End of Year Farm, Weather, Factory and Livestock Reports

 

End of Year Farm, Weather, Factory and Livestock Reports

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Farm Report: Tomatoes are up and everything else is down. More or less.

I’m not sure what it is about tomatoes here but they insist on growing under extreme conditions, such as winter. Well, our winter, not your winter. Still, they astonish me. Remember, my farm is in five-gallon buckets, baby baths, and other assorted strange containers.

I’m really tired of eating tomatoes. My neighbors are glad to relieve me of the excess.

Herbs are year round. Flowers are forever.

But there is no accounting for the avocado tree. Back in summertime when it was supposed to flower, nothing happened. By the end of what would/should have been fruiting season, the mixed-up tree burst into flower. Now it is dropping olive-sized nuggets which will not, cannot grow to maturity.

Speaking of mixed up, my first year in Etzatlan, I planted what I was told when I bought it from a battered pickup truck alongside the road, a cinnamon bush. It isn’t. I’m sure the vendor, watching me carefully, told me what it was. I misunderstood and asked, “Canela?” “Si, si,” he immediately agreed. Whatever it is, it is now 6 years old, a tree and not a bush, and for the first time, is bursting into flower. Like I said, flowers are forever.

Weather Report: Cool in the morning. Turn off heater and open door at 11:00 to let the sunshine in to continue warming the house. By noon, go outside to enjoy the afternoon warmth, gentle breeze (some days), and scent of magnolias. (Flowers are forever.) At 4:30 close the door and at 7:00 turn on the heater for an hour.

So far we’ve had two cold weeks, one in November and one this month. Cloudy all day. No sun. No hot water from my solar water tank. Sponge baths. Layer the sweaters. Pray for sun.

Factory Report: The factory consists of my home sewing machine, a conference table, a bin and a basket of scraps of fabric, and myself, boss and employee. Name of company: Save the Planet One Tree at a Time. Factory motivated by replacing throw-away items with re-usable. Output, this far, coffee filters, napkins, handkerchiefs, mug rugs, pot holders, and cleaning cloths.

Also sachets for my dried lavender. Flowers are forever.

I shut down the factory for Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year’s festivities. Ghosts of future projects are folded and stacked, waiting for the boss to finish a jigsaw puzzle or two. The factory table is the perfect size, and there is an ancient saying about all work, no play and a grumpy boss.

Next week, the factory will magically reappear and production continue.

Livestock report: Iguanas have become rare sightings. Of course, it is winter. But when the sun belts out shine to push eighty, the lizardish critters should be sunbathing atop the brick walls.

My neighbor’s cats and my Lola The Dog might have more to do with disappearing lizards and iguanas than the weather. Some of the iguanas are sizable but then, you haven’t seen Omar from next door. He’s almost as big as Lola. And Lola is keen to chase any movement in the bushes.

Sightings of lizards minus tails are up.

Happy New Year from Sondra and her trusty sidekick, Lola The Dog

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

End of December, 2021

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My Christmas Greeting Card To You

 

My Christmas Greeting Card To You 

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I thought to write a Christmas newsletter but then common sense prevailed.

What would I say? For all of us, 2021 has been a year of isolation, of illness and deaths in our friends, families, neighbors and acquaintances; a year of worry and fret.

To balance what I said above, the solitude, for me, has been a most precious gift. I don’t have any words to explain, just that it has allowed a deepening and sharpening of senses and sensibilities.

That doesn’t make sense. You’d have to have been here in my skin. I’m confident you also have your own experiences of wonderful good to balance the grim and gray.

You all know me better than most of my near neighbors. You already know my hopes and dreams, my fears and failures. What could I say in a newsletter that you don’t already know?

So imagine my card, a sprig of waxy green holly with red berries, glitter galore, and when you open the card imagine the strains of your favorite choir bringing you the essence of Joy to the World. And more glitter.

I love you and wish you all the very best, all the most love and joy for today, for tomorrow, and for times to come. Merry Christmas.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 23, 2021

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Doing my small part for our planet

 

            Doing my small part for our planet

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 Don’t get excited. This is not a big deal. I might save a tree or two. I won’t be leading parades nor expect anybody to jump on my bandwagon.

Three things linked together in my head and this idea shot out the other end. (Please, do not examine that statement too closely.)

Weather devastations and our dying planet met up with my shrinking income met up with a memory of childhood when I learned to iron clothes beginning with handkerchiefs for the whole family, some embroidered in the corner, some floral, some neckerchief in size, plaid or western print, silently shouted “Dad”, and a pile of whites.

Like I said, not a big deal. But I use a lot of Kleenex. Thinking about that sparked other memories. In my childhood home, we never bought Kleenex or paper towels, things many of us today buy in case lots. We used cloth, washable, reusable, almost forever.

(I hesitate to mention later years when cloth diapers froze dry in the winter on my clothesline. That’s a whole different issue, possibly criminal in one way of looking at it. Disposables are certainly handy, I admit.)

I asked Leo to set up my conference-size project table in my living room while I rummaged through a couple bins in my bodega for scraps of this and that.

I found a lovely length of natural muslin, soft and pliable, perfect for handkerchiefs. Further digging in bins brought forth a few pieces of colored muslin, pieces from blouses already re-purposed.

One idea triggered another. Soon I had fabric pieces in designated piles, ready for projects in the coming days. Certainly I shall have handkerchiefs galore. If I hem up a few more cloth napkins, I can strike paper towels from my grocery list. Count another saved tree.

Since I am using scraps leftover from former projects, I will still have odd sized remainders of fabric. It is almost impossible for me to find filters for my one-cup Melita coffee filter. I can easily whip out a small stack of cone filters, easy to rinse, wash and re-use. One tree, check.

Other pieces will be perfect to make more sachets for my dried lavender. Now I’m on a roll.

Speaking of a roll, rolling around in the back of my mind is an idea for a picture quilt, a farm scene, primitive, reminiscent of Grandma Moses, using minute scraps and embroidery thread.

It takes time to learn a new habit or to relearn an old one. Took me forever to remember to grab my cloth shopping bags. Just like it took months to think ahead to grab a mask (made by meself) when I leave the house. Most of us keep one hanging on the door knob.

Becoming a throw-away society came easily. Every new product to hit the shelves seemed to find immediate acceptance. Maybe I am wrong. But we might just be forced to regroup, to return to some of our old ways, not out of supply issues but out of common sense.

