Random observations of an opinionated woman

 

Random observations of an opinionated woman

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Birds: Karen from Floweree reported to our girl-group that she heard her first Meadowlark singing from atop a fencepost in her garden. We who no longer live in Montana sighed as the Meadowlark’s unmistakable and beautiful song rang in our refreshed memories.

Here in Jalisco, as everywhere else in spring, the skies crisscross with bird travel, some heading north, some arriving to build nests in which to plant new baby birdy eggs. Especially in early morning and late afternoon, the air resonates with birdsong, some familiar from year-round residents, some from seasonal nest-holders.

I love it. Here on the rancho we are overhung with umbrellas of trees. Without binoculars and a blind, it is difficult for me to match birds with birdsong. A few I know. Many I cannot identify.

But, hey, listen. Not all birdsong is pretty. Some birds squawk like fingernails down a chalkboard. When the bird population sings in concert, it truly is symphonic. Other mornings, cacophony. Why? No se.

Dogs: John said, “I think dogs have a sense of humor.” I replied, “Of course, dogs have a sense of humor. They hang out with humans.”

Travel: I broke loose from my moorings and went all the way into the Big City of Guadalajara for the first time since before the pandemic. Whew! I survived. I went along with Ana and Michelle, more for the experience than for shopping.

Their main focus was pool supplies. Across the street from the warehouse is a tiny tienda that sells coffee beans from various Mexican states. I brought home a taste of Vera Cruz and of Oaxaca.

No amount of shopping could compare with the experience of rollicking conversation and lunch at a French Bistro and Bakery. I also bought an almond croissant for morning coffee.

Weather: Boring. Sunshine every day. No rain since September. Not a complaint, just an observation.

Friendships: When I first visited Rancho Esperanza, Lani and Ariel were the only residents. Everyone else had gotten older and moved on, in various ways. My second visit, cousins Nancie and Pat were buying one of the casas. By the end of my visit I bought another. Kathy and Richard came while I was here just because I said it’s pretty wonderful, you should see it. They bought a place. Then Kath’s sister Crin came and she bought one. Meanwhile John, Carol and Jim succumbed to the allure, soon followed by Julie and Francisco, then Tom and Janet.

I think it is something in the water.

Three years ago, long-time friends from Washington, Steve and Theresa, came to visit. They bought a place, a stripped down empty shell, and began work to make it livable. For me this is all exciting, to have more good friends here from time to time. Then the pandemic hit, Steve had surgery for cancer, then another surgery, along with accompanying treatments. They decided, understandably, that the casita was one thing too much in their lives right now.

They asked me to keep my ears open and if opportunity knocked, be their agent. After weeks, nay, months of thought, I contacted a couple from another state who’ve visited here several times, who keep coming back.

I swear, there is something in the water.

I can get, perhaps, excessively excited about all the good things here—for me—key words—for me.  Many years ago I encouraged an acquaintance to go into business for herself. I painted a rosy picture but forgot to list the downfalls and forgot to emphasize those two key words. For her, it was a disaster. I learned a lot.

Carefully, very carefully, I told my friends about the casita, listed the known warts and blemishes, promising there were undoubtedly some I didn’t know. They are seriously considering taking on the project.

The push-pull for me is that both couples are good friends and I love them all dearly. I want them all to be here, but must accept that is not to happen. Now is wait-and-see time.

Opinions: A couple weeks ago I read that we all might be happier if we gave up having opinions. Amen to that, I said, having stumbled and fallen hard over some of my opinions, right or wrong or indifferent. Lent is almost over but I determined to give up opinions for Lent, along with ice-cream, my other addiction.

As you can see, I’m failing in letting go of opinions but I’m acing the ice-cream. Does that count? I’ll continue to strive for progress, however, and decided to extend Lent, for the opinions, only for opinions, and to keep working on wiping out opinions, especially those that exit my lips.

However, Easter Sunday, I’m eating a big bowl of ice-cream. Maybe two!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 31, 2022  

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Let Me Tell You A Secret

 

Let Me Tell You A Secret 

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Was it Mark Twain who said that any two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead? I have a secret, but it is too good not to share. But I’ll only tell you. So get a mug of coffee and pull up a chair to the table.

But before I spill my guts, let me tell you the backstory. In 1966, when my daughter was a baby in diapers, I lived on a small ranch south of Dodson. We had electricity. That is important because a lot of our neighbors were not hooked up to the flick of a switch. We did not have running water nor indoor facilities, but we did have a good well.

As with many such places, the well water was piped into the cattle watering tank by way of that flick of the switch, automatically keeping the water tank the proper level.  For the house, I had to pump water into buckets and lug them down the path into the kitchen.

