A shift in perspective

 

A shift in perspective

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This morning Leo brought me a box of twenty-four jumbo Crayola Crayones and a pad with a dozen dry cakes of water colors. Along with the requisite brush. Just like we used back in first grade. Oh, also a tube of school glue. Little girl stuff.

Things change. When I was six, our water paints came in a tin.

The crayones smell similar but I know from coloring with my grandchildren that some essential ingredient is missing because the colors are not as vibrant as they used to be and the crayons do not slide across the paper with the same ease.

And we used jars of white paste that the boys licked off their fingers. Scissors? Check. String? Check. Plus a book with thick glossy pages I am willing to destroy and donate to the cause.

Funny you should ask. Yes, I do have a project in mind. I’ve been ‘guilted’ back into a stab at the visual arts. Tongue in cheek, I thank you, Nancie for asking why I’m not painting and thank you, Pam, for sending me Carolyn’s newsletter. Grrr. Ouch. Bit my tongue.

First, let me rewind time and tell you a little story from long ago. I had survived a rough and rocky patch of life, not unscathed. When I emerged, I could not tell you who I had become, what I wanted, what I liked, what I believed. I could only tell you what I thought you wanted to hear. I had erased the woman I was, with help, but that is beside the point.

I’ve no idea how the solution came to me. Sometimes we receive gifts from an Unknown Source. I thought back to when I was eight years old. I took a look at how that little girl spent her time. I saw what clothes she liked to wear, watched her with her friends.

Taking clues from that girl at eight, ten, and twelve, remembering how I felt then, I rebuilt my life. Not all at once. It is a process, still on-going in fits and starts. Lifetime warranty.

I made simple changes. Dressed for comfort rather than to impress. Quit trying to make my straight hair curl. Took more walks along rivers and in the woods. Found new friends.  That kind of thing. Little girl stuff.

Fast forward to this summer. When I moved to Mexico, I brought along art supplies. I pictured me painting in my retirement. The artist supplies never came out of retirement. Until one day this summer I dragged the boxes out of my bodega, set up my easel on the patio, cleaned my brushes and created a space in which to dabble.

To say my first effort was a travesty is a kindness. It was so bad that I threw the canvas in the trash, re-boxed my supplies, and stowed everything away in the bodega. I gave up.

This reaction isn’t like me. I’m a great believer in making mistakes, doing a job poorly, learn, make a new plan and go at it again. Something about the experience felt vaguely familiar, in an icky way.

Gifts are strange and sneaky things, they are. Some arrive, no extra charge, whether we want them or not.

 Even guilt can be a gift. My guilt came in the back door, niggling doubts about my raft of reasons for throwing my canvas in the trash and quitting. That ‘essential tremor’, a misnomer if I’ve ever heard one, had flared up. True. I had sewing projects I wanted to finish and one led to another. Also true. I’m not good enough so why bother. True but what does that have to do with anything? I am really not interested in painting right now, maybe later. Right? That excuse didn’t convince me either.

My rationalizations all held a bit of truth and a measure of dishonesty. I’ve had the tremor for years and it doesn’t stop me from threading needles. I’ll always have sewing projects, none on a timeline. This summer I threw away two that didn’t work and each time, cut out the next length of fabric and kept going. ‘Good’ has nothing to do with enjoyment. And “I don’t want to paint” sounds like a toddler’s tantrum.

Hence, back to the crayons and children’s art supplies, to do something that does not have to be ‘good’, does not have to meet any criteria of excellence. Little girl stuff.

Now and then I misplace my sense of humor. I get full of myself, my ideas, judgements, opinions and desires. My problems and solutions, big or little, in the end, don’t matter.

I always fall into a trap when I take myself seriously instead of being content to take life as it comes, scribbles and all.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 22, 2020

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Day by Day by Grateful Day

 

Day by Day by Grateful Day

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On Canadian Thanksgiving Day, Kathy wrote with questions about our US Senate and House of Representatives. Basic ‘how does that work?’ questions.

I’d been in the kitchen preparing a more-or-less traditional Thanksgiving Dinner in sympathy with and support of our northern neighbor’s celebration. In the past many years, I have managed to celebrate two annual Thanksgiving Days, with friends in Vancouver, in Victoria and in northeastern reaches of Saskatchewan.