And I might as well pull out the other two bedsheets I’ve not yet cut into because they would each make lovely long sleeved man-style shirts. One is a lilac cotton flannel and the other has a pin-stripe pattern in subtle tans, both yummy against my skin.

If I use that length of multi-orange stripe for new chair cushion covers, those projects should carry me through well into spring when my bucket gardening moves once more into full swing.

I’m excited. I’ll get started stitching handkerchiefs first, just as soon as I finish stitching together the nightgowns I cut from a yellow cotton sateen sheet.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 16, 2021

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‘Tis the Season of Wretched Excess

 

‘Tis the Season of Wretched Excess 

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Well, it is, you know. The season of too much. Christmas begins in August in the stores. There are too many presents under the tree. Excessive decorating until what would have been pretty becomes tasteless. Too much spending. Too much eating. Too much guilt.

As you might surmise, I have managed to pare down my life even more. Here on the Rancho, every year we exchange little gifts. In one breath I announced that nobody was going to get a gift from me and begged my neighbors to not give me any.  

After a year of so many deaths in town, there are families with not enough food to eat. This year we who have everything will not buy scented soaps or cutesy coffee mugs. Some families in town will now have enough to eat.  

I have three healthy Poinsettia bushes, former Christmas gifts, planted in pots so I can keep them pruned down to the size of currant bushes. They constitute my designated Christmas trees, naturally decorated by nature.

Three of my neighbors have Poinsettia trees, yes, tall trees, once the small Christmas plants that we all know, now grown up, tall and stately, dressed in flashy red glory. 

I am not dreaming of a White Christmas. Contrarily, I bless every sunny warm afternoon with gratitude. We are in the mountains, in a high plateau valley, nestled in the foothills. It could snow.

Last week my dog Lola got her vaccination shot. My friends who rescue dogs, who gave me Lola, had to put one of theirs down today. They have nursed another back to health and have two more who are sick. With hawk eyes we are watching our dogs for any sign or symptom of sickness. Leo’s nieces had a sweet little Chihuahua who died this week too, same thing. It looks like it might be the coronavirus.

The virus is taking its toll on people and animals. Here in Mexico we have young people anxious to get their first vaccine. The problem is not hesitancy but lack of access to vaccine.

And some of us older ones are hoping for the booster, sooner or later. However, it is more important to get those youngsters vaccinated. They are more active and more social. I can easily continue with my own restrictions. It’s hardly an imposition.

Yesterday was my neighbor Janet’s birthday. Nancie baked a cake and invited everybody around to celebrate. I sent best wishes to Janet, and my regrets. I am not comfortable to mingle in crowds at this time. Besides, they need somebody to talk about.

From the joyous sounds coming from Nancie’s yard, I’d say the party was a great success. I’m glad my friends do feel comfortable to celebrate together.

The way I figure it is that if I have fifteen contacts, which is all of us here at the rancho and each one of those fifteen friends have fifteen contacts, which is a pared down number since all of them are more out in the world than me, that makes 225 people in an area rather than fifteen. I am not ready to rub elbows with 225 people. Plus one gregarious dog.

I don’t hide away though it may seem like I do. I visit, one or two people at a time, avoiding the crowds.

So what are you giving yourself for Christmas? Wait, don’t you know? You cannot rely on your nearest and dearest to read your mind, even if you make your wishes and wants public, written in prominent places. Trust me.

“Well, yes, honey, I saw your list but I thought you’d really rather have this five-speed chain saw.”

I recall a Christmas when I received a skillet and another when I got camping cookware. I didn’t camp but my husband did. I was not thrilled. I was younger then.

Remember, only one person has such an exquisite sense of style and good taste and knows your real down-deep heart’s desire. You! So make sure in the pile under the tree, there is a gift from your best self to you. Then anything else is a bonus.

A couple months ago I bought myself a waffle iron for my Christmas gift. I’m older now and my wants have changed. I’m thrilled like a kid in a candy store.

‘Tis the season of wretched excess. Might as well enjoy it.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 9, 2021

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Be Happy, Don’t Worry, Be Lazy

 

Be Happy, Don’t Worry, Be Lazy

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Easy to say. Difficult to pull off.

Oh, oh. I see you are giving me the stink eye over my use of “Be lazy.”

My friend and I grew up on neighboring farms. Our fairy godmothers waved magic wands at our births and gifted us with the gift of “Busy.” You know, as in “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop and idle hands his tools.”

My Grandma used to actually say that to me. Frequently. She raised my Dad, of course, so I come by some things served up in a double-dip cone. Let me say that I was never bored.

Likewise with my friend, maybe even more so. She is still active in several organizations and committees, both civic and community, along with library and book club functions, maintains contact with friends and relatives around the world, organizes family events and the usual list of home and garden duties. Both she and her husband have health issues. She has been juggling, struggling to keep all the plates spinning, keep them from crashing and smashing on the floor.

You get the picture. My friend is one of these wonderful, incredible, persons who make sure the sun comes up and the sun goes down and the world keeps turning. I say that with absolute admiration and respect.

Recently her doctor suggested that she try a small measure of “do nothing”.

If I were a gambling person, I’d put money on A: This I’ve got to see! Or B: It will be a struggle!

We who know and love this woman are encouraging her to slow down, be lazy, let the dust bunnies pile in corners. I know she won’t go that far, but it is a goal to strive toward, not necessarily to achieve. You know, progress, not perfection.  

Let me attempt to defend the word “lazy”. If I were still in charge of the world and writing the dictionary, instead of indolent or slothful, I’d say lazy might mean “differently motivated”.

On the other hand, notice my hesitancy to be all inclusive. Let me hold the traditional use of lazy in reserve while I think this through.

I am a contrary and judgmental human. It is possible that some few people might be inherently slothful. I know one who, oh, never mind, let’s not go there. Perhaps some have not found a good reason to get up, go out and, you know, do it. And some who appear lazy may be a lot smarter than me and know better how to conserve their strength along the way.

(That reminds me of years ago when I finally learned to simply close my son’s bedroom door when he left it open. Instead of a slob, he was differently organized than me. I saw only the mess. He’d say, “Don’t touch my room, Mom. I know exactly where everything is.” And he did.)

Differently motivated being a possibility, let’s skip the extremes. Which is not a bad map for living life. Skip the extremes. One need not be a hibernating bear year-round nor does one need be an energizer bunny.

