Snivel, Whine, Foiled Again

 

Snivel, Whine, Foiled Again

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I know better. I set myself up to fail. All the signs pointed to early rain. I jumped in with both feet and gleefully shouted to everybody I know, “This year the rains will come early in June. What a wonderful wet year we will have.” Ha.

I know better. Sure, it rains in summer. Late June when we are lucky, July, August, and rains dribble off in September. The rest of the year is bone dry and that is easy and safe to predict. 

If I really wanted to be right, and who doesn’t like being right, I would have shut my mouth until we actually had more than one freak storm. But all the signs pointed to a wet year while the weather hit the wall and turned left.

The cicadas began singing the end of April instead of end of May. The elders in the community lifted their faces, “Ah, the way it used to be.” The black-bellied whistling ducks returned. The yellow rain birds came and built their fanciful, conical nests and planted eggs. The white bedsheet butterflies are here. Iguanas are hitting my yard for a free salad bar, despite Lola’s vigilance. Bugs are trying to get in the house. All the signs of rain imminent.

Every morning as well as late evening, I could stand outside and smell the rain. It had to be raining somewhere. Oh, yeah, Montana. The world turned upside down.

I do know that the only way to safely predict weather is to stand outside and say what one finds at the moment. Today, sunshine, blue skies forever, 105 F in the shade, 98% humidity. And when I go to my computer and check officially, same day after day after day, 105F, tomorrow 106, forever and ever, amen.

I never was a good prognosticator. If I applied for the position of oracle, I’d be turned down flat with laughter. Whatever I were to prophesy, expect the opposite.

Well, nothing to do but accept what I cannot change and deal with the heat and dust as best I can. Lola and I take our morning walk at 6:30. Back at the house, I proceed with morning chores and self-appointed tasks of the day. For example, today, by 10:00 I had the floors mopped and a mango pie in the oven, a rhubarb pie on the counter waiting to bake. As hot as it is, the oven heat won’t make a lick of difference.

A length of gauzy cotton fabric lay spread out on my table, ready to cut for a blouse, but I had to put it away, the red, orange and yellow colors too hot to contemplate.

And so each day goes, active chores done by noon. My afternoons, I revolve from patio to back yard beneath the jacaranda, to the side yard seating area I built last year, following each bit of breeze.

Despite my failures, despite my lousy reputation, I have a new prediction. It will never rain again. Having said that, I’m going to organize a neighborhood picnic. Iguanas welcome.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

Sizzling in June

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It is either feast or feast around here.

 

It is either feast or feast around here.

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“Here” being Jalisco, the Garden State of Mexico, it seems to be either feast or feast. One day it is too many tomatoes. Another day presents a splurge of tomatillos. On to a glut of papaya.

Today’s feast consists of a mess of mango. I must have been out of my mind. Weeks ago I made the decision that the only mangos I would see this summer would be the few I bought at the tienda for eating. No mermelada, which is jam in English. Every year I make mango jam. Every year I give away most of the jam. I mean, how much jam can one person eat!

Last summer after a bumper crop harvested from my young whippersnapper of a mango tree, I asked Leo to prune the tree, knowing that meant no mangos for this year. Pruning keeps the tree to a manageable height for harvesting. No mangos means no jam. It is hardly the end of the world, and truth be told, I still have a pint of last year’s jam in the fridge-freezer, to eke out judiciously on what I deem special occasions, such as, whenever I want mango jam. When the jam is gone, it is gone. No biggy.

Leo drove me to town to see my dentist in his quite wonderful, very old cup o’ truck. Wonderful in that it still runs, wonderful that it is of the vintage that is fixable. On the opposite side of the highway sat another venerable truck piled high with crates of mangos from the balneario on the way to Tequila, where grows the sweetest mangos in the world.

Leo lifted his eyebrow. I gave a nod. Mango season is short and the local mangos, the little yellow ones that are sweet and juicy, are snapped up whippety quick.

While I’m trying to figure out how many mangos I might need for one batch of jam, the young man tells Leo he’ll sell the whole crate for $750 pesos.