While chopping ingredients for stuffing is more fun, I took time out of food prep for a short class in Civics 101. At the end of Kathy’s questions, she wrote, “We do not understand how your government works.” At the end of my 101 basic lesson, I wrote, “Neither do we, Kathy. Neither do we.”

Back in the kitchen I laid three chunks of chicken atop a bed of savory stuffing, flanked them with carrots, a small sweet potato, split, and topped the chicken with slices of apple, all in one baking dish. I’m cooking a meal for one person, remember. I slid the clay casuela into the oven to slowly bake the feast, a grand meal plus a couple days of leftovers.  

Kath went on to say that at their own Thanksgiving meal, which they had eaten a day early, they spoke much about their father, whom she described as having one of “the rudest and most inappropriate flapping mouths on the planet. Why did we talk about him?”

That’s what we do at Thanksgiving, isn’t it? We remember. The good. And the cringe-worthy.

My worst Thanksgiving memory was a huge dinner with my step-mother’s family; my daughter then a two-year-toddler. The only person who didn’t shun me that day was my Dad and my gay step-brother.

My Dad took me aside to tell me my tree had fallen. I walked into the woods along the Milk River to show my daughter ‘my tree’, an aged cottonwood, whose branches had sheltered me through many teen-age storms of angst. She’d finally toppled over while reaching her branches ever closer toward the water.

My favorite Thanksgiving Day was any Thanksgiving with family and friends following that one day of disappointment. My daughter-in-law once told me she used to hold her breath waiting for me to announce the time to share our thoughts of gratitude, a family tradition I had instituted, a tradition which elicited many groans but good stories. She felt shy about such open and sometimes mushy statements. Well, Shea, neither did I grow up with a tradition of thankfulness.

Meal prep and memories were interrupted when Leo heaved two bags of produce onto my patio table. Leo shops for me. I give him my grocery list and cloth bags and wait to see what wondrous provisions he brings. Today Leo returned with the loveliest little aubergine and half a papaya as well as everything else on my list.

I miss shopping for myself. Our agreement is that if an item I listed doesn’t look good that day, Leo skips it. When he sees something wonderful that isn’t listed, he brings it to me.

With no impulse buys, seldom do I end up with more than I can use simply because the oranges smelled so good or the squashes tripped me up on my way out the door. If I forget something I want, well, that item tops off the next list.

Today I feel rich. My refrigerator is full of vegetables. Bowls on my island counter overflow with fruit. Smells of the chicken and dressing waft from oven to my nose, taunting me that it soon will be ready to eat.

Eager to share a couple of winter gardening ideas with Leo, I headed out to the back patio to corner him where he held an open hose over the patch of kalanchoe. A dragonfly, pure Crayola purple, swooped back and forth through the stream of water, for a drink, for a bath. I have never ever, ever, ever seen a purple, alive, vital, purple, dragonfly. What a fine gift.

Dinner met my expectations. I probably gained forty-‘leven kilos. I forgot to make dessert. But all is not lost. Ice cream was the last item on my grocery list.

Next month, when Turkey Day rolls around, I think I’ll have a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 15, 2020\

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Oh, yes, I’m the great offender

 

Oh, yes, I’m the great offender

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“My need is such I offend too much. I’m lonely but no one can tell.” Ah, they were a great group, back in my time, The Platters. “Pretender” is the real word of the song, not “offender”.

“Too real when I feel what my heart can’t conceal” so rather than pretend I took a deep breath knowing I was setting out to offend a friend.

I stuck my foot in the sludge, big time. I have strict self-rules to protect myself from the Covid virus. Since I live on a walled property with hardly anybody around, and never go to town, it has been relatively easy for me to stay safe, a recluse in my casa.

When a few weeks ago Cousin Nancie and Pat flew in from Washington, I explained we could visit after they’d put themselves in a two week quarantine. Any travel expands risks, none more so than air travel.

And they did—quarantine—from me. Which is what I asked, right.

But not from any other person or place. During those two weeks they played cards and traipsed the walking path in town, shoulder to shoulder with friends, shopped, made trips to the City. Went about on the ranch unmasked.

Nancie has a large house and lovely garden area. To my thinking, she would have no problem staying content in her area a mere two weeks. Pat had maintenance chores to attend. Easy-peasy.