Some of us have to learn to be lazy. We can start in little ways. I have two or three small suggestions to try. Since I am an older, somewhat traditional woman, so are my suggestions, geared toward my friend, who, well, we could be twins. 

We all have to come up with our own solutions for how to be lazy in a positive way. And you will ignore mine anyway, so here goes.

Everybody agrees that making a list of tasks to do today is an essential tool. Make the list. Make it long. Read it twice. Figure out which is naughty and nice. Have a cuppa and toss the list in the waste basket. You’ve already done the most important thing. You made the list.

If, perchance, dust bunnies bother you, go take a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood. Listen to the birds, smell the flowers, or the snow, enjoy the beauty of the sky. What you don’t see, doesn’t exist. If that doesn’t work for you, try dark glasses.

Christmas dinner for family does not have to include seventeen side dishes. It’s okay to use food that came from a can or a box, especially when it can so easily be enhanced or disguised. We learned every trick back when we had a job and children. Better yet, let one of the children make Christmas dinner this year. Start a new tradition.  

God invented take-out food and ready-meals just for folks like us, should we get desperate.

Those are a few suggestions to jump start you on your road to a lazier life.

However, if you are not retirement age or older, ignore all the above, you lazy bum and get to work.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 2, 2021

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Dog Gone It

 

            Dog       Gone       It 

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Back in July I took a big step in my single life. I adopted Lola, a sweet dog, raised by friends who had rescued her mother, abandoned, heavy with pups, from homeless life on the streets of Oconahua, sleeping in doorways, eating garbage.  

I like animals. I like pets. Dogs. Cats. Pigs. Rats. Yes, rats. When my daughter was three, I went to buy a guinea pig but the pet store owner talked me into a pair of Chinese Hooded Rats.

Rats make excellent pets, are intelligent, affectionate and are not nocturnal like guinea pigs. I warn against getting an opposite sex pair, however, unless, perhaps you have snakes which need to be fed. Just saying.

Snakes? I draw the line at snakes.

Back to Lola. Lola is a fine dog. An excellent dog. She is a good companion. She is affectionate. Intelligent. Obedient. Has a loads of personality. She is a fine dog.

Best of all, every single day, my dog-pet-companion makes me laugh. Every day.

I know, slowly I am turning into one of those pet owners who bore you with stories of how wonderful their little snookums is.

Lola is not my child. If you every hear me say, “Ooh, sugarpie, come to mommy,” shoot me.

However, every silver lining has a cloud.

About three weeks ago Lola came prancing up to me where I sat reading on the patio and dropped a trowel at my feet. She sat down, tail wagging, waiting for my high praise. I picked up the trowel, looked at it carefully. This trowel was not mine.

Leo was working in my yard. I handed him the trowel. “Oh, yes. This belongs to Janet.” Both our gates were open that afternoon so Lola simply walked next door and helped herself. I know we anthropomorphize pets, but Lola truly did seem proud to bring me a gift.

A few days later, my hairy companion and I were out walking. I wasn’t paying attention as she obediently bounced along behind me, a long-past-its-use-by-date welcome mat tightly clamped in her jaws.

“It’s mine,” Julie said. “I put it out for the garbage truck. Now you can deal with it.” I tossed it into my garbage can.

One afternoon I was next door talking with Crin. Lola was rooting around beneath Crinny’s bougainvillea hedge and found one of those black plastic pots, the kind in which you bring plants home from the nursery. We watched her trot with her prize across the lane and through my gate where she placed her gift by my favorite chair.

Next it was a work boot of Francisco’s. Then a heavy-duty rubber glove that belonged to John. See a pattern developing here, folks?

Yesterday, Leo asked me, “Have you seen my scissors?” Scissors is his word for secateurs or garden clippers. We both looked down at Lola. She wagged and smiled. We still haven’t found them. Maybe they accidently got tossed out with the trash.

Today it was a large knife Leo uses in his garden work, last seen on the yellow chair, used when he re-potted that feathery-ferny plant. All I can say is, “There is no evidence of blood.”

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. My neighbors raise chickens. They aren’t home this week. I’m thinking of taking Lola for a moonlight stroll. If I sit on their patio a while, Lola might drop a fat hen at my feet. Roast chicken for Thanksgiving dinner?                                             

I suppose my goat bell on the gate will ring daily. “I’ve lost my pliers.” “Can’t find my glasses.” “Wonder if you’ve seen a stray white tennis shoe?” Good thing my neighbors like Lola.

“Lolita, sweetums, come to mama. What did you bring me today, my sweet poochy-woochy.”

Dog gone it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 24, 2021

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Katie, Bar the Door!

 

            Katie, Bar the Door! 

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Nobody could have been more surprised than myself at my reaction when, seemingly overnight, ten snowbird residents from northern climes descended upon us, wings flapping, eager for discourse. During the past two years, our small community, which had become a hermitage in all but name, suddenly reverted to the Rancho with residents in every casa.

Me, I was saucer-eyed and hyperventilating, making comfort food (for myself) and hoping everybody would stay away until I had adjusted. Of course, I recognized how self-centered a reaction that was. But I still felt it and could not wish the feeling gone, try as I might.

Nobody stayed away. One by one, they clanged the goat bell on my gate and asked if I was ready for a visit. I lied. We visited.

I had created a sitting area outside my gate in a grassy and treed area, between bougainvillea and a plumbago hedge. We sat and talked, after I discretely had moved the chairs even further apart. Everyone masks, at least, when they visit me, for which I am grateful.

I explained I would like to see a period of time pass before I felt comfortable to invite my friends onto my patio, which is much like a living room with one wall knocked out. Some friends had returned from long automobile travel visiting friends and family along the route. Others flew. And some arrived after a month lolling on beaches at coastal resorts.

At night I crawled into bed, exhausted, at seven, not even dark yet. I recognized the signs of stress and sensory overload. As one of my friends said to me, “You have been living in a state of Covid suspended animation.”

For close onto two years, I’ve been alone. I’d adjusted to solitude and learned to like it, to find the benefits.

The following day, more truthfully, I said, “Go away. Not today. Don’t want to play. I’m not receiving guests today.”

I felt like I’d donned a skin-tight porcupine suit, prickles at full ready.

You know what the worst part was? I felt guilty telling my friends that I can’t play today. I don’t want to say “No”. I want to visit. I’m wrung  out.

I knew that in a few days I’d be back to myself, thoroughly enjoying having my friends back in my life.

