No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed

 

            No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed

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 I suppose you’ve all heard about the latest horror disease, monkey pox? Evidently, this near cousin to small pox is transmitted by bodily contact. I want you to know I’ve sworn off sex with monkeys.

Not that monkeys are an issue in my life. Nor is the other.

I’d no more than digested that bit of breaking news when my friend, Kathy, informed me Canada is proposing to print a health warning on every individual cigarette. Yep, my reaction too. My mind boggles. Beyond a healthy giggle at the first reading of the first printed cigarette, do you really think anybody will even ‘see’ the warning again. We see what we want to see.

Not that cigarettes are an issue in my life.

Has anybody considered launching a search for intelligent life on earth? Just asking? NASA?

Not that intelligent life is an issue in my life.

What is an issue is Rain, Rain, Glorious Rain.

On the weekend I was praising the glories of our rainy season to my son, Ben, when he stopped me. “Mom. This is me, your son, you are talking with. I still live on the Peninsula in never-ending rainy Washington.”

“Oh, yeah,” I sheepishly said. “I do remember. Hang in there. Summer comes July 17. That day the sun will shine.”

But after nine dry, dusty months in Jalisco, I can’t help but immerse myself in the new beauty of sparkling droplets of water on every leaf. Every living thing perks up. The sky is a different blue. Green is greener. And one can watch grass grow but watching paint dry is more difficult.

Fortunately, most of the rain sneaks down in the night. Like last night, sneaky rain. Other nights, there is no sneaking, but thunderous crashes and flashes, then rain.

I’m reassessing my garden buckets, cleaning out what is finished and planting more rain-tolerant plants such as cucumbers and radishes. They seem to not mind the wet so much. Tomatillos and tomatoes look great. Rain or shine, they don’t care.

And, wowsers! I am eating the first couple of mangos from my own tree. Nothing tastes sweeter. These are smaller yellow mangos, sweet and juicy, not the ones you buy in the store. These have a tender skin and don’t like bouncing around in a container truck.  

I’ve made a new friend. He lives on the other side of the Rancho, by the arroyo. He is so beautiful, just looking at him nearly stops my heart. My guess is that he’s a two-year-old, a gaited bay gelding. At first we just looked at each other, shy like. Then I began going to the wall and waiting. Sure enough, curiosity won out. I began petting him. Then I noticed guamuchil fruit on the ground. Picked some up and offered him my hand. Oh, yes, a treat. Now I go to the wall and if he is not already there, neck stretched out, I call, “Pretty Boy,” and he comes running. Spoiled rotten, he is.

I want to ride so badly it makes my heart hurt. But those days are well gone, a closed chapter.

Me, I’m falling apart at the seams. The tremor in my hands has doubled. My skin, which has always been like rice paper, is now become crepe paper and, I swear, is separating from the flesh beneath. My knuckles are enlarging by the day.

Ears, nobody told us ears keep growing. If I live long enough I’ll be able to flap and fly.

I go slow. I go slow.

But life is good. If NASA finds signs of intelligent life, let me know. I want to see what it looks like.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 16, 2022

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