When Neighbors Were The News

 

          When Neighbors Were The News

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Back when I was in high school, and, yes, that was an eye-rolling long time ago, I eagerly awaited the day when the weekly Harlem News was delivered to the mailbox, a mile down our driveway. We also received the daily GF Trib, but that was not as fun to read as the local.

Based on my own self, I’m confident that Everybody read Every Article, front headlines to back page sales ads. I might modify that to Almost Everybody read Every Article, since, after all, I read cereal boxes if nothing else was available. (Books were not allowed at the meal table.)

Of course, we read every scribble. The news was all about our neighbors, and what is more fascinating than our neighbors.

Each week, prior to press deadline, women sat down in front of their telephone with a list of reliable informants, other women, because back then, men were out in the fields or were  running the hardware store or insurance office and such, and dialed down the list, querying what was happening within the family and the area, jotting down every tidbit of gossip, I mean, news, which then made it into print, perhaps with judicious editing.

This homey style news reporting went on for years. When did such neighborly news quit being gathered? I knew that everyone in Harlem heard when Paul Ashton’s daughter, Sondra, living in Great Falls or Santa Cruz or Denver or Chicago or Missoula or Poulsbo, Washington, visited.

I suppose social media, in all its forms, replaced the neighborly news. It’s not the same. We do not all indulge.

I enjoyed knowing that relatives visited, that friends gathered for Sunday fried-chicken dinner after church, that somebody hosted cards Saturday evening, that neighbors gathered to harvest a crop when the owner broke a leg or was otherwise incapacitated. It’s small news, but important when our neighbor’s son or daughter at an out-of-state University wins a accolade of some sort. We need to know who might need a casserole delivered during tough times.

In the spirit of old-timey news, I report the following from my own back yard neighborhood:

It’s been a rainy, wet, week at Rancho Esperanza, but the daily storms did not curtail neighborly visiting, card playing, quick visits back and forth or over the fence.

Last Tuesday, Nancie, with her daughter, Julie, and Julie’s husband, Dan, arrived to spend a week at Nancie’s Rancho casita. Nancie is my cousin, so I have been doubly delighted to spend time with relatives.

Thursday Janet, from next door to me, invited those few of us here, for homemade ice cream. With her new-fangled modern ice-cream mixer, Janet can be dubbed our ice cream lady. Janet served a choice of vanilla with mango sauce or butter pecan. Several guests enjoyed a scoop of each. Those attending were the hostess, Janet, Lani and Ariel, Leo, Nancie, Julie and Dan, and my own self.

Sunday afternoon, following yet another storm, the above group, along with Leo’s two young nieces, met in town at the Mi Casa Restaurante for a bon voyage feast of traditional area foods. On Monday morning, Nancie, Dan, Julie and Lani fly off to homes in Washington State. The group table was soon cluttered with plates and bowls, empty of pozole, tostados, flautas and enchiladas. A good time was had by all.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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When South Moves North

 

When South Moves North

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The other day I found a moth clinging above my screen doorknob. I was in and out the door frequently. The moth hung out all day, swinging with the door. The thing was huge, the size of my palm. It was the most beautiful moth I’ve ever seen and one I’d never seen previously. Ms. Moth was plum colored and when her wings were widespread, she displayed a coral/orange oval on the inside spread.

Toward the end of the afternoon, Leo dropped by to see if I needed anything from town. I showed him the moth. He took a photo and sent it to my grandson, who is very much a bug person. Tyler sent the photo to an identification app or site or whatchacallit.

Ms. Moth is Autermeris Illustris, a type of silkworm resident in Argentina, found as far north as Brazil. My moth is the second moth of this kind to be identified in Jalisco. She fled to the greenery climbing my patio wall. I’ve not seen her since. Maybe she’s doing the moth thing with reproduction, and I’ll eventually host a flock. Maybe the resident roof iguana ate her.

Well, that was a cheerful thought. It’s hard to be cheerful when your friends and the country you love is being char-broiled under a heat dome. The highest temperature I’ve experienced in Montana was 109 F, one day when I was young and stupid. When we had our own heat dome here a couple years ago, we had one day when we hit 109 F and it was brutal.

I cannot even imagine the danger, with the thermometer blasting into the teens, that you are experiencing. Please, please, be careful in all that you do and stay hydrated. If it’s wet, drink it. That’s my advice.

Granted, my advice is worthless. I awoke a few mornings ago from a vivid dream with these words ringing in my head. “Everything you think you know is not so. You don’t know anything.” I take that as a given.

We, at the rancho, are still stormed every afternoon or evening. Ah, rain, lovely rain, in various amounts, always enough to keep me from riding my trusty tricycle. I’m not fond of splashing through puddles and sliding through mud slicks. When I was six, that was fun. Rain is not forever, but, what do I know, see above. I can confidently tell you that I’ve not seen this much rain, this consistently, in the summers, now the eleventh, that I’ve lived in Etzatlan.  

July is the month of the Fly where I live. I doubt it is much different up north. While I’m doing my house chores it seems like I have a fly swatter semi-attached to my hand. Vets in town are frantic, trying to keep the screwworm from becoming epidemic. Along with cows and horses and burros, they also are seeing increasing numbers of infected domestic animals. Once infected, the animals must be put down.