Interestingly, as I shared how I was feeling with Leo and Josue, the two young men who’d been my main contacts throughout this pandemic, they said they felt the same stress. Leo said he even had physical pains as the result of his stress. Josue said he felt crazy and wanted to run away. Josue’s wife Erika said every ten minutes, somebody else was knocking on the door.

For the guys, it was much more difficult. All the returnees needed things done, help with this and that. You don’t leave a house alone for two years and return expecting it to be fully functioning.

As for my dog Lola, she had an entirely different story. This sweet canine, half companion, half hearth rug, turned into a prima donna.

“What excitement. Ooh, ooh, ooh! All these new friends. Oh, yes, scratch me there. More.” Waggle. Wiggle. Jump in circles. “Let’s go walk again.”

Yesterday I discussed with Janet possible solutions to prevent Lola from jumping over that small open area in her “border wall”. Janet has six cats. Lola wants to get to know them. Or something.

Today I cut the dill from one of my garden buckets and took the stalks to Nancie, who likes to make pickles. I sat with John and Carol for an hour in their back yard. I rounded up a bowl of wooden clothes pins and left them on Julie’s brick wall.

Tomorrow Kathy is coming for a long awaited visit. The following day Crin and I will get together.

I presume I’ll quit feeling guilty about being so prickly. We are all tired of the Covid precautions but I have vaccinated friends who let down, got the bugger and it was not a walk in the park.

Soon we’ll be traipsing back and forth at the Rancho with ease. Any of us can say, “Hey, no visitors today.” We are friends.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my backdoor

November 18, 2021

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An Interactive Shopping Spree

 

An Interactive Shopping Spree

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Growing up in tiny Harlem, Montana, local shopping, and there was no other kind, consisted of small individual stores for every need. A monthly trip to town and women could stock up on groceries and perhaps check out what’s new at the clothing store.

For breakdowns and tractor parts, back in the day, we had a plumber, an electrician, a couple hardware-variety stores, three farm equipment places, two car dealers and an insurance agent. For all things cowboy, we had a saddle shop. Hey, what more does one need?

Let me not forget catalogs. Do you remember catalogs? Such excitement and hours of enjoyment when fat wish books appeared in the mail boxes.

A few years later, a trip to Havre became normal, rather than a rare event. Imagine, whole blocks of stores of every variety. Eventually, on top of the hill, wonder of wonders, a mall. Under one climate-controlled roof, national brand names, everything one needed or desired.

Independent small stores struggled. Strip malls with boarded windows and closed doors began to resemble gap-toothed first-graders. Malls had it all and became social centers, places where friends gathered for a meal, for coffee, just to sit around a fountain and gab.

What brought on my reflections was a conversation with Denise who now lives in the Portland area. We were talking about the Lloyd Center, at one time one of the most exciting malls in the entire northwestern region. Even such a jewel as the Lloyd Center is looking bedraggled, like something chewed up and spit out.

Why go to the mall when one can sit in one’s recliner and with one click buy anything in the entire universe. Probably. If one has enough money.

I dislike online shopping. I do it. I recently bought a waffle iron online. I knew what I wanted. It was easy. And for something such as a waffle iron, actually makes sense, but that is because I know not one of the small tiendas in my town carries such an item. Books, yes, I buy books online.

Where I have to draw a firm line is shopping for clothing. Tempting as it is, I grit my teeth and click delete. I speak with the voice of grim and bitter experience. That beautiful blouse will not be the same color as pictured, will not fit the way it fits the model, and will probably not be cotton as described. Or linen. Or wool.

I’m sensitive to synthetic fibers. It’s hard to find cotton clothing. Even jeans have something mysterious added. If an item has a thread of cotton, the descriptive tag can read “cotton”. 

Think about it. I’ll bet in a short time I’ll be able to stand in front of my computer and ask it to dress me. “Show me what this blouse #A73b9plmK will look like on me.” And magically, the blouse will appear as if I am actually wearing the item. “Uh, okay, please show me the same item one size larger.” “Good. How about green instead of blue, please.”

I’m not sure how I’ll deal with the fiber content of the blue/green blouse but I’m sure some genius will find a way for me to virtually feel the fabric. 

Oops. I am so far behind times, a jet plane could not catch me up. Here I thought I was being so futuristic, so forward thinking, only to learn my futuristic fantasies are already here.

My daughter told me when she buys glasses, she sends her photo to the online site “store” and from that, she can “try on” glasses and choose the frames she likes best. She said they have apps for trying on clothes. They are here now.

I’ll wait. I want to be able to instruct the computer to give me my appropriate size but please shave off twenty pounds and thirty years so I can send pictures to friends of the wonderful blouse I just bought online!

I’ll wait until I have a completely interactive computer. When I ask my interactive buddy if this outfit makes me look fat, it will reply, “Never, my love.”

I will stand in front of the all-seeing computer eye each morning and chant, “Mirror, mirror, on my wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

My sweet interactive computer will reply, “You, my Queen.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 11, 2021

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“Every day the clock resets.”

 

“Every day the clock resets.”

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Changes happen whether we want them or not, don’t they? It’s just the way it is.

This week we in Mexico fell back, time, the clock. Since I’m not tied to a schedule, my body works by the sun. Sunshine, wake up. Sundown, yawn. You’d think the clock change wouldn’t bother me a bit, but it always does, puts me on edge for a few days. I find myself thinking, whether spring or fall, the clock says ‘seven’, but, the “real” time is ‘eight’.  

I was blathering on to my son Ben about infrastructure and jobs and commerce, blathering without benefit of much that was factual, more from historical perspective. Or mis-perspective.

Ben quickly set me on a new path of thinking, with information about robots, artificial intelligence and computerization, things I’d rather not think about or know about, frankly. Curmudgeon that I am.

What that talk did was jog me out of my complacency, reminded me that things will change, no matter what I think and they will not return to what might have seemed like former glories, which on closer inspection, shine not so gloriously but look rather corroded.

I like to think I handle change with aplomb, but my first reaction to some of the coming changes Ben laid out before me was not based on thought but an emotion. Fear. Oh, dear. I like to tell you I handle change with excitement, with anticipation, with questions. That’s what I like. But I felt afraid.

Ben painted me a picture of life where technology freed us ordinary people from the slavery of mundane tasks, a world where everybody had food and a washing machine and water, a world where we were free to pursue our passions, our interests in things for which we never seem to be able to make time.