I lay in bed, sleepless, devising imaginary scripts of what I needed to say. Part of my quandary, I realize, is that I cannot, I wish not, to control anybody else’s behavior. So what do I do? What can I do?

After agonizing for days, I wrote and said, Oh, my Dear Cousin, You did not quarantine. In quarantine, one stays in the house, no guests, no visiting neighbors, no trips out and about. I feel awful, but I am the only person who can look after my own health. We cannot visit under these circumstances.

Continuing, I explained my thoughts about our ‘bubbles’.  My bubble is small, consisting of myself.

Each person who enters my bubble brings along his or her own bubble. Until this whole virus thing is contained, I need to be, I am, overly cautious, allowing few bubbles to intersect with mine.

I have regular contact only with Leo. Leo’s bubble is large, containing all who are on the ranch, his family and friends.

He and I are extra careful about keeping a distance, washing hands, not touching same surfaces, sanitizing. I even have my own dedicated gate (Don’t touch my gate!) and pruning shears! My home is sacrosanct. I am the only person in and out my door. Don’t touch my door!

I said all this to Nancie, at length and gently. I hoped my words were heard as gently as they were meant.  

Days passed with no reply. My heart felt broken. I was scared I’d lost my cousin whom I love. Finally, she wrote that she was not offended, only saddened.

I’m sad too. “I’m wearing my heart like a crown, pretending that you’re still around.”

Next, I had the opportunity to offend Lani. She jaunted (Is that a verb?) over with a gift of garlic bulb in hand. And I, cringing mightily, had to say, please, don’t visit until two weeks are up. Her husband had just returned from a trip to Progresso on the Gulf Coast.

Lani rolls her eyes at how rigid I’ve become about isolating, about wearing a mask when talking with others, about keeping safe. I’ve told her my rules. She accepts graciously. We laugh about our differences.

Several days later, re-extended quarantine days, I sanitized and arranged at adequate distance, chairs on my patio, the open air part. With masks in place, Nancie and neighbor Janet and I visited. Nancie admitted she had gotten complacent, easy to do in this protected place, and had slid into denial about her precautions.

That made Nancie my hero. It is a gutsy, unusual, woman who can reassess her actions and make changes the way she did.

To my great relief and joy, our friendship survived the dent, and was not irrevocably shattered.

It’s not just about keeping myself safe, selfish though I am. I don’t know how I could live with myself if, because of my carelessness, you or your friend were infected with the coronavirus, and carried after effects for life, or died.

I will continue to allow not more than two other bubbles to intersect with mine at a time, out in the open air. I’ll wear a mask, sanitize everything I touch and wash my hands until raw if need be.  

“Adrift in a world of my own, I play the game but to my real shame, you’ve left me to dream all alone. Too real is this feeling of make believe, too real when I feel what my heart can’t conceal. Oh, yes, I’m the great offender.”

In the fall, keep it small. Be kind, be calm, be safe.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 8, 2020

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Double Bubble Toil and Trouble

 

                        Double Bubble Toil and Trouble

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In these perilous times we must make our own fun. In the interests of pleasure and economy, aided by an unusual (to me) scientific bent, I set out to boil up some chemical experiments.

A huge tree with giant orange flowers lifts arms to the sky just outside my northern wall, an African tulip tree, common in Jalisco. I gathered a bowl of fallen flowers, dumped them into a large pot of boiling water.

What I hope for is a natural dye, a color in light shade of brown, to dye a pair of white cotton pants. I’ve tried the powdered dye available in farmacias in town to mottled results. 

If I want brown pants, why not buy brown pants, you might ask. I would if I could find loose brown cotton pants in Etzatlan like the white pants I buy at the Mercado in Mazatlan. The pants, in a way reminiscent of the Model T Fords, are available in Black—or White.

In my little country town, most women wear modern synthetic clothing, not touristy cotton beach wear. Synthetic fabrics make my skin crawl. And in our mild climate, I can wear these cropped cotton pants year round. When in Mazatlan, I stock up on white cotton pants and then figure out how to give them a squidge of color.

What did pioneer women use to dye their cloth? Leaves and seeds and twigs and nuts, right? Surely they must have experimented. That is what I am doing, experimenting. Science. Sort of.

One of the unknowns in this experiment is whether the fumes from boiling the flowers might be poisonous. Cautiously, I take a chance.