I stood at the back of the truck still pondering one batch of jam and three or four for eating, most of the money in my wallet scrapped and scrimped together for my new front teeth.

“$600 pesos,” the man says, seeing indecision on my face. Without thought, I handed him a portion of my tooth money.

Leo hefted a 35 kilo (77 lbs.) crate of mangos into his truck. Just like that, I’m in the jam-making business. I must have been out of my mind.

I did go on into town and get my new crowns cemented into place. I gave my dentist a dozen mangos, the rest of my money, and a promise.

Definitely out of my mind. The following day I peeled mangos, juice dripping down my arms to elbows. I called quits and gave away a quarter crate. I have mangos to eat and mangos for the freezer for pie later in the year.

Today I made jam. And I made jam. And I made jam. Seven batches. My dining table is groaning under the weight of jam jars. At this point I don’t even know if I still like jam. 

The problem is, sometimes I act as if I am still back on the ranch, hedging my bets against a year of hail and hoppers, no cattle market, and the chokecherries have blight. I’ve always had a tendency to fill jars as though I needed to feed the world.

I could have hand-picked a bag or two of mangos, made one batch of jam, and had more than enough for myself. As it is, I will keep the equivalent of a quart of jam, less than one batch, and give away the remainder.

See what I mean. I must have been out of my mind to buy the entire crate.

There is hardly anybody here on the Rancho for the summer, but as each family returns in the fall, I will greet them each with a gift of jam. Everybody loves mango jam.

Hmmm. Waffles with mango jam, thick sliced ham, might taste good. Maybe by morning.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 9, ‘23

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Looking Through a Flawed Lens

 

Looking Through a Flawed Lens

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An acquaintance stopped by the other day for a visit. Most people would have said, a friend.

Another man, a close friend from years ago, whom I miss terribly but can visit only in memory, used to say, we have few friends. Most people we know are business acquaintances. I’ve thought about his saying often.

My visitor definitely fits into the transactional group. I’ve known him for several years now but I so easily forget the rules. (His.) I expect a visit to be an interchange of ideas, experiences, even, opinions, worthless opinions but kind of fun.

This man lives on a one-way street, so to speak. He speaks, graces me with his wisdom. I listen and stomp on my tongue. He is a good person, kind, generous, caring. My job is to listen.

I can’t keep calling him “that man” so I’ll call him “Sir”. Sir will never read this.

May I give you an example of why my tongue has footprints? Sir said, “People should make the opportunities to travel while they are young and can really enjoy the experiences, not wait until they are old and can barely get around.” He was referring specifically to a young woman, who, incidentally, does not work. Sir finances her trips and good for her. I say that with no sarcasm.

I said, “That’s great. In theory, I can agree. Not everybody can up and go.”

Sir said, “Sure they can. Anybody can do anything they want. When they want to do a thing, they will find a way.”

Here I had to clamp both feet, ten toes, on my tongue. Sir, I thought, you are male, white, from a solid middle-class background. For you, I thought, that is so, has always been so. You have never stood in a queue for commodities, food stamps, low-income housing, with a toddler hanging on your legs, or for any other help and been grateful that it was there when you needed it. You have never questioned your ability to walk down a street and not be assaulted.

Flawed lenses. You can see my bias plainly.

Sir’s lenses are smudged on the other side. We can only see through the lenses we are given, our life experiences. If we are really, really lucky, we also get to learn how to see, in a limited way, from other persons’ perspectives.

The best I can, I listen. When you speak, I want to hear your story, to know who you are.

I read, a lot. In a story, whether there are six or sixteen major characters, I get to live their lives through their experiences. I lose myself in reading. I learn a lot.  

One time I asked Sir if he’d like to borrow this really good book I’d just finished, thought he’d like it. “I don’t read books,” he replied. “I read enough in University and I’ve learned everything I need to know.”

Wow. Superglue my lips. I hope I never learn enough. I hope the Great Wonderful never reaches across with a lens cleaner and wipes your glasses, Sir. You need your smudges.

I’m fortunate. I’ve colored outside the lines I was handed. I suppose you can say I’m still living outside those lines. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June the Beginning Thereof

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