Sounds good, doesn’t it? Sounds like a fairy tale to me. I recalled a video Ben showed me, at least ten years ago, of communication possibilities between a person and a computer. My eyes stretched wide with wonder. Today that imagination is everyday ho hum reality.

So I suppose that whatever our kids can imagine, perhaps it will become reality for our grandchildren. I like fairy tales. Grew up on them. I hope I can keep growing.

It’s time for me to step back, sit down, shut my mouth, listen and learn and watch as our younger generations remake the world. They will. They have technological skills and imaginations and creativity of which I cannot comprehend.

And the young people are taking away one of my favorite weapons—criticism. I cannot criticize that which I do not understand. 

The thing is, changes are happening so quickly we no longer have enough information to simply say, oh, this is good or, oy, that is bad. But change is here, not to stay, but to evolve, to change and change again.

Lucky us, to be on the outside looking in; I say that with my heart in my mouth. To mis-quote Dickens, we live in the best of times; we live in the worst of times.

Mistakes will be made along the way, of course. Like we never made any? That is where the fear comes in, isn’t it?

When it comes to change, I’m aware there is little I can change, perhaps nothing, other than my own attitudes.

The sun comes up. The sun goes down. I wonder if it laughs at us in between times.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 4, 2021

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Did you wake this morning still breathing?

 

Did you wake this morning still breathing?  

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Years ago when I was in the hospital in India getting a new knee, I walked the corridors as part of my therapy. At the end of the hallway I stood at the window and watched the construction activity across an empty lot. A new building was going up the old fashioned way, with men’s muscles, not machinery.

The empty lot was not really empty. The men’s families were camped in the lot. I’m making an assumption here. Perhaps they were homeless people, but as I watched, they seemed to be the families of the construction workers.

Pieces of cardboard, plastic, canvas, any flat surface, were cobbled together for shelters. In one corner a standpipe with a turn faucet provided the water supply. The women squatted over open fires, cooking. They washed their clothing in buckets. Children played around their mothers’ feet.

Every afternoon at 3:00 the skies above Bangalore opened. Monsoons are not comparable to the rainy season here in Jalisco. We have rain. They had deluge. The streets overran with water and garbage and unidentifiable debris.

When I was in China, I had the marvelous experience of riding a train inland. This was not an Amtrak train. In the center of the car was an iron stove, coal or wood, on which a hostess or porter heated huge iron kettles of water to make tea, available for a few pennies.

We passed huge factories flanked by housing for the factory workers. The train rain through tea plantations, fields of crops I could identify and others I could not, through cities and past city dumps crawling with children who lived at the dumps, pawing through the trash, picking out any item which could be sold or recycled.

I was reminded of living in Great Falls in the mid-sixties when one day I went with my husband to the dump out by Hill 57. We could have been in China. Today we do a much better job of hiding, of keeping invisible, our homeless and poor.

One of the big news items of the day is the universal scream, “What are we going to do about the upcoming Holidays with the empty shelves, the supply chain buckled?” What indeed?

One of my most memorable Christmases was also one of my poorest. In terms of grace and gratitude, one of my best. Newly divorced, I had moved from Chicago back to Montana and had little other than kids and a cat.

I’d recently started a new job for which I had no wardrobe. A woman showed up at my door with an armload of appropriate clothing. A neighbor family brought us a turkey.

On Christmas Eve we went to Church, returned home to find a tree on the front steps and another tree with a tree-stand on the back porch.  A knock on the door revealed another neighbor with an armload of well-loved decorations.

A friend from California had sent a box of gifts, a full set of clothing for each child, including shoes. When she was a child, her mother had been in a similar situation and somebody had done the same for her family. She asked that someday I do similar. I never forgot.

My own gifts for my children were sparse, much needed socks and coats plus one “toy”. Santa gave Ben, at two years old, a tool chest full of plastic tools. Dee, fourteen, got the boom box she wanted.

While I was fixing the meal, Ben crawled under the vintage table, formica top and steel legs. With his plastic screw driver he removed every screw from the legs. I noticed Ben was too quiet so asked his sister to check on him.

Dee Dee found Ben pulling the last screw from the fourth leg, crawled under the table with him and helped him replace the screws. Had the table top fallen, Ben would be no more. That set the pattern for his growing years. He needed to know how everything worked. Dee Dee is still saving lives.

In town there lives a family who touched my heart. In the first wave of the Covid 19, the whole family was ill and the father died. That left mom with two small children and elderly parents. This family is “needs food” poor. I know neighbors will show up with clothing and toys.

My Christmas gift will be the “turkey”, however that translates as the day arrives. This woman doesn’t know me. The family will never meet me. Now and then, when Leo goes shopping, I put extra pesos in his hand for “my family”. That is my gift to me.

I’ve been poor. I’ve seen poorer. Today I am rich. I have a refrigerator and electricity. I have a washing machine and running water. I have food in the pantry, enough to live a week without buying more.

When I wake up still breathing, I know how rich I am.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 28, 2021

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You can please some of the people . . .

 

You can please some of the people . . . 

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This morning a friend whom I’ve not yet met sent a photo of foliage turned colors in Maine. Everywhere the season is turning a corner. Maine. Montana. Mexico. Everywhere.

Rains are tucked back into their rain locker until next rainy season. We’ve a week with nary a drop of moisture, nary a cloud in the sky-blue sky. Immediately the daytime temperatures ramped up fifteen degrees.

I put away the rain towels, draped across my windowsills since June. Just like that, I’m out dragging hose, watering plants, potted and otherwise.

Familiar birds flew to greener—or possibly browner—pastures. New birds arrive. However, the AAA Bird Map has scrambled the flight plans. There are at least two stranger-type birds. One has a shrill call like an old-fashioned telephone ring tone. Makes me whip about my head to alert every time I hear it. The other has a sound that imitates the name of an expensive beverage, one with an umbrella on the rim.

The huge white bed-sheet butterflies are back. But what is that strange black one? This whole year has brought more butterflies than I’ve ever previously seen. See scrambled flight plans above.

And, ah, yes, the snowbirds return. My neighbors. Some of whom I’ve not seen in two years. Like animals to the Ark, two by two, they will arrive.

Ordinarily, this would be cause for rejoicing, excitement, anticipation of celebratory meals and adventurous treks to explore the countryside ‘round and about. Most years.

What is wrong with me? Have two years of reclusive living turned me upside downside?

