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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The Day My Computer Caught the Delta Variant Covid Virus

 

The Day My Computer Caught the Delta Variant Covid Virus

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I suppose it’s my own fault. I should have known when the toilet tank innards up and died and bled water all over the floor.

But no, I had nary a clue. Then a few days later I remained blissfully unaware when my washing machine puddled all over the bodega floor. Turned out a crack eroded in the tub which had to be replaced. I should have caught on that something was afoot more than the simple mechanical obvious.

The appropriate specialist doctors came out and applied the appropriate medications, in these cases, new innards. Life went onward.

Had I only known, I could have taken measures and stopped the infection before it raged out of control. It’s not rocket science. But it is health science. Wash hands, mask, apply liberal doses of disinfectant while going from place to place. Easy-peasy.

But, no, not me. I got careless, complacent, smug, self-satisfied.

Then my computer got sick. It simply didn’t respond to my pleas. Please, pleas, beg on knees pleas. Please. The wallpaper stuck to the screen but it would not let me through the door.

Years ago my son taught me two magical tricks that usually work. First, check all the connections. Check. Secondly, reboot. Check. Nada. Nothing.

I walked next door. “Do you have internet? Is Telmex down?” Nope, that wasn’t the problem.

Then I did the next best thing. I phoned my son, the computer genius. “HELP!”

My son knows me well. He knows that when my computer is down, I’m a mess. Panic might be a too strong a word for what I feel, but is there such a thing as “panic once removed”?

“I’ll call you when I get off work,” Ben said.

Meanwhile, disconnected from friends and family, isolated in middle Mexico, I began to build a worst case scenario. By now I have figured out that my computer has caught the Covid virus. I’ll probably have to buy a new computer, which means Ben buys it for me and formats it for me and ships it to me which will take at least two months, given shipping time during the last Covid surge when there were not enough healthy drivers to keep the trucks on the roads.

Now I’m on a roll, masked and gloved, spray bottle of disinfectant in hand, I wipe down the refrigerator, the stove, the light fixtures and plug-ins.

I put my brand-new sewing machine, just delivered, into quarantine.

I look around for anything that could possibly get infected, break down and die. Electric toothbrush? Yikes! Electric teakettle—check. Blender—check. I live very simply so it does not take me long to isolate and reinstate all safety measures.

That left me idle hours to work on my paranoia and related conspiracy theories.

My son lives in the Pacific Time zone. I live in the Central Time zone. At 7:10 my time, the phone rang. “Here’s what I want you to do,” Ben said. “Reboot.”

“I already did, complete reboot twice, off at the surge protector, wait ten minutes or longer, turn it on. Same results.”

“Uh huh,” Ben said, “Do it again.” We were on the landline so when I turned off the computer at the surge protector, my phone service died. Computer and phone are a package. While I was calling him on my cellular phone, he called me back on the landline, just as I turned my computer back on. “Now do this and click that and hit ‘Enter’. What do you get?”

Like magic, my computer came to life, lifted itself out of the grave, resurrected, and I embraced her.  

“What went wrong?” I asked. Ben told me but when he speaks computer garble it is in language so foreign to me that I don’t even know when to nod and smile and pretend to understand.

I may not understand what Ben said, but I know what happened. My computer had contracted the dread pandemic virus. While I waited for his phone call, Ben gave my computer the electronic version of the vaccination.

He then advised me to tell my computer daily how much I appreciated its good work and to let it know I love it, you know, slobber on it a little.

Hey, whatever works, works. Thank you, Ben. I loved on him a little too.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 2, 2021

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Goldilocks and the Three Pies

 

                        Goldilocks and the Three Pies

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Consider this to be as though you accidently tuned into the cooking channel. The difference is that I’ll tell you about the mistakes I made along the way.

When Uncle Lee retired from being a fireman in Indianapolis, he and Aunt Joanne bought an Airstream trailer in which they spent every winter, lolling in the Florida Keys.

This was back when cars were built as sturdily as ocean liners and were almost as big. I picture my aunt and uncle rolling down the highway, in the two-toned barge, sporty with tail fins and lots of chrome, pulling the silver airstream through the states until they reached the campground, where they backed into the spot reserved for them year after year.

One of those years my Aunt Joanne sent me a recipe for key lime pie. At this time I lived on the ranch south of Dodson. Dee Dee was a baby on my hip.

What a joke. Key limes. Where in the world was I going to find limes, any limes, not to mention key limes? Guess where the most key limes are grown? Florida Keys?

This was the 60s in Dodson, Montana. Not even the two bars in town used limes. They served beer and whiskey with no cutesy amenities.

Joanne and I traded recipes regularly. I still use some of her favorites. So when the key lime tree I planted six years ago finally came into fullness of life this summer with an abundance of little green globes which, unlike their larger green cousins, ripen to yellow, I beamed. I had the recipe.

“Had” being the operative word. Do you think I could find that recipe? It was not where I thought it should be—in my recipe file box I’d had since high school. It was not where I thought it might be—stuck between the pages of an old cookbook.

So I went online looking for key lime pie recipes. Of course there are hundreds, thousands, all which list pretty much the same ingredients and general instructions.

Ah, yes, the ingredients. Here in my country village, much like it was in Dodson in the 60s, not every ingredient is readily available. Except for the limes.

First, the crust. There are no graham crackers in Etzatlan. I’m certain that in the larger modern stores that cater to tourists, in the cities, you can find them. Along with pre-formed crusts in disposable pans. Hmpf. As my Grandma would have said.

I use “Canelitas” which is a commercial cookie with cinnamon (canela) flavor, crushed pecans and butter. Use your best recipe. Bake at 350 for ten minutes.

I sunk my fork into pie #1. “This pie is too sweet. Yuck!” I’d used La Lechera, which is (I’ve been told) boiled goat’s milk and similar to sweetened condensed milk in your store, also unavailable here. I followed the recipes the best I could. All the recipes asked for juice of three limes.

A week later I made pie #2. “This pie is much too bland. Pftooey!” I used plain condensed milk, we have Carnation, as called for in the other half of the recipes I’d trawled. It made a nice custard, but was neither sweet nor flavorful, despite the juice of four limes, ah, recipe-rebel that I am.  

Another week passed before I conjured up pie #3, ignoring specific directions.

Whip four egg yolks with a wire whip for a minute or two. Don’t over-whip them or the yolks will toughen up. Blend in a can of La Lechera (or sweetened condensed milk) along with 1/3 to a half cup of juice from ripe key limes.

Lime juice is the thickening agent. Three limes will thicken the custard, but it takes eight or nine limes for the robust flavor I want. If key limes are not available, use what limes you find and don’t stress over the details. I also used the zest from two limes and a half cup sour cream, which we also don’t have here but “Crema” is a good substitute.

Pour your filling into the baked shell, zing a little zest over the top for interest, and bake another ten minutes. Cool. If the pie seems sloppy, it will firm up as it cools. Refrigerate and serve when good and cold. This is rich and flavorful, not gloppy sweet nor so bland you wonder why you bothered. Use whipping cream if you want. We don’t have that here either, but I like mine plain.

“Mmmm, good. This pie is just right.” Rich and creamy, not too sweet, full of flavor. Share it with your resident bears.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 26, 2021
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