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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