Saturday, June 27, 2020

Life in the slow lane


Life in the slow lane  
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Life is such a mixed bag of tricks, isn’t it? In the morning we slide out of bed, make coffee, check the obits to see if we made headlines, put our two hands (some of us are greedy) in the bag and pull out the tricks of the day. Such a mix.

Michelle from Oconahua up the road wrote, “Ana’s Mom was hilarious. Always cracking people up in town. She was quite the outspoken young person, the youngest and last of eighteen. She was the favorite of her father. He was a strict and honest man. He had the first store in town and we have stories that we will share about him one day.

“Monica is now laid to rest with her husband. Many people came to the funeral and people sent the loveliest flower arrangements.

“It’s always a bit upsetting to see a dead person in their casket. But I prefer to remember her funny (and blue) joking along with her sitting in the garden with hummingbirds buzzing around.”

I heard my cowbell jangling out at my gate, poked my head out the door. A masked man in an unmarked delivery van held a box. Grabbed my own mask and went out to sign the invoice slip and take possession of a package from my daughter that arrived in slightly over two weeks, a whole week before estimated time of arrival, a possible world record from Montana, perhaps a miracle.

These days even time seems to mosey along. Some of us, we like it. Others fuss and fume.

Next thing, Leo arrived with my grocery order and two pieces of mail from my local PO box, posted from Montana on the 17th and 20th of April. Go figure. Two months.

Everyday mundane stuff, isn’t it. Nothing earth shattering, just life as we live it. It’s the mundane stuff that keeps me sane. For me, it’s where I need to keep my focus.

There is beauty in the sadness of death, wonder in a box with my new keyboard and lap blanket and jigsaw puzzles, delight in snail mail, more so for the time it took.

That vulture gliding overhead against the backdrop of cumulus clouds atop the mountains is every bit as beautiful as an eagle in flight. Is an eagle beautiful because of the grandeur we invest in it? If one really looks, the eagle is ugly as a vulture.

As is the iguana on top of my brick wall, ugly, that is. I’ve made my peace with iguanas, come to terms of tolerance. There is no other option. Iguanas will eat my best flowers and most tender sprouts of lettuce. They aren’t dumb. They ignore the oleander, deadly poison.

Iguana possibly looks at me with disdain and thinks, “Human. Ugly. Not edible.”

My cousin Nancie, whom I dearly love, wrote that she cancelled her three week trip next month. I wrote back with genuine relief, “I’m so glad you are not coming. It’s too dangerous. You’d have to self-quarantine two weeks. I’d go nowhere with you. We could only visit with distance on the patio after your quarantine. This situation is not forever.” And I hope she understands.

Now that rains are here for the season, every afternoon the sky talks up a storm. Last night was a seven-towel storm. When wind drives rain horizontal, I lay towels to sop up water which seeps through the bottom of window panes and beneath the doorway. Booms so loud, with such impact, I had to scrape myself off the ceiling twice. I love it.

Speaking of love, and I am speaking of love, aren’t I? Another friend wrote that she is fed up with reckless prognostications, outrageous opinions and useless speculations. Me too. I understand.

I walk outside, touch my corn, silking out in flower pots, my mango tree, caress living plants, smile at my hibiscus, to keep me grounded.

I know, truly know, very little. But this one thing I do know. It is easier to love than to hate. And if you don’t believe me, come talk with my iguanas.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 25, 2020
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