Will you still love me, when I’m 96?

 

Will you still love me, when I’m 96?

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Michelle’s mother, and our friend, fell and broke her other hip. Jane is 96 years old.

It was only three or four years ago that Jane fell and broke a hip. Wasn’t easy but she recovered. Surgery is extremely high risk for this woman. It was risky then and is even more so now. Jane has been in the hospital several days, waiting while certain medicines leach out of her body.

Surgery is not our only worry. Our small hospital, which we are fortunate to have, is staffed by excellent doctors some resident, some on call from Guadalajara. Like many other places, nurses are in short supply. Presently, there has been only one nurse on night duty and all the beds are filled.

Family shuffles hours around the clock to be on night duty in Jane’s room, to help with nursing chores but also for language interpretation.

Rock and hard place comes to mind. What is the alternative? Is there an alternative? Jane understands the danger, as does her family, and all have agreed to the surgery.

I’m selfish. I don’t want to be 96. But, we don’t know, do we? Some of us friends, out here on the periphery, we think about and talk about the “what ifs”. We know we have today but tomorrow hides in the Great Unknown.

Recently (and frequently) I update my will and wishes. I don’t have much so that chore is relatively simple. I’ve purchased and paid for my entire death plan, all laid out in plain Spanish, on paper with a Funeral place in town.

Yet, I’ve hobbled around the block more than one wrap. I’ve seen what can happen. I’ve absolutely nothing of any monetary value, by choice. I have a list of designated recipients of this and that, should said recipients care.

As carefully thought out and as detailed as my plans are, I know that when I depart this earthly plane, my wishes will be thwarted.

It will go something like this.

“Mom said I can have this little blue plastic pencil sharpener.”

“You can’t take that. I gave that little blue plastic pencil sharpener to Mom for her birthday when I was nine. It is mine.”

“You did not, did not, you dumbhead. You always try to claim everything.”

“Did too. I paid ten cents. I bought it at the little store that used to be on the corner on Front Street. Mom said it was the best gift she ever got and just exactly what she wanted. So there!”

From this little imaginary scenario, it is a very short distance from name-calling to hair-pulling, to fisticuffs, to litigation, to the feuding Hatfields and the McCoys. All over items of no value, no sentiment. I’ve watched it happen. More than once.

Think not? That kind of ugly would never happen in my loving family, you say?

As my Aunt Mary, who lived just short of 100, used to say, “It’s pretty to think that way.”

By the way, the blue plastic pencil sharpener, that I bought myself years ago, is in my top desk drawer on the left, should you need to sharpen a pencil.

Michelle just phoned with good news. Jane is out of surgery. The doctor said everything went well. Now the hard work begins. Recovery!

We are breathing giant sighs of relief. My shoulders feel lighter. We all agree, Jane is a tough old bird.

Today is a gift. Jane survived the rigors of surgery. The air is full of butterflies. Dozens of baby hummingbirds are flitting between the bottlebrush tree and the lantana bush. My first hollyhock shouted into bloom with pink flowers. The jacaranda is unfurling its purple umbrella. We have a lot to love.

Next morning update: Jane is hungry.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

End of March

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Thing One and Thing Two and Thing Three

 

Thing One and Thing Two and Thing Three

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I have perfected English muffins.

What that means is that I got hungry for English muffins, not available on the shelves of any tienda in town. I made my first batch, which exceeded my expectations. Unfortunately for me, I made the breadly goodness on a social day and within a couple hours, had none left. I called that batch “Thing One”.

I’d eaten one hot off the griddle with butter and jam but wanted a breakfast sandwich muffin on the order of the classic from the Golden Arches. I would call mine a “Thing Muffin”. I had the egg, the cheese, the ham, but no bread.

What I did have was high praise. Every one of us, me included, had seemed to think that English muffins are made by some elaborate process. Nah, they are easy. Let’s keep that our little secret.  

Nothing for it but the next day, I had to make another batch. In secret. Which I called “Thing Two”. Before anybody had a chance to smell the bakery scent wafting through the air from my kitchen, I made myself a “Thing Muffin” breakfast sandwich, even better than my best memories.

I will never be able to buy another packet of English muffins, should they become available on a shelf near me.

As long as I’m bragging, I’ll put in a plug for Thing Three.

Here on the Rancho, we’ve had a lot of traffic from elsewhere, people arriving fresh off an airplane or from the beach or foreign lands. New arrivals, as well as those with whom they associate, have one and all been downed by a caustic cough. None more so than my friend, Carol.

After weeks knowing Carol was still coughing and not getting any better, I visited John on their patio and left with this advice, “She needs to see a doctor. Leo will arrange for a doctor from the Hospital Paris to make a house call.”