At times like this, I sit myself down and have a heart-to-heart. Have I gotten this selfish? Have I, who have always been flexible, ready to change paths on a whim, cemented myself into my routine? I hear my friend Peggy from years past ask me, “What’s your motive?” Ah, yes, that.

It’s such a small thing. Petty, really. I’ve always been a people pleaser. If I do what I think you want, maybe you will like me. Some of my more recent friends would roll on the floor snorting to hear me say those words. But they are true.

Sure, a few years counseling and some heavy personal work pretty much eradicated the problem. But it never goes away. A shadow of my old people-pleaser will always live within me.

And my solution is so simple. Two by two, I tell my friends, “We will visit after you’ve done a trip quarantine.” I will follow up with “Masked, outside on a patio, no hugs.”

Nancie and Pat, my cousins, will arrive first. Nancie is our group social coordinator. She loves to gather all the neighbors for a pot-luck dinner. “Nancie, I think that is a great idea. You all have fun. I’m not ready to join large group activities.”

Then another couple will invite me out to dinner in one of the few restaurants still open. “That’s lovely. You all go and have a good meal. Maybe I can join you in a later month. I’m not ready yet.”

I intend to host small meals on my patio, one couple at a time. I’m not a total stick-in-the-muddle-puddle.

Most of all, I dread hearing. “But you are vaccinated. We are vaccinated. We all are safe. You’ll be okay.”

I’ve been practicing my lines: “You might be right.” “You are probably right.” “You are undoubtedly right.”

Finally common sense returned. “Sondra, you are not that important. Who cares what you decide? These are your friend and neighbors. They like you. They will respect your decisions.”

Maybe. Probably. Undoubtedly.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 21, 2021

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It’s not a perfect world . . .

 

It’s not a perfect world . . . 

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Honest to Pete, sometimes I’m blind as a bat. Yes, I know; let the clichés roll on.

These last six years that I’ve lived in my Etzatlan house, I thought my bodega roof drained frontward. My neighbor Janet asked if I knew what that large pipe was about on the other side of our shared wall. What pipe?

We asked “the boys”. Yes, that pipe drains the gutter from my bodega roof onto the other property and makes a right mess. Joe and Yvonne used to own both houses. They were here only in the winter and they didn’t care. It never rains in winter.

I was still mightily puzzled. I look at my bodega side wall and it obviously drains frontward. Leo suggested I go inside my bodega and look at the ceiling. Oh. It slants to the back. I stand outside and look at the side wall again. Oh, there is a false front, well, false side front, built up to complete the only enclosed wall of my patio roof.

Six years I’ve lived here and not seen the obvious. There is a lesson in here, folks.

A couple days later Josue, with Leo’s help, rerouted a drain pipe to cross along my back wall, down a hitch in the wall’s get-along, to shoot roof water onto my patch of front grass. It’s what “the boys” call a “Mexican fix”. It’s not pretty but it works.

We have a similar expression in Montana. We would say “we cowboyed it together”. I’ve seen baling machines held together with more wire on the outside than what went to making hay bales from the inside. Cowboyed together.

While the drain pipe was being built between rain storms, my refrigerator quit working. I reached for an ice cream treat mid-afternoon and found soup. I called Leo to help me transfer my foods to Crin’s refrigerator, empty since she is not here.

This was on Wednesday. Leo phoned Damian, the appliance repair person. Two hours later, true story, Damian came, puttered and poked and declared the Freon needed replacing and hauled my refrigerator to his shop. Imagine that! A repairman showing up in two hours!

My refrigerator was very cleverly manufactured with an enclosed back, not removable. On Friday afternoon Damian brought home my refrigerator with a Mexican fix. On the clever back side there is an equally clever addition of pipe running bottom to top or is it top to bottom? I don’t know. I don’t care. My refrigerator works.

Amidst this flurry of activity, I’d said to Josue, “I have an idea.” People close to me have learned to cringe when I use that phrase. But he’s a brave young man and listened closely as I explained that I’d long wanted to have my couch cut down into a chair.

My couch (with matching chair) is a wooden frame that I’d had made in a traditional rustic style in Concordia, a small town outside Mazatlan noted for wooden artisanal furniture. It seemed to me that in my small space, a chair made more sense than a couch. I’d have a matched set along with my rocking chair. “Also, I’d like for the two chairs to be finished naturally, not this traditional dark brown through which the lovely grain hardly shows. Can you do that?”

Josue carefully examined the project. “Si. A Mexican fix. I can do it.” He took away the couch that day. Five days later, he returned with a beautiful pecan colored chair, the finish warm and showing the lovely wood grain to full advantage.

While Josue is working on my other chair, I’m cowboying together down-filled cushions for both chairs. Fortunately, I had several all-down back cushions to use for filler. My backyard looks like a chicken slaughterhouse, but I’m nearly finished.

I stood at my kitchen window last night and watched water gush from my new bodega roof drain. My refrigerator pops on with a click but hums right along. I love my new chair with new puffy, flumpy down cushions.

As my friend said to me last week, “It’s not a perfect world but it’s not bad.”

With a little ingenuity we will cowboy together the broken parts of our imperfect world, as best we can, one small project at a time. It might not seem like much but every bit counts. I’ve often said that there is little that cannot be fixed with duct tape, WD-40 and Bag Balm.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 14, 2021

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In My Next Life . . .

 

In My Next Life . . .

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 We stood side by side on the ditch bank, relaxed, Dad leaning on his irrigation shovel. The July afternoon was quiet, air hardly moving, hot, dry. I was in high school but I can’t remember which year.

A wisp of cloud lifted above the horizon. We stood together, in silence, watched the cloud gather substance. The spring rains had abandoned us that year. Here it was, mid-summer, and the earth gasped for moisture.

We tracked that cloud all the way from the cusp until nearly overhead. Time had no meaning. And we watched that little bit of hope dry up and dissipate above us, turn into nothing, disappear.

Dad looked at me with a half-smile, his eyes full of humor, and kind of shook his head. Then he headed off across the field of sugar beets and river water to shore up a bank across the way. You know, that is one of my favorite memories, that moment of hope, gone, and accepted.

I like weather. I talk about it all the time. Still raining here, by the way. None of the younger people can remember a year so wet. My concrete patio is leaching calcium and lime so I know the water table is right up to there. I don’t worry about flooding but what if my house simply slides off the foundation while the earth turns?

