Wonders of my world

                                Wonders of my world

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Outside my big front gate, the one used for truck delivery and such, a clump of lantana took root voluntarily. Lantana wears one of the world’s most beautiful flowers, like rings on its fingers, small circles of purple, pink, yellow, with an orange center. Lantana, an invasive weed, can grow taller than me, and will fill the entire yard if left to its own devices.

Back when I had asked for lantana, David at Vivero Centro only shook his head, raised eyebrows and muttered something that sounded like “Crazy Gringa.”

So I stood in my yard and mentioned to the sky that a little lantana would be a nice thing. Birds in the sky picked up my request and dropped a few seeds, by the gate, at the base of my big avocado tree and by the hose stand in the back yard. When I feel discouraged, I can lose myself in the sweet scent of the tiny lantana flower. How wonderful is that!

It’s the craziest thing. My big twenty-five feet tall avocado tree has no fruit this year. None. This tree produces Fuerte avocados, by the bucketsful. Every year I eat my fill. I give away hundreds of pounds of big beautiful bright green, smooth-skinned football-shaped fruits. Now what?

A year ago, in the middle of my back yard, I planted an avocado tree of the Haas variety. It’s not as tall as me, is spindly, appears fragile. Branches hang weighted to the ground with fruit which should be ripe, my best guess, within another month, if the branches don’t break from the strain.

Why? I wonder. What’s the deal? Is the big tree taking a sabbatical? Is the little tree working overtime?

I love living in this high plateau in Jalisco, surrounded by mountains, some as near as up the hill and some far across the valley. Nothing is predictable. Every day presents a different experience, something to cause wonder.

For weeks I’ve been predicting an early rainy season. I’m no good at weather here. No matter how my joints might ache, no matter how strong the scent of water in the air. Every day launches a deep blue sky overhead. Giant drops of dew dot my corn stalks. Temps consistently spike between 95 and 100. I’m teaching myself Celcius because 38 C. sounds cooler than 100 F. 

Rain? It’s like it no longer exists in my world. In the afternoon a few puffs of white appear, disappear. It is raining in Tequila. It rains in Ameca. It rains in dry-as-dust Amitlan de Cana. Ana’s Mom up the road in Oconahua says it will rain June 14. Weather.com says it will never rain again. I give up.

Not all wonders are created equal. Take the bean bugs. Really. I wish you would.

 Take them. “What is this?” I asked Leo. “Look in your beans,” he answered.

I did not have to open the jar to see tiny black bugs crawling around inside the jar, crawling over and under and through the strangely pitted beans. Obviously the bugs could squeeze their Houdini bodies past the screw top lid. Obviously I had to clean my food cupboard and inspect every container with suspicious eyes of a shrewish fishwife, (I always wanted to say that).

All my dry goods, pre-packaged or not, I transfer to glass or plastic containers. Despite my care, I discarded two jars of creepy beans and two kilos of crawly flour. 

“What causes these bugs, magic or something? I’ve never seen them before.”

“No. They live in untreated beans and come out when the beans get old.” “Oh,” I said. I bought those beans out of the back of a pickup truck on the street outside a corner eatery in town, back when I thought I’d better stockpile some basics.

Leo assured me that I did not have to buy beans in bulk. “Buy beans a half kilo at a time and you will not see those bugs again.”

I hear a ruckus out at the highway. Ah, ha. Cattle bawling, men shouting, sound of hoofs clacking against the asphalt. If I stand at my back gate, I can watch the vaqueros herd hump-backed cattle of every color through town on their trail up into the mountains for the summer months.

As long as I’m outside, I’ll sit under the jacaranda tree a while. I’ll take off my shoes. I’ll look up into the sky. Watch the birds, butterflies and bees. Listen to the cicadas shrill their song. I’ll take my hand drum and see if together, we can bring down some rain.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 11, 2020

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________