 Actually, so far, the mess burbling atop the stove smells rather inviting. I’ll cheerfully nosh on pansies, nasturtiums and squash blossoms. However, I’m not willing to eat this flower until I see somebody else eat it. And survive.

This is not my first go-a-round with natural dyes. It takes a lot of tea to knock the edge off white. From experience, I prefer coffee for dye and find instant coffee easier to work with by far. Take my word for it.

After a few months of line-drying in the sub-tropical sun, my pants have sun-bleached back to original white glare and need a renewing dip.

I simmered the flowers a couple hours, cooled and strained off the liquid. Threw away the brown sludge flower goop and poured the dyed water back into the pot. Added one pair of pants and brought it back to a boil. Put a plate on top of the pants to hold them underwater. After the water cooled again, I rinsed the pants in vinegar and salt water. Hung them up to dry.

Why couldn’t high school science have been this experiential and this much fun? Grant you, I cannot explain the chemical transformations which just took place. In my day we memorized the periodic table of elements. All I recall is NaCl. But isn’t that two elements? Which means I don’t remember a thing. Or retained very little.  

1.      African tree tulip flowers: observation--results similar to using a box of tea bags and cheaper.

In similar fashion I boiled the thick hard brown seed pods of the jacaranda tree. Amazingly these gave off the aroma of asparagus mingled with beets.

2.      Jacaranda seed pods: observation--results similar to a large jar of instant coffee and cheaper.

3.      Eucalyptus bark: Ah, earthy, scent reminiscent of mushrooms, hint of floral mystery with a delightfully sharp edge. The resultant color is a ruddy beige. You might drink it at your peril. I took the pledge. Just now.

For color depth and richness, the seed pods and bark win out over the tree tulip flowers. But this is only the beginning. Who knows what mysterious results my cooking pot might conjure before I’m done.

I wish I could teach history again. Every class would be experiential-experimental-interactive. I lay awake two nights thinking how, ways and means, to conduct my classes like a scientific historian. Regret is futile, yes, and please allow me to regret. Why cannot wisdom be a gift of youth?

I’m ready to start round two of this newfangled science stuff. One experiment leads to questions begging for answers. What if I boiled the seed pods longer than two hours? Would the resultant liquid be darker? What if I let the cloth soak longer? What would be the difference in using cotton, linen or wool? Ah, the wonder of it all.

I’m wearing my conical tall black hat, am half hidden in the roiling steam, muttering mysterious incantations with occasional gleeful cackles. Let the good times roll!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 1, 2020

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The “Real” meaning of life and other silliness

 

The “Real” meaning of life and other silliness

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When I sit at a blank page with no idea what I want to write, I go through who, what, when, where and how of the past several days to see what might pop up and out.

My life is simple. I read a lot. A lot. I read the phrase, “explains the real meaning of life”, in a book blurb. Blurbs operate as the worm on the end of the line that is meant to hook me into choosing to read that book.

“Real meaning?” I kid you not. Is there other meaning of life? Several meanings? Isn’t life simply life? Of course, I’d not choose that book, just on the basis of the blurb alone. But I laughed. It is funny.

A week later, still giggling over the phrase. I spread it out, applied it to include the “real” meaning of such disparate things as socks, wealth, peaches, truth, compassion, and other “reals”.

Take socks. When I wear athletic shoes, I want socks. Can’t stand sweaty feet. Athletic socks, short and tight. Girl socks. Stretch out to here but fit my feet like Chinese bindings.

When Dr. Cruz Armenta X-Rayed my body in preparation for surgery last winter, he tsked, tsked, and said, “You have arthritis in every joint of your body. Look here and here and here.” Until that moment I had no arthritis. Now arthritis plagues me, especially my feet, with tight socks.

Leo went to Costco Saturday in the Big City. I asked him to get me real socks, boy socks, socks that would let my toes stretch out. See, the “real” meaning of socks.

I gathered all my worn girl socks to throw in the basura. Leo asked, “May I take those to Julio’s mom. She is real poor. Real poor.” His actual words. Of course, I handed them over. I pass on my discards when they don’t fit well or were a poor buying choice. I would never have thought anyone else might want my old socks.