“But she doesn’t have a fever,” John rationalized.

“I had pneumonia and didn’t have a fever,” my rebuttal.

I returned home and sent over a batch of my homemade tomato soup. I’ve talked about my tomato soup previously. It’s only gotten better. Each batch is full of goodness from my bucket garden, starting with the tomatoes. I am generous with garlic, onions, peppers, handfuls of herbs. This batch had carrots too, simply because I had carrots.

The following day, Carol ate a bowl of my tomato soup. She also accepted a visit from a doctor from the Hospital, a shot in the posterior, treatments and medicines. Carol insisted that what made her immediately feel better and jump onto the road to recovery was my homemade tomato soup, which she knew was made with love. There you have it, a testimonial to “Thing Three”, the Best Thing.

“Thing Four” carries no bragging rights.

A friend gave me a linen tablecloth she didn’t use. Nor will I use it, not as a tablecloth. It is insipid pink and just doesn’t work for me. I tried to pass it on to another friend. “Insipid pink,” she said, “Won’t work.”

I cut it up into handkerchiefs, for which the color is perfect.

While ironing the hems into the squares of fabric, I realized that my new handkerchiefs wanted to be hand-stitched with contrasting thread. That will be easily done, I thought. Any color will contrast against this putrid, insipid, Barbie pink.

When I was a child, my Grandma taught me to sew, starting with simple embroidery and hemming handkerchiefs. My hand-stitches have deteriorated since those long-ago times. I’ll do these with a running stitch which will be uneven in both length and pathway and would never have passed my Grandma’s inspection.

No matter. I’m the only person who will notice. For me, hand-stitching is meditative. That makes the extra work worth the time and effort and imperfections.

“The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.” RLS

And a tip of the hat to Dr. Seuss.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Well into March Spring Thing

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Spring is Sprung

 

            Spring is Sprung 

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The wolf-whistle bird is back. This sharp-voiced bird returns every spring. It has two very distinctive calls. When I hear its voice, I instinctively jerk my head around to see who is either trying to get my attention (Hey you, over here!) or is teasing me with admiration (Wolf-whistle, I kid you not.).

Then I laugh at myself. Foiled again!

The wolf-whistle bird doesn’t sound anything like a love bird, does it? This avian character sounds more like the kind of birds your mama warned you about, the birds standing on the corner outside the pool hall, ciggies dangling from their lips, jeans hanging dangerously on hips, greasy hair slicked back in perfect duck’s tails.

The ones who populated our fantasies.

Ah, love is in the air.

Our little gringo community consists of a small cluster of homes, only eight or nine. Next door to us on the rancho, is a campground. For me to walk to the campground, if there were a direct path, I would trek through the yard of only one other casa.

Last Saturday night, at the campground, the owner-family hosted a huge wedding reception party celebration of the marriage of the baby of the family, the youngest son, respectably in his fifties. Perhaps it was the bride’s first marriage. I know nothing about his chosen one. Who would not love a wedding?

When I lived in Mazatlan, I saw some fancy wedding parties on the beach, but not one came close to the elaborate preparations, the all-out-gung-ho-no-holds-barred-blitz-and-bling of this wedding, with not a beach in sight.

I was not a guest so I speak from descriptions, photos, and reports of peepers.

When it comes to knowing how to truly celebrate any occasion, Mexicans do it better. Take my word for it. My word, with admiration.

Louder, too.

When the bands began to play, I closed my house and went to bed with my Kindle. It’s not warm and romantic but it is entertaining. Remember when I told you how close my home is to the campground? This is why.

A good celebration requires a bank, a virtual wall of speakers. The most important speakers seem to be the ones which blast out the deep tones. I’m not sure the others matter. Or even register on the ear-consciousness.

What I rather quickly became aware of, is that each boom of the bass hit me on a cellular level. After an hour or so of feeling battered, I physically hurt. My muscles hurt. I did not have a headache. My entire body throbbed. Not like that—with pain.

Sunday morning, I told my friends that I felt like I’d been attacked and beaten up. John told me about an experiment, done years ago, with sound levels, confirming that how I felt was not my over-active imagination.

Sound can and does affect our bodies in more ways than simply losing the upper ranges of tones with age, forcing us to become adequate lip-readers.

I listened closely, watching his lips, as John recalled details (in a nutshell) of an article about an experiment using submarine, or was it subsonic, or is that a football team (?), wolfers. John is a careful researcher and has a memory like a steel trap. He said these sub-wolfers are the ones that carry the bass tones.