Laundry day in winter was my personal nightmare. Fortunately I had a wringer washing machine and large rinse tubs which took over my entire kitchen. I heated water on the woodstove to wash the whites first, followed by the coloreds, followed by work clothes.

If you don’t know what a wringer washer is, Google it. I say wash day was a nightmare. In summer it was tolerable. In winter, well, it was better than a scrub board, all laundry washed by hand. I got to find that out. My washing machine broke down. My husband was not mechanically inclined. I found the scrub board (again, Google it) in the cellar.

As nightmares tend to do, the washer didn’t break down in summer. No, it was winter. Imagine scrubbing the entire laundry by hand, ammonia stinking cloth diapers and all, wringing out excess water as best you can, until your skin is raw. Now haul the dripping lot out to the clothesline to be pinned, bare-handed, in the freezing wind where hopefully they will freeze dry by the end of the day. Now the tubs of dirty water have to be emptied and carted outside to be dumped down the creek bank. Haul more water into the house and heat water to scrub the floor, by this time an inch deep in mud and slush. Then fix lunch for the men.

This routine went on several weeks. One night I had a dream in which I repaired my washing machine. The following morning, I gathered my few simple tools, crawled under the wringer washer, carefully followed the dream instructions, and repaired my washer my own self. It worked hot-diggity.

I had an extra part which didn’t seem to fit anywhere nor seem to be necessary. Thus did “EP” for extra parts enter of our family vocabulary.

Believe me, I know the importance of a washing machine to whomever is on laundry duty.

Now for the secret. Let me pour you another cup of coffee. Promise you will keep this to yourself.

Back in the first wave of Covid, now over two years ago, a family in our little town all became sick. Mom, Dad, Grandma and three young children. The father died leaving the family without resources. Their story, among all the tragic stories in town, touched my heart.

“What do they need most,” I asked. “Food,” was the answer. I can help some. Now and then I skip my groceries and buy food to feed the family. At Christmas time, everybody got new shoes. I do know what is most important to a growing family.

I give anonymously. They have no idea who is helping. Leo shops for me and he’s not telling. I know the Mama’s neighbors help them too. People come together. This story touched a friend of mine who lives in Idaho. He sent me a sum of money recently, larger than I can scrape together, with instructions to help my adopted family.

Immediately I ordered a goodly supply of groceries for them and gave myself a good week or so longer to think how best to help the family.  My own experiences gave me the answer.

I wish I could have been a gecko on the wall to see their faces when Leo delivered a brand new washing machine and hooked it up for the family. He said there were many happy tears, many thanks, much surprise and awe. Neighbors from all around came to marvel at the new machine, to touch it, to add their blessings.

Doesn’t that just make you feel good?

I am the lucky person standing in the crossroads who got to spend my friend’s money to give a gift that will help for years to come.

But, don’t tell. It really is a secret.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 24, 2022

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Rhubarb and Other Gifts

 

                Rhubarb and Other Gifts 

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I just saw the most marvelous little creature clinging to a hand towel out on my clothesline. I’ve no idea what it is, have never seen anything quite like it. Wondering what it could be, I lightly brushed it with my fingertips and it spread out, moved a few steps and settled down again.

The body is much like a walking stick, wings closely tucked. Spread out, the wings appeared silvery gray, a lacy, gossamer delicacy. At the tip of each wing was a more defined, darker, star-like shape. It took my breath away.

When I touched it again, it had determined I was not a threat, that I was unlikely to snack on it, and stubbornly stayed put, holding its wings close to the stick body, stingy with its beauty.

I shall not soon forget this little critter. It made me want to hug myself.

The gift of being able to meet that little creature started the ball rolling to turn my attitude around. I’d had a couple overwhelming weeks. I’d let worries pile to a height that seemed insurmountable. On top of friends with cancer, a loved one losing a job, worry about the mental health of both my overworked son and my daughter, rising prices of food, the on-going pandemic effects, let’s just add war. War is not ‘someplace over there’, not any longer. War anywhere is war here. To my mind. And to my hurting heart.

So the arrival of a bunch of gifts soothed my soul, changed nothing on the outside, but rearranged my inside.

Jim, recently arrived from Missouri, clanged the bell at my gate. Jim sends me pictures of his huge garden. I send him reports of my bucket successes and failures. Jim brought me two rhubarb crowns. I miss the mouth-watering tang of rhubarb. I planted the crowns immediately. They may be the first rhubarb crowns ever planted in Jalisco. They may not grow in this country. But the farmer part of me, contrariwise, knows they might grow. That’s worth the try.