Peaches? For several years every peach I’ve bit into has been woody, tasteless, no juice. Finally “real” peaches showed up at the Mercado. Delicate, bursting flavor, juice to run down my chin. I bought a bounty.  Sliced a bunch into a pie, oh, my, a “real” peach pie. My favorite, uh, along with rhubarb. But rhubarb doesn’t get imported to Mexico. Not that I’ve ever seen.

Friday night a situation was staged that had an impact on me. I was angry. I need not qualify angry with any adjective. Because another person is involved, I won’t reveal detail. I could have stomped over and demanded justice. Or recompense. Or revenge. I was that angry. I chose, because I’ve learned the hard way, to wait three days, to let reaction cool down to action, appropriate, if necessary.

I simmered down, decided to let the dispassionate universe (slowly ticks that clock) take care of the situation. The other person is, with a soul sickness, mowing down any who get in the way. Confrontation would of necessity be painful, most likely painful only to me.

I am a notorious chicken. I’d like to say I’m inspired by Gandhi. Or did I just bury my head in the sand? I don’t have an answer. This seems right to me today. What is truth? What is cowardice? What is compassion?

It is possible the “real” meaning of life is different for each of us.

Perhaps, for you, life means high excitement, bungee jumping, cliff diving, conquering Annapurna.

Life to me seems to be an ever-changing book of many chapters. My chapter today is pretty simple. My floor needed to be swept. I swept my floor. I hung a load of laundry on the clothes line. I fed myself a bowl of veggie/fish chowder. And a slice of peach pie.

Each of these simple tasks I did with a small sense of satisfaction.

Clouds are darkening the sky.  I’d better bring in my laundry, surely dry already in this hot sunshine. I’ll probably grab a book and sit on the patio, read, look up now and then to watch butterflies. The huge white ones I call “bedsheets” have returned.

I’ll probably never figure out the “real” meaning of life. If you do, please let me know. Meanwhile, I live a simple, satisfactory life.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 24, 2020

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Why I’m not a real writer

 

            Why I’m not a real writer

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 Several years ago I attended a prestigious writers’ conference in Seattle. It was time. I was committed. I paid a bundle.

The conference offered a chance to mingle with real writers, to talk with agents and editors, to attend numerous workshops; an immersion in the literary world.

Already I knew I was not a real writer. I did not set a schedule to write daily, come fire or flood or dark of night. When my babies were babies I did not lock myself in the bathroom with my portable typewriter at 3:00 in the morning to write undisturbed by night terrors or pounding of tiny fists by little creatures who seemed to think the best time for intimate conversation was when mommy perched on the throne. Real writers do such things.

I wrapped myself in the fantasy that I was ready, ready to commit hours of each day, sitting at my computer, composing fiction peopled with characters I already glimpsed and loved. (By then my babies were independent people.)

Oh, I wrote poems. See how far that will get you in the world of real writers. But I had ideas, notions, for short stories, perhaps even a novel or two. So I sailed across the waters of Puget Sound to the conference rooms of an imposing high-rise hotel to rub shoulders with my kind of nobility. Real writers.

How often have you heard somebody exclaim, “I should have been born a hundred years ago.” All my life I’d wanted only one thing, to write fiction. However, all my same life I made decisions which took me different directions.

Of course, olden-days are a fantasy too. Earlier times meant submitting manuscripts to enough publishers until finally an assistant set one of my manuscripts on an editor’s desk with, “Take a look at this. It’s good.”

The conference soon disabused me of that dream. Times they were a changing. Book publishing as historically known soon would be a thing of the past, taking place alongside other dinosaurs. E books had arrived. Self-publishing an option chosen by many. By most?

I attended workshop after workshop after workshop. I talked with agents. I talked with editors. At the end of the conference I rode the Washington State Ferry back home, settling my mind into acceptance.

A real writer in our brave new world must also be one’s own publicist, promoter, designer, formatter, stylist, typist, copywriter attorney and financier.

Writing that novel can easily take second place to the business of getting that book out in front of enough eyeballs and page turners to enable one to take time off to write a second novel while juggling the on-going financial and promotional aspects of keeping that first book moving up, up, ever up in sales. Made me breathless.

If one has buckets of money, one can hand all the business aspects over to those who know what they are doing. If one is a pauper, it still costs buckets of money to do what one doesn’t know and to do that poorly.

Comes down to choice. On my ferry ride home from that Seattle conference, I made a wise choice for my own sanity. I am not a real writer. I simply write.