When I was younger I never thought to be a meteorologist. Well, that’s not totally true. Back in the mid-70s I lived in Great Falls. My next door neighbor Bob, formerly a weatherman with the Merchant Marine, was then a meteorologist up on Gore Hill. To maintain certification, he periodically had to take a test. I borrowed his exam book and read every page, fascinated.

I could have done that. In a more perfect world. My world at that time was poverty and survival and I’m afraid I could not have recognized opportunity had it stomped on me.

My problem is that I found too many fascinations. Looking back, my life seems to be divided into chapters. I suspect we all at times have wished we could relive part of our lives differently. But would we?

My life story has a couple ugly chapters. But given how hard-headed I am, I suspect those chapters were necessary. In retrospect, I would not trade them, mostly, I confess, because I can’t.

I control my life just as well as I control the weather, that is, not at all. If I wiped out the ugly chapters, I’d wipe out a lot of beautiful experiences. So best just accept them and move on.

Life. Weather. My own self. We’re all a mish-mash.

My refrigerator quit working. The ice-cream is soup. The repairman is here.

Today was partly sunny after raining from 6:00 last evening through to 8:30 this morning. My lime trees planted in the lower part of my yard show signs of distress from too much water. They might die dead. Clouds are rolling in quickly, setting the stage for tonight’s promised thunder storms.

I’m on the patio, waiting for the news, good or bad, from the repairman. Lola, my hairy mutt, sensing my distress, bounded over and buried her face against my leg, as if to say, “Just bury your fingers in my ruff, yes, behind my ears, over a bit, yes, right there, because I know that always makes you feel better.”  

If there is a next life, I doubt I’ll have any more control than I do with this one. Knowing me, I’ll need some lessons in living, both hard and soft. Best to just pay attention as it unfolds.

After all, it doesn’t get much better than this, watching the clouds gather into piles, knowing they carry moisture, Lola at my feet!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 7, 2021

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The Way We Were Raised

 

The Way We Were Raised

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Turned out to be a surprise party at my house, planned by Ana and Leo, unbeknownst to either myself or Michelle.

I knew Ana and Michelle were coming over. I’d asked them if they would accept a lovely tooled leather stool that had no acceptable place to live in my home but I thought it would have several spots it would like to live at their place. Michelle said they had to be in town so would stop by to get the stool.

I’d considered asking Michelle if she’d bring her espresso machine but nixed that idea. But I decided to whip together a batch of scones to slide into the oven when I heard them turn off the highway.

In the way of vague plans, this one picked up a gang of hitchhikers along the way. The gals arrived shortly after the garbage truck turned down the lane so I never heard a thing until the jangle-clang of the goat bell at my gate. Ana and Michelle’s voices sang out a greeting as they came through the gate lugging a laundry basket filled with food items to prepare breakfast.

Ana put together breakfast burritos with all the trimmings. I slid the scones in the oven. Michelle set up her aging one-cup espresso machine. We had a regular restaurant going. Leo arrived and Janet walked over from next door. Talk about feast and flapping lips!

I like a good coffee. “I’ve thought about getting one of those small machines but then I’d want it every day and it wouldn’t be a treat.”

“It’s the way you were raised,” Michelle answered. “My Mom is like that.”

“Michelle makes herself an espresso treat every morning,” Ana said.

The eyeballs of my inner understanding shouted “ah ha” and instantly carried me back in time.

My Grandma, who raised me, had trunks of beautiful dishes and tablecloths and assorted treasures which were only used for “good,” special occasions, such as Christmas, only if we had guests.

For everyday use we kept a printed oilcloth on the table. Remember Melmac? And aluminum drinking “glasses”?

I was thirteen when I made the decision that I would not have anything for “good”. Everything I had, beautiful or functional, would be put to everyday use. I rather prided myself for doing a good job of sticking to my decision.

“We are never completely free of the old ideas with which we were raised,” Michelle said, “No matter how vigorously we think we have scrubbed them out.”

“I’ll bring you an espresso machine next time I go to Phoenix,” Janet offered.

Once my guests departed, my mind began a walk-about of its own volition through aspects of my raising. I’d figured to review a long list negative things I’ve overcome. I’ve done it before.

Instead, I found myself thinking about the more positive traits, passed to me through family, and especially my tyrant of a grandmother.

Among things given me by this grandmother, who genuinely resented every minute of caring for me, who had raised seven children during the depression after her husband died young, is an ability to approach problems creatively. 

A good, if somewhat rigid, work ethic.

Self-reliance. Ha. Another double-edged sword, as harmful as it is a useful tool.  

I was in grade school when I made my first skirt with a fitted waistband and placket closures with buttons, no pattern, no zipper, with Grandma at my shoulder. Consequently, I never met a pattern I didn’t alter and later abandoned patterns altogether. My way, by way of Grandma, is not better but surely is more fun.

In the kitchen, leftovers become soup or fritters or meat pies or pasta toppings.

I learned how to use all the parts of a chicken, including feathers and feet.

She taught me how to make something out of nothing, a skill I have needed at times. Running to town with the magic plastic is a last resort solution.

Perhaps, more importantly, she taught me to get up, make the bed and get on with my day, no matter what.

Thanks, Janet for offering to bring me an espresso machine. I’ve thought it over. I’ll stick with keeping that option for the occasional treat. I was raised that way.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 30, 2021

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Friends Sitting with Silence Shining

 

Friends Sitting with Silence Shining

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I begin my days with a loose routine of morning readings, nothing cast in concrete, but generally start with the poet Rumi. This epitomizes the week.

“But for us this day is Friends sitting together with silence shining in our faces.”

If friendship were a basket, this week the basket is large and we filled it to the brim.

Leo announced his birthday. He’s an old soul in a thirty-five year young body. I quickly put a peach/mango crisp in the oven. Leo noted that Ana and Michelle had invited us out to their casa twice and for various reasons, we had declined.

We plotted, pulled the treat from my oven, and drove out to Oconahua. At their gate, I phoned Michelle. “We are here to share.” It was perfect. They are in the middle of a couple construction projects, so we ate dessert, visited just the right amount of time and left, everybody happy.

Winding our way through convoluted streets in the small village, I renewed my love for this country. Stuck in my own yard weeks on end, sometimes I fail to “see”. With all the rains this year, this lush country is more vigorous, more luxurious with vegetation than I’ve ever seen. The laguna is full to the rock-wall boundaries, no longer room for the cattle to graze around the edges. Returning home, I was able to “see” the changes in my own yard.