Then I prepared dirt in two buckets for artichokes, the seeds a gift from Michelle. With all that possibility, it is hard for my inner farmer to stay depressed. I’ve not had an artichoke in years. Oh, the thought of it!

Then Leo cane, left leeks and a mamey on my patio table, and with a wave, disappeared. I love leeks for a yummy soup. Leeks are a rare find at the Mercado.  

The other rare treat, mamey is a fruit I’ve come to savor. A mamey is shaped like a small tan football, of a size to fit in my cupped palms. The husk is bark-like. When the fruit is soft like an avocado, it is ready to slice, discard the seed, and eat the pulp. I like to scoop out the pulp and whirr it in the blender with milk and make a milkshake. It is equally delicious spooned from its skin to my mouth. Another gift. I only get a couple mamey fruits a year.

Kathy and Richard and Crin also returned this week from Victoria, B.C. by way of Mazatlan. Kathy and Richard are here to finally make this their new home. Kathy brought me coffee beans from Looney Beans, a coffee shop local only to Mazatlan. Just the aroma emanating from the bag put me back in Cerritos, watching the waves roll into the point and crash across the rocks, tasting the brew in the thick white ceramic mug. Ah, heaven.

Crin brought me an owl puzzle she’d knew to be difficult enough for me to appreciate, a former gift to her that is now a gift to me. She also brought me a whisk broom, which might appear to be coals to Newcastle, in this country with the most variety of cleaning supplies I’ve ever seen anywhere, but there is not a whisk broom to be found.

Ben called and we talked two hours. Ben doesn’t call frequently, but when he calls, we yak in marathon style and laugh a lot. His call is always a gift.

Not to be outdone, Dee calls me almost daily, on her way to work, hands free. Not only do we get a morning chat, but she rolls into Vicky’s coffee kiosk where we both enjoy the special flavor of the day. Dee Dee orders hers cold and I get mine piping hot, steam rolling from Montana to Mexico, in my mind. If Dee forgets to order a virtual drink for me, Vicky asks, “What does Mom want?” I can see that makes you smile, so how can you not call that a gift.

I know we are taught that it is better to give than to receive. But sometimes it is better to receive. Sometimes we need a gift to remind us we are loved, whether the gift is a rare creature who spreads its wings or a promise of rhubarb to come or the elusive scent of long-distance coffee, today’s flavor, mint chocolate chip.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 17, 2022

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Barking Up the Right Tree

 

Barking Up the Right Tree 

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My human asked me to write the column today. She begged, pleaded, and to my shame, she groveled. She also gave me a beef bone with tatters of meat from the carniceria in town. I caved.

I told her, I am a dog, “The story I tell will be incomprehensible to human kinds.”

She said, “That’s okay. Anything I wrote today wouldn’t make sense either.”

She then told me that she is feeling way down in the dumps. Lower level. I don’t understand. Isn’t being down in the dumps a good thing?

I rode along in the truck once when Leo was taking a load of trash to the dump. Wowsers! I was excited, almost turned myself inside out sniffing at all the delicious smells, so rich, so provocative,  and pathways I yearned to explore. Leo would not let me out of the truck. Meany.

I wanted to pout but how can one pout when one is introduced to an entire new world of amazing possibilities. Unfortunately, the dump is several kilometers from home but I could find the way. I would go, but my job is on the ranch with my human.

Jqvip und ivx’[[d vprommy omzalst jump nok’a ip ip lum ouk. Brxpptu oceapp il net,

Oops. Sorry about that. You try to operate a keyboard with paws instead of fingers. Sheesh.

Since this is my story to tell, I’ll let you know that my life is filled with extra fussy-wussys and treats in the past week, all because one night I alerted everybody within hearing of my ‘fierce-aggressive’ bark-voice of an intruder. The police came and took the man away. And just like that, people treat me special.

I only use my ‘fierce-aggressive’ voice when there is danger. I may bark a greeting but the tail is a give-away to my softer ‘friendly-greeting’ bark. Like a helicopter roter, that tail.

Everybody always has liked me. Now they fawn over me. Instead of walking past with a “Hi, Lola,” the neighbors now walk up, stick their hands through the wrought iron gate and say, “Hi Lola. You are such a good doggy,” followed with lots of pets. Ariel sneaked me a chunk of liver one day and a bite of steak another day. Don’t tell my human that I’m getting extra treats.  

All I had done was my dog duty that is imprinted in my nature. DNA, I believe you people-types all call it.

I do like to be fussed over. This morning Leo came for a few minutes. He always wants me to sit. “Sit, Lola,” he says. I sit. He ruffles my neck. This morning he asked me to give him my paw. “Mano,” he said. I am willing to pander to his lower nature when I get a dog cookie for “sit” and another for “mano”.