I write when my muse whispers in my ear. I write poetry. I write because I must. I just wrote this poem. And if you see any irony between my piece on cognitive dissonance, that mental pretzel we create when our actions and words don’t line up with how we like to think of ourselves, and what I wrote above, so do I. So do I.

Cognitive Dissonance

Doesn’t matter what side

Of any fence you find yourself

Either side is chaos.

Either side is convinced

Their view is righteous, ethical.

Reasonable, logical, the One.

Think about it.

Take away the fence.

You have a field,

An entire field

In which to play.

 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 17, 2020

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Topsy and Turvy

 

                Topsy and Turvy

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Last week Crin wrote that she saw two full moons. I shrugged. That fits. The earth is flat, thank you, Pam. And the sun gallops around the earth at an unprecedented rate. The world and all its people have gone topsy turvy.  Karen in England says, “What a bunch of miserable.”  

Restless, irritable and discontent. I rarely have these kind of days. Tomorrow will be different. Today is sniffles and sneezes and low-level weariness. A mild summer cold.  And sadness. All will be different tomorrow. I think that is a prayer.

Thus September ushers in a change of season. Shade and sun change places. Fires, floods, winds, snows, plagues and people rage. Topsy turvy.

This week was to be our class reunion, a gathering we HHS Class of ’63 look forward to all year long. And for me, reunion meant my annual trip to the States. We cancelled months ago, of course. But the dates are marked on my desk calendar, staring me in the face with empty.

All will be different tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll see a full moon every night. Perhaps we’ll plunge off the edge of the world. Already the sun whirling around us at the wrong angle has chopped one third off September’s days.

Now that I’ve established a pseudo-scientific basis for life, let me tell you about the leaf mold. Overnight. My squash, second planting, coming along beautifully one day, the following morning, white with mold.

In a panic I contacted Master Gardener Karen in Floweree. Soapy water and vinegar. I cut off the most affected leaves, watched spores float everywhere, and drenched the remainder. Next morning they were bright and beautiful. But mold covered the itty-bitty cabbage and Brussels sprouts as if each leaf wore gloves. Sprayed everything again. Thank you, Karen, problem gone away.

That made me feel so good I dug all the potatoes from my potato bucket. I harvested enough to feed myself at least half a dozen meals. In fact, I felt so good I simmered a chowder in which all ingredients, all but the sea bass and cream came from my garden.

Hmmm. I wonder if one can grow sea bass in a bucket. In a really, really big bucket?

Several times a day I walk around my casita just to watch plants grow. It calms my mind and spirit. Already I see new potato promise. And peas, which failed me the first planting. Timing? And peppers—third time a charm?

Most days I feel contented, surrounded by grace; I cannot contain myself. Is something wrong with me, that I am satisfied being alone, sitting under my tree, watching clouds and birds while that pesky squirrel cha-cha-chas between my feet?

And why not. Why not feel like I am the center of the universe, just for a few moments, and watch that puffy cloud amble across the sky just for me.

However, days like today, when I feel low, I want touch. I miss skin. A hand shake, a shoulder bump, any touch from another that says I see you, I know you are here. I’ve not known touch from another human since March.

No, I lie. One day David from Vivero Centro came to deliver a new lime tree and bounded across the yard with a big smile and outstretched hand. I know I stared at his hand with horror for a microsecond, reminded myself I cannot be rude, and let him take my hand. It felt so good. As soon as he drove away, I scrubbed soapily, soapily. With a smile.

Enough! Enough whining. Enough whinging! Enough self-indulgence. It is a new day. The earth is once again roundish, revolves around the sun even if I want yesterday’s angle. The full moon is come and gone, only once. Science is restored. The world and all its people are still topsy turvy. Well, that’s just the way we are. 

Here comes Princess for her afternoon petting. That dog patters over with a smile. She doesn’t jump on me or beg. She comes to say, hello, here I am, pet me, and then she leaves, home to Stephany. Every day.

If you think life isn’t full of love, let me assure you. I have carrots growing in a palm pot. I don’t even own carrot seed. I have floral sweet peas in the squash bucket. Didn’t plant those either. Something yet to be determined has emerged in the asparagus fern pot. And a funny-looking orange flower is coming up throughout the yard. All planted by birds. If that isn’t love, what is!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 10, 2020

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