If a cat or dog can be infected, it is hard for me to believe that I could not be attacked also. I hope I’m wrong. See paragraph six.

Today I’m not an umbrella of joy. I sincerely apologize for being a bucket of cold water. Maybe it is something I ate. Yesterday, a fruitful day, I downed six fresh figs and one whole passion fruit along with several slices of mango. The passion fruit is from further south. I think.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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In the Twilight Zone

 

In the Twilight Zone

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I’ve become an early morning person. I don’t know if I’ve always been one. Most years of my life I simply rolled out of bed to do what needed doing without question. Now I’m a woman of leisure. I’ve not had a clock in my bedroom for years. I wake to the light.

To the light and to the ever-loud, greet-the-sunrise, bird-cricket-frog-donkey-chicken chorus. The birds sing full-throat through the half-hour of pre-dawn light followed by a silence as the sun rises. Then they go about their birdy business-as-usual, noisily.

One morning last week I awoke to the light—and—to silence. No chorus. The sun rose. We don’t do silence here. We do birdsong. I lay in bed and listened hard. My old ears heard—nothing.

I went out for my morning walk. My dog Lola went to the gate with me, stepped out, said, “Not today. Nothing doing.” Uncharacteristically, she turned and went back to her doghouse. That was spooky.

Nothing moved. Nothing sang or whistled or chirped or crowed. Not the mourning doves. Not the partridge doves. Not the hummingbirds. Not the twenty or fifty brands of colorful songsters. Not the neighbor’s chickens. Not even the peacocks or the donkey across the arroyo.

I want to tell you, that was frightening. For two more hours I sat and watched my silent and unmoving back yard, wondering what was wrong. Something was wrong. Tension weighted the air.

Not only were there no ever-present birds, not even a sparrow, I saw no butterflies, dragonflies, ubiquitous bees, bugs of unknown name, lizards (no lizards!) or iguanas.

This was the morning of the big earthquake between La Paz and Culiacan. There isn’t exactly a direct shot from there to here, from the water to the coast, and south, up over mountains. Maybe there was no connection. Maybe. (Cue eerie background music.)

Morning rolled close to noon before the mourning doves began to flutter through the trees, followed by a few hummingbirds. One by one, seemingly cautiously, life came back to my yard.

Not only was I faced with the mystery of no birdsong, no birds, a reluctant dog, but when I mixed my bread, my dough refused to rise. Maybe there was no connection. Maybe. I saved the dough by patting out slabs of cowboy bread.

Speaking of bread, does anyone have Blue’s fry bread recipe. I used it for years. Lost in the move to Mexico. I’d love to have it again. If we survive the barrage of quakes, when my snowbird friends return, I’ve promised a feast of Indian tacos with fry bread. I can use my own best recipe. But I’d rather have Blue’s.

You all have a good day now. I’m going out to the back yard to sit under the jacaranda tree, listen to the birds and watch grass grow. Because I can.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

July, 2026

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Being a Human Bean

 

Being a Human Bean

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Yesterday, after an entire week of vertigo, in which my main task was to keep myself and my head as immobilized as possible, was the first day I felt halfway like a human bean. That is not a misprint. I figure a “bean” is a step closer to “being”.  “Being” is not something I felt much during the dizzy week.

Vertigo seems to run in my family, an inner ear malfunction, maybe, so I figure to deal with it best as I can and pretend my head is in a vise. I had one “interesting” moment. I had just stood up and felt like I was easing into nothingness. I had a flash of fear followed by a deep peace. My thoughts were not coherent, not a real thought, but more of a knowing that I’ve had a fantastic run at life.

Amen and onward. I’ve never been one for a bucket list. I can’t think of a thing I need to hurry to get done, including places to go, for me to complete myself. Over the years, and it’s been a high-grade sandpaper struggle, I’ve come to like the woman living in my wrinkled skin. I still keep the sandpaper close. I doubt that scratching work ever gets finished.

I’m fortunate. Growing up, my world was formed by writers such as Robert Lewis Stevenson, who taught me that “the world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings”. I figured out long ago that kings might not be so happy, but I still buy the intent and meaning and spend a bit of each day in awe.

Last night we had a bing-boom-bangdown storm which delivered a good inch of rain in one hour. It was a dizzy doozer, much like my head, as I cheered the storm onward. Consequently, when my pooch Lola and I took our sun-up walk, the world around us was so clean and beautiful it squeaked, along with constant birdsong and the donkey’s bray from across the arroyo.

Eight of us gals who graduated from Harlem High School in ’63, that’s 1963, not 1863, are in an ongoing conversational email group. Yesterday Cheryl reminisced about her family visiting Karen’s house for Sunday dinner, afterward sprawling on the floor reading the GF Tribune funnies together.

All of that’s in the long-gone past. None of us willingly dare sprawl on the floor and does the Trib still put out a paper paper? I learned to read before school, on my own floor, Pogo, Little Lulu, Dagwood, and such. I suppose they contributed to my worldview as much as RLS, just not as poetically.

This is enough foolishness from me this morning. I’m going to drain the whey from my fresh yogurt and use the whey to bake a batch of honey wholewheat bread. I intend to slather a slice of warm fresh bread with real butter from the cremeria in town, sourced from a local farm. A couple of ripe mangos from my own tree and a slice of bread from my oven. Life doesn’t get much richer than that.

It