I, of course, am bi-lingual. Now and then it is to my advantage to pretend I don’t understand a command. Spoken and unspoken, English or Spanish. I understand. Mfuzat.

Last night my human and I went over to John and Carol’s yard. The humans sat around the fire in the chimenea, drinking limonada and laughing a lot. I followed nose-trails over and around their large yard. Dog gone it, I did not know there was danger aflame.

I followed one lovely scent-trail up to the chimenea. Fire, like many elements, has two natures. One nature provides warmth, comfort and cooks meals. The other nature sneakily shot out a flame and singed a swatch of fur alongside my head. A little smoke. No fire. There was some talk about eating hot dogs. More laughter. Humans are weird.

But, as we say in Mexico, “Don’t worry. Be happy!”  The humans all seemed more scared than I was. So I got lots of pats and belly rubs and play.

Except for a few vopllares, I mean glitches, with the keyboard, this has been fun. We say, every dog has her day, so this day is mine.  

I’ve worked like, well, like a dog over this missive, yuk, yuk, and now I’m dog tired. I’m going over to that patch of shade under the ruffled Hibiscus to dream of possums, so let this sleeping dog lie.

Lola The Dog for Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 10, 2022

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And Just Like That! Snap!

 

And Just Like That! Snap! 

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We sing the praises and glories of Spring. Really, we ought to be more careful. Spring ought to come printed with a warning label, beware, danger of erratic behavior.

Spring is warm and wanton with promise one day, and cruel and cold, withholding favors the next day, spurning all pleading and imploring with an imperious frosty demeanor.

Like many things, Spring also has a use-by date and just like that, go to sleep one night much like any other, waken and summer has arrived.

The sun follows a whole new trajectory across the sky. Leo is attaching the sun screen over the section of buckets from which I grow parts of the garden when prefer a bit of shade, a bit of cool. Peas, spinach, a variety of lettuces and leafy cabbages.

I fold my wool sweaters around lavender sachets and store them in a bin. My merino long-sleeved tees sulk in another bin. My bare skinned arms exhibit mild shock. The faithful electric heater, plugged into service around Thanksgiving, is stored in the farthest corner of the bodega. Winter bedding displaced summer bedding from another storage bin, summer now airing on the clothesline, soaking up sunshine. 

Birds are on the move. We are not on a designated flyway of any sort that I’ve noticed, so it is subtle. One day I realize I haven’t seen that bird with feathery coloring similar to a robin for a while. A tenate scoops in and lands on a branch of the dragon tree outside my “computer window” and it seems like an old friend, road weary and slightly disreputable, suitcase in hand, just knocked on the door. (A tenate is a type of blackbird, another scavenger, and I admire them, the fun-lovers.)

Mosquitoes and flies proliferate. Is it because my arms are bare that I notice there seem to be more? Or is it because it is summer and the winter occasional pest has morphed into the summer swarm?

Ah, yes, summer has moved from the verge to presence. Here in our little community the few people who are snow-birds are gradually, if reluctantly, preparing to leave. The Covid plague nterrupted the usual to-ing and fro-ing. Yet there is still movement.

While some prepare to leave, in the next week or two, others will show up, for a few weeks, for longer.

Yesterday, for the first time in years, and I can say “years” with a straight face, we converged around the fountain at Tom and Janet’s for a social gathering, in number, a mere eleven. I didn’t stay long, after all, I have a reputation to uphold, as the most anti-social of all on the ranch. Yet, I felt a surge of goodness, looking around at all the mostly-masked half-faces.

Today I intend to plant the remainder of my buckets. I have a decision to make. I have more seeds than I have empty buckets. I’m in a quandary. Do I buy more buckets? Do I put away some seeds for later?

Another quandary. What about the bread I made yesterday? Do I throw it away? Make a new batch? Figure a way to use it despite it being a disaster? How to use it? Me, I, who make the best bread, a master baker, created a disaster. Yes, the bread batch turned into a brick. I could varnish it for a doorstop. I could nail on a handle and use it for a curling stone, if only we had a curling rink.

But, hey, it is summer so it doesn’t matter. In summer life is 99.97% perfect. I’ll plant what I can today. I’ll either find more five-gallon buckets. Or I won’t. I’ll either throw out my brick bread or make capirotada, a Mexican bread pudding.

It is summer. And, it doesn’t matter. What I do absolutely doesn’t matter for I am filled with summer warmth. For all I know the night is an upside down navy-blue bowl and the day is a yellow mango, carried about on the back of leaf-cutter ants, trudging down the crooked path to their underground nest. It could be so. It might be so. What do I know?

It is summer. And the dish ran away with the spoon.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 3, 2022

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