It’s Not All Peaches and Cream

 

            It’s Not All Peaches and Cream

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Life. Huh.        

It is hard not to label things, situations. Oh, that is bad. Oh, that is good. We don’t really know if what we call bad might not be really good. Hey, voice of experience here. Often, what I thought was the worst decision, the worst situation, in my life, turned out to be my greatest gift. Likewise, the opposite. Uh huh, both ways.

Wait and see.

Arrgh. Easy for you to say.

I can tell you what I think, hope, fear, all conjecture.

I think my son has lost his last wingnut. I think he is soaring along with a mid-life crisis. I think he just shot himself in the foot. He knows what I think. I told him. Hence, radio silence. I think he will land on his feet. In sane times, he is the most level, thoughtful, sensible guy I know. That is, when he is thinking with his best brain.

My daughter just got a short, curly haircut. She is facing a Big Surgery. I’m getting a haircut tomorrow. Do I get a trim for my already short hair, or do I have Lorena put the #1 guard on the man clippers and whiz through the whole thing? Meanwhile, the surgeon her doctor recommends is on holiday. How can surgeons be allowed holidays? Don’t they know that when we need them, we need them now?

I remind myself to erase the labels. I know that I don’t know.

Meanwhile, back on the Rancho[Ma1] .

The Pacific is being pacific. Not that ocean waves lap at our feet, up here in the mountains, but we get our weather from the Pacific. Our next-door neighbors In Oconahua, a mere ten kilometers distance, are pounded with stormy rains nightly. Guadalajara, an hour away when traffic is light, is experiencing frequent flooding. We have light showers, some nights. Most nights are so quiet I can hear the trees breathe.

We have enough rain that my plants are happy, those that lived through the heat dome. We are not getting enough rain to replenish the aquafers.

My Magnolia lived. I didn’t think it would.

A funny sort of skinny-limbed, short-branched palm died. I replaced it with an elephant foot which had grown so big it split through its clay pot shoe, size extra-large. The elephant foot looks happy. That palm never did like standing in that spot where I’d planted him.

I keep busy. Work is my drug of choice. After work, such work being whatever task I assign myself, is done, I read. Reading is my other drug of choice. Both are highly addictive. Family traits. Don’t blame me.

Then, occasional moments of magic. I sat under the jacaranda tree, late afternoon, book in my lap, not reading yet. I have a really strange orange-flowering plant, gets about a yard tall, self-seeds so I have a garden full of the dears.

Tucked into the leaves of this rather ugly plant I’ve come to love, sat a female rain bird, a beautiful yellow rain bird. I don’t know what she’s officially called. She’s the one who makes the decorated conical nest that somehow defies laws of physics and hangs on a fragile twig. I sat a full half-hour, watching her watch me. Then Lola joined me. Whoosh, off she flew.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Humid in August

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