John said that at a concert event, the researchers, using huge speakers, cranked the wolfs up to 80 mega hurts. This particular level of sound, heard or unheard, caused a mass evacuation of audience to the restroom facilities.

Oh, my, I said. That explains a lot.

I don’t know about you, but loud boom-boom-boom noise does not put me in the mood for romance. If there is ever another wedding or party in the campground, I’m renting a hotel room for the night, three towns distant.

I hope the newly wedded couple live many years in bliss.

Me, I’ll stick with the wolf-whistle birds, reminding me of old times, past fantasies.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Middle of March already!

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The Uneventful Life

 

The Uneventful Life

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“Have an exciting evening,” my daughter wished at me after a phone call over the weekend.

“No! No! No!’ I cried vehemently. “Not an exciting evening, Never! Wish me a calm and peaceful and uneventful evening, please.” One never knows what energies one might release with a casual word or two. I’ve had enough excitement in other periods of my life.

Today I sit in front of my blank page with absolutely nothing to say. Life is good. Quiet. No waves. No storm clouds. No drama.

I go out into my yard looking under lettuce leaves for inspiration. Uninspired, I harvest some lettuce seed, harvest the last decent leaves for salad, pulled the stalks for the compost pile. I won’t plant more until the rainy season begins. April and May are much too hot. Lettuce bolts overnight and the leaves are bitter. I’m learning.

With no ideas, I sit myself at the sewing machine to alter a blouse I’d made from beautiful India cotton, pieces of an old sari. I had found myself putting the blouse to the back of the line, too fussy. The colorful pattern is fuss enough. I try on my new-to-me-minus-fussy-details blouse and wear it the rest of the day. 

Back out to the garden. I gather tomatoes and limes. No inspiration, no lightbulb moments in the garden.

You might wonder if I feel bored. I am never bored. As far back as I can remember, I’ve never been bored. If I was, it had to have been when I was quite small and my Grandma would have quickly disabused me of that notion with a list of things to do. I used that page from Grandma’s book with my own children, who will affirm, after that one memorable day, they are never bored.

Often, if uninspired, I might poke around my neighbors and see what runs out of the underbrush. One and all, they have housefuls of guests. One and all, they’ve been sight-seeing, to the beaches, living the good life. One and all, neighbors and guests are back in casa, hacking and honking with that awful cough, hoping to recover in time for guests to catch various flights home. I’ll keep my distance.

I take the broom to the floors, examine the sweepings and dust bunnies, same as I would peer at the tea leaves. All they told me is the season for daily sweeping has arrived. I come from a long line of women who were burned at the stake. Don’t examine that statement too closely. I never said it was logical.

The jacaranda tree is losing leaves. The leaves form a beautiful green canopy but the umbrella is made of a million-million-million tiny leaves and this time of year they fall like rain.

Walk out and take the laundry off the line, shaking the jacaranda leaves out of every item, especially pants and shirts. Iron and fold clothes, shaking stray leaves onto the clean floor.

When I get up in the morning, whatever I put on must be shaken again. Those tiny little leaflets are pointy and poky. They cling.

Shaking clothing is a defense mechanism here in Mexico. Especially shoes. I don’t want to poke my foot into a shoe shared with a scorpion.

I shake the mop vigorously, an anti-scorpion shake, before I bring it indoors to mop the floors. All manner of wildlife might fall out. Crickets. Centipedes. Silver fish. The occasional lizard. The critters scurry off, into the grass or the bamboo. I don’t want to be the cause of death by mop bucket.

And so goes my day. Another walk with my dog. I make a lettuce sandwich for dinner. Wonder if I should call my daughter and ask her to reconsider upping the excitement level when she greets me tomorrow with a cheerful, “Good morning, my Mom.”

But, then, all in all, this is a good life. Quiet. Peaceful. Uneventful. I’ll take it as it is, thank you.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

A Peace of March

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Miles to go before we plant

 

Miles to go before we plant

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It is interesting to contemplate that a mere two month old baby has accumulated more frequent flier miles than I have in the past five years. The comparison is easy. My mileage is 0.

More astounding is that little Marley’s flights cost more than the sum total of all my flights, domestic and foreign, inclusive of but not exclusively: multiple domestic flights, Hawaii, Alaska, Mexico, China, Japan and India. Who could have imagined this farm girl could have visited so many far places!

Marley spent last week in the all-inclusive exotic resort, Hospital St. Vincent’s in Billings, via her second life-flight, treating for a return of pneumonia. I was too upset to even talk about it.

I learned something. When a person we love is dangerously ill, we, not just me, tend to distance ourselves from the pain by referring to them as she or he, the baby, her mother or his son. When I realized that, I changed my language to Marley this and Marley that, keeping her close in my heart.