On my calendar I had marked “R” on the 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th. What in the world? Oh, yes, reunion! Our annual 1963 High School Class Reunion, cancelled weeks ago. I wrote to the other six women in our email group, begun when we all showed up for a reunion in 2005 in Harlem, and suggested we have a virtual reunion, and I’ll bring enchiladas verde and key lime pie.

For three days we chatted back and forth as able. We span several time zones. Denise and Cheryl live in Oregon. Ellie in California. Charlotte in Billings and Karen in Floweree. Our other Karen lives in Oswaldtwistle in England. And myself in Mexico. We shared bits of our lives, real and pretend, groaned over foods “brought to the table”, and even “accompanied” Denise on a zip line adventure, celebrating her 76^th birthday.

Like frosting on the cake, Sharon, one of my favorite people, wrote me from Watson, Saskatchewan. We’d drifted, life happens, and coming back together was like we’d never lost touch.

I met Sharon twenty-five years ago, when she lived in Vancouver, B.C, and I lived in Washington. We crossed the border many times. She moved to her home in Saskatchewan and I moved to Harlem, within a couple years of each other. Border crossing continued, road trips I treasure.

Sharon has a gift for seeing the whole person and loving them anyway, warts and all. She is one of the most human people I know. We all need a Sharon in our life.

Ah, yes, life. No Friendship basket is filled with only sweets to eat and we’d soon tire of that diet.

Leo showed up one morning and indicated that I not leave my house. He was masked and standing far from my door. His aunt was taken to the hospital in Guadalajara with Covid. Though vaccinated, her lungs are compromised. He asked me to let others know he wouldn’t be around for a few days and to take precautions.

When I told Michelle and Ana the bad news, Michelle said, “Sondra, that means we are at risk too. We were with Leo.” “Oh, right. I never even thought of that.”

So we, few as we are, are on high alert, using extra cautions. Leo went for the test again this morning and he is clear. Yet, for two weeks, we all, those of us on the Rancho and our friends in Oconahua, will continue as if we are at high risk.

Leo is working in my yard today. While he is working, I stay in the house. His auntie is better. She might pull through.

Our Friendship basket is woven with hope, lots of grumbles, and Shining Silence.  

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking Out My Backdoor

September 16, 2021

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When the Clock of Time Slithers Down the Wall

 

When the Clock of Time Slithers Down the Wall

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Some days I feel like I’m living in Dali’s famous painting with timepieces slumped and limp and empty.

Except with differences. My “painting” would have the clock hands clutching at the wall in futile attempt to stay put. “What do you mean, we are well into September? August began yesterday, don’t you know?”

What do I have to show for a month gone by? I mean, I haven’t accomplished anything. We are supposed to, aren’t we? We are told that, aren’t we?  In my self-imposed life of solitude and simplicity, I’ve done nothing of note.

Remember when every kitchen wall had a calendar with large spaces in which to record significant events?

I decided to record something significant of each day for a week. This does not mean my records will be exciting or even interesting. Remember the farm calendar. “took 40 yearlings to the sale”, or “Slim stopped by. His bull jumped fence”, or “took cream can to the depot today”, and “put up 18 quarts green beans”.

The Puzzle: Finished a picture puzzle of a car cruise down Main Street in the 40s. When I began the puzzle, brand new, an edge piece was missing. It is still missing. After grinding my teeth, I had an “ah ha” moment. This is a perfect marketing ploy. If every puzzle is boxed with a missing piece, one can relax, knowing that the missing piece is not on the floor or beneath the cabinet or chewed by the dog. It’s similar to the deliberate mistake woven into ancient Persian carpets and Native jewelry, because only God is perfect. By the way, it’s raining.

The Bug: After taking laundry off the clothesline, I felt something tickle the back of my neck. I swatted at the nuisance, thinking, dang mosquitoes. While putting my laundry cart in the bodega, again something nudged the back of my neck, felt like it was going down my blouse. Swatted with both hands and shook out my clothing while doing a shimmy. I was folding clothes in my bedroom and definitely, some critter was in my hair, and I wind-milled my hands over my head.

Lo and behold, a beautiful green walking stick fell to the floor, largest one I’ve ever seen. Before I could capture the bugger, it scampered beneath the bathroom cupboard. When I went to bed that night, the walking stick was firmly pressed, body clutching the hose beneath the toilet tank.

I went to sleep wondering if I’d awake to the big-eyed bug perched on my nose. I found it trying vainly to scamper up the slick tile in the bathroom, was able to capture it in my unmentionables and release it into the bamboo outside my door, immediately invisible. Still raining.

The Rinse: I filled my big blue speckle-ware pot with sprigs of rosemary and crushed aloe vera, added water, and simmered the mess for several hours. Using my keen sense of guestimate, I strained the liquid into a gallon jug and put it in the refrigerator. Using a quarter cup at a time, I now have a hair rinse to last weeks. More rain.

The Non-Picnic: It was a grand notion in the planning. Leo had manicured my back yard to formal park status. I invited Michelle, Ana and Janet to gather Sunday afternoon. We’d done this previously to good success, each bringing our own food and drink. Comfortable chairs in the shade beneath the Jacaranda. The African Tulip Tree is in full orange bloom. Couldn’t be more perfect; we get mouthy and hilarious, well, we think so.

Then the rains came. Again. More. Furiously. The ground mushed into soggy-boggy springiness. What had been manicured, seemingly overnight, raged into unruliness, rather like my dog Lola’s brushy bushy hair. Like too many recent events. We reluctantly, in full agreement, cancelled. No picnic. Visits virtual.

Phone Scam: That was exciting for a few minutes. Got a call from my “cousin”. He was in Guad for a conference and would have time for a quick visit. I mentally began preparing a menu. Then the second call came fifteen minutes later. He was in trouble. Security took his money. Bingo. Ha! Nephew, indeed. The voice had actually sounded like a cousin’s, his cadence of speech. I told him to call his mom and hung up. It’s raining so much my toes are starting to web.  

Bird: There is a white Pelican in the Fresno tree across the way. Maybe it thinks the treetop is a water lily. Raining.

Rain: My watch, clocks, calendar, all timepieces, are damp, dripping, moldy, rusty, covered with moss and/or drowned.

Remind me, please, of this day when I begin to complain that the rains have ended.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my backdoor

September 9, 2021

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