tropical and sub-tropical climes. I say ‘so far’. 

Adaptable little creatures they are.

They neither bite with fire nor leave welts. They don’t strip entire trees overnight. They don’t chew the furniture.

However, one this moment is traveling along the bottom rim of my reading glasses, left to right, cross over the nose piece, left to right along the other rim, about face and right to left, back again. Cheeky little bugger.  

Argentine Ants are year round, ever-present, and occupy my house. May is our hottest month, smack in the dry season. Argentine Ants particularly like to hang out in the kitchen, on the counters, in the sink, in search of moisture. If, however, I miss wiping a bread crumb off the counter, ants will call in a moving crew and will make short work of it.

I’m vigilant. I scrub assiduously. I keep a spray bottle of vinegar on the counter. Ha! Drops them in their tracks. Despite my efforts, I’ve eaten some, swallowed ants in glasses of water. Small, tasteless, harmless. I try not to think about it.

One of my friends asked me if I thought animals were bolder, now that people are not moving around so much. You know—people off the streets and animals reclaim territory. She recently had spotted a fox and a coyote in her yard.

My theory, and I can roust up a theory for any occasion, is that animals aren’t behaving differently, people are. People in place are not rushing about, focused on getting hither and yon. Consequently, people are noticing critters that are always there. It’s all about focus.

Two days ago I had a lizard in the house, crawling up my screen door. He was a little guy, about seven inches, nose to tail. Lizards are insect eaters, love those flies and mosquitoes and smaller bugs. So I like lizards.

But this guy is not a house lizard, not a gecko, so I escorted him out to the patio. He might have been fine inside, companionable, but I did not enjoy contemplating the possibility he might creep across my face in the night in search of one of those small gray flies or an errant Argentine Ant.

Yesterday I went to the patio to grab my mop. I always flip the mop-head about a bit in case a scorpion has crawled into the long cotton fibers. Out popped a fat pregnant mouse. She’d made a lovely nest in just two days. A shame to disturb her. But along with lizards, I don’t want mice living in my home. I’m not that lonely yet.

Today, while walking along in the shade of the jacaranda trees, thinking about a friend’s grievous situation, I had a clear picture of my Dad, with the saddest expression on his face.

Dad’s been gone several years. We have better communication now. He seems to know when I need a visit.

Dad reminded me of a time when I lived in Great Falls. We’d motored out to Wolf Creek Canyon for a family picnic. This was back in the mid-‘70s when I made the most disastrous decision of my life. 

Dad knew he could say no words to help me; he knew that I had to figure it out and save myself.

I had snapped a photo of my Dad and that picture reminds me as nothing else can, of the depth of his love for me. “Ah, Dad, I understand now,” I told him.

Resident animals are a great distraction, enabling me to avoid talking about a difficult situation. 

Somebody close to me, one whom I love, is about to make, or has made, a disastrous decision, guaranteed to bring years of pain.

There is nothing I can do, nothing I can say. I know you know what I mean. It hurts. We all have someone close to us and, helpless to intervene, we have had to watch him/her walk off a cliff. All we can do is love them and hope to help pick up the pieces.

So I distract myself with ants smaller than ground pepper, lizards and mice.

And crows. I seldom see crows in this neck of the woods. Grackles, yes, small blackbirds, yes. 

Crows, no. Look at those two clowns. In inimitable style, remind me of Heckle and Jeckle, the cartoon magpies, swinging through the branches like acrobats, making me laugh. It helps.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

May 7, 2020

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Elegant living in a green dress

            Elegant living in a green dress

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

We have numerous ways of fooling ourselves; at least I have. Little things, like “a change is as good as a rest” for when I get bogged down on a project. Or, “If I take a walk, I will no longer want to piggy the rest of the liter of ice cream.” Good luck with that one.

In the interest of changing up my daily routine, this morning I put on my green dress. This is not just any green dress. This is an elegant green dress. It flows in simple lines all the way to my feet. The fabric is rich, a smooth blend of rayon, cotton and silk. A virgin dress. Never worn, never sullied.

I don’t remember when or where I bought this dress. This dress is “Me”. I’ve carted it around the country. I suspect I bought it when me was larger. It is a dress fit for an ‘occasion’ and it might be the occasion never arrived.

Which is silly. Mexican women dress up for any and every, including no occasion excuse. They dress in finery that we Montana women, well, we Montana women are more comfortable in jeans and flannel. I speak for me.

In past times I’ve put my dress on, then took it off and hung it back in the closet. Too dressy.

Today is the day. Occasion be hanged. Who knows when a real occasion will present.

That green dress slid over my body like a slinky toy going down a stairway, smooth and easy. 

Mmmmm ummm. Felt so good. Swished around my ankles. Looking good, woman.

Made cowboy coffee and heated a pastry in the oven. Sat like a proper lady through my morning readings. Maybe there is something to be said for tarting up now and then.

Time for my physical therapy exercise. Now I need to make a decision. Grumble. Off with dress, on with clam diggers and loose Mexican blouse. I huff and puff through my routine, head out the door for a walk back and forth on rancho lanes, finishing with exercise bicycle.

Side story: While still bed-redden after surgery, I began thinking about therapy to come. I know the benefits of a stationary bike. This is not my first stroll around the block.

So I put the word out to those who spoke Spanish that I’d like a bike. A simple bike. Not one with electronics or electrical plug. Not one that told me I ate too much or insisted I go faster or that rated my heart (broken more than once and never repaired), or depicted hills to climb. A simple stationary bike.

Ariel, Lani’s husband, found me a bike that might be older than me. Low mileage, rode only on Sunday by a little old lady going to church, still has original tires. Ariel chipped off the rust, painted the chassis, greased the chain and generally spiffed it up. We added a brand new big-butt seat. That bike is perfect. But I can’t ride it in an elegant green dress.

Finished with my morning routine, I shucked pants and slid back into my green dress. While sliding the dress over my head, I noticed the bottom third of the dress had picked up a collection of hitch hikers, stray hairs and dust bunnies.

Off with the dress. Dusted, swept and mopped my floors. Now I’m hungry. Clock says 1:30. Might as well eat.

On with the dress. The rest of the day, by now it is 2:30, is mine, mine, mine to sloth about, read and rest and pretend to a life of elegant leisure. I swan out to my little patio spot beneath the jacaranda tree, brush the jacaranda flowers off the seat of my blue metal rocker and sit, book in hand, sigh of satisfaction on my lips, dress softly nestled against my body. Life is good.

This jacaranda tree is an avian paradise, a gentlemanly elder tree, shading half my back yard, providing nest sites for a number and variety of feathery friends. It was bound to happen. A commotion above me. I looked up. Fortunately my mouth was closed. Splat on my green dress.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

April 30, 2020

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________