Marley is back home again today. Our little Marley has officially spent exactly one-half of her life in St. Vincent’s NICU. My little great grand-daughter has accumulated a whole world of people who ‘own’ her, as my friend Kathy said.

That is the update on my Montana life, which I live vicariously, via telephone.

Since I write about whatever is happening in my life, and I don’t pretty it up, I’m going to tell you what ‘almost’ happened today. I ‘almost’ got in a snit with a friend. It was my snit. Not hers.

Yesterday I sent out a photo of my azalea, planted in a garbage can, to my high-school girlfriend-group. It is spectacular, more flowers than foliage, perfumes my entire front garden.

My friend Karen replied that she wanted an azalea but thought it might not grow in her new home in Nevada. I wrote back, why not, the winters are milder than in Floweree.

Ellie wrote.  Azaleas need acidic soil. Nevada soil is alkaline. Don’t plant it. Won’t grow. Those are not her exact words. It is how I heard the words. Like a slap. I felt dismissed.

I removed myself from the keyboard before I plink-plink-plinked-send. Got a glass of water, took a hike, calmed down.

Ellie is a serious gardener. She researches every flower and bush and tree she plants. Karen is a Master Gardener. Both women are much more knowledgeable than me. I’m simply lucky to live in Jalisco, the Garden State of Mexico where if you spit, something will grow, because you probably had a tomato-guava-jalapeno-some-kind-of-seed stuck in your teeth. Ask the birds. They know.  

My friend Ellie researches her soil, how much water the plant will take, how much debris the plant will make, how long it will flower, shade or sun needs, what the plant wants to eat and when to burp it. She is thorough. Proof is manifest in her beautiful low-water-needs garden in Central (dry) California.

When I finally sat back at my computer to respond, I thanked Ellie for the information. But, I couldn’t help myself. My ego reared her ugly head and I went on to say I have no idea whether our soil here is alkaline or acidic. It is volcanic. Everything seems to want to grow, whether or not I want it to grow. However, my beautiful azalea sits regally in a large trash can filled with planting soil from David’s Vivero Centro. (So there!)

My gardening style is hit or miss. “Oh, I like you. I’ll plant you here. If you grow, good. If you don’t, off with your head.” Having admitted to my ignorance, I do tend to stick with plants that are easy, plants that I see thriving in gardens all around me.

I don’t know why I got in a snit, short lived, but it was definitely there. There had been no real provocation. 

I have a colander full of tomatoes that want to become soup base, so I’d best get on with making soup happen.

I wonder, do tomatoes want acidic soil or alkaline soil?

I’ll keep that wonder to myself.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March already!

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To Tapir or Not to Tapir

 

               To Tapir or Not to Tapir 

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Michelle called. “I need to take Blue to the vet in Tala tomorrow. Ana can’t come with me because she is overseeing the work crew building our new guest house. Would you be able to come along with me?”

“What time do we leave?”

Michelle picked me up. Blue, tucked in his kitty carrier, never made a peep the whole trip. Michelle and I filled the air with words covering multiple spectrums.

Background: Blue is an elderly cat, not in the best of health. Michelle feared this might be his last trip, yet, there were signs he wanted to live.

More background: Tala is an old factory town. The sugar cane processing plant pumps white steam into the air from October through May. Somewhere off the highway there is a Coca-Cola plant. In town, and it all seems to be ‘Old Town’, the streets are narrow, not laid out for modern vehicles.

Even more background: This veterinary practice specializes in small animals, mostly dogs, but will see cats too. Michelle said one time when they came, the vet was treating a horse, in the courtyard, I’m sure. The man who started the clinic had three sons, all of whom went to veterinary school and joined the thriving practice. Vets in Etzatlan mainly see to the health of cattle and horses, farm animals.

We had no more than settled down to wait our turn, when, trailed by two large dogs, in walked a man, cuddling a scruffy, long-snouted creature in his arms. Our eyes grew large as dinner plates.

“Is that a tapir?” “I think so.”

The man must have had an appointment because he was shuttled directly into a room. Michelle and I tip-toed to the open doorway, trying to get a peek. The man stood with broad back blocking our view. Reluctantly, we backed off before we became rude and intrusive. Wow, a tapir!

We left Blue in the capable hands of the vet hospital persons. His problems are being treated.

My grandson, Tyler, is a rescuer of animals and has his own rather exotic collection with their various care requirements. Tyler is set on his own pathway to become a vet. I must tell him about the tapir.

Yes, wow, a tapir! This man held the animal close in his arms, his hands comforting it. The animal was not struggling to escape, though it was moving about. So, how do you get one? I’ve never seen a tapir at Pet’s R Us. But, then, I’ve never looked.

How do you care for a tapir? This one responds to petting. Would it enjoy being brushed? Do you keep it in the house? What does it eat? I’ve never seen bags of Tapir Food at Tractor Supply or the pet supply aisle of IGA. Then, again, I’ve never looked. My Lola would never agree to such an adoption. Share her doghouse? Never, no way.

This particular tapir, if tapir it is indeed, must be a toddler. I had to look them up. These animals get quite large, are similar to wild pigs. Some varieties are bigger than others. This looked like a Mexican tapir.

On a whim, I looked up anteaters. No, I think it was a tapir. I can imagine a tapir as a pet. Not so much, the anteater. Although, feeding an anteater would be no problem. “Here you go sweet pea, a large yard. Have at it.”

I do wonder how one comes to be cuddling a tapir.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Still February

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Here a Little, There a Little

 

            Here a Little, There a Little

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Why do the little changes take up so much space? I should qualify that with an addition, “in my head?”

Really, most changes hardly make a dent in my consciousness. Change is constant. My favorite bowl slips from my fingers and shatters on the tile floor. Blip—gone. The rubber tip on my cane wears out. I replace it. Lola The Dog celebrates her birthday (Okay, I celebrate her birthday). I notice she has quite a few more white hairs. Change, like a river, always moving.

Other changes. I give them  big space, make them important.

Over the years while Julie lived next door, we’ve slowly come to know each other. Julie is married to Francisco, whose family home is a thirty minute drive northwest of here, where they will make their new home. “We will visit often,” she assures me. I nod and smile, knowing that her life will zoom a different direction. New home, new neighbors. Yes, we will visit, but, with decreasing frequency. It’s the way of life. It will not be the same as chatting over the gate, in the back yard or on the patio three or four times a week. Change. Neither good nor bad. Simply change.

Then there is the weather. Just when I’ve gotten used to the patterns I’ve observed the years I’ve lived in Etzatlan, it goes slop-sided on me, big time.

As expected in February, days began warming. I took one of the covers off my bed yesterday morning. I’d been tossing it off at night for a couple weeks. I’ve been using my heater only sporadically, an hour or two if I felt chilled.

As usual, I walked my dog at noon. Sat in the shade a while. Chatted with a neighbor. Warm and comfortable.

Lola The Dog got antsy around 3:00, insisted we walk again. Okay, I grumbled under my breath. The wind had come up, stolen all the heat in those couple hours. I put the quilt back on my bed, turned on the heater in my suddenly cold house, made a cup of steaming tea to heat body and soul. Watched the clouds threaten rain, a few drops here but real rain in towns around us. It “never” rains in February. A rare shower in March, my neighbor assured me, never in February.

Just for giggles I checked the forecast a week ahead. Colder. Rain every day. “What do you mean, turning colder?  Rain?” Lower numbers 20 to 25 degrees, sun-up and sun-down, which may not be cold in Montana but it means cold where I live. What’s with the rain? Welcome rain! Go away, cold!

You’d think by my reaction that I had been personally affronted. I turned up my heater, resigned to another big power bill. Lola and I walked again around 6:00, bundled in my winter-wear. Should I make Lola a doggy coat?

While walking, my thoughts turned to physics. Not the high school physics of 1963. Or maybe it was. I had pretty much day-dreamed through physics, slouched in my seat, “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” tucked into the pages of my text book.

I wondered if air hurts. This was not a new wondering. I remember racing Sputnik the length of the hay field after the hay had been stacked, huge billowing storm clouds behind us, crackle of electricity in the air, feeling the air part around us. That was long ago, still in the 60s, when I first wondered if air hurt or noticed or cared.

I’d think about that airy notion, time to time, on the open Montana highway, parting the air at 80 mph. Or on the airplane over the Pacific, on the way to China, or on I-5, Seattle to LA, maneuvering through more vehicles than surely should exist. Or the water, while on the Ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island. Does water hurt? Does it make a difference, what we do without thought, at such speeds?

Without doubt, it makes a difference to bugs and fishies. If air or water are contaminated, we hurt. But what does it mean to continually stir the air? Nothing? Anything?

I certainly do not advocate we return to horse and buggy days. That would be a change too far.  I like cars. I’d quite happily own a gas guzzler if it were not cheaper and easier for me to pay someone else for transportation.

Julie will move. It will rain in February. I’ll part the air carefully while walking the lane. I think I’ll read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” again.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February, still winter (with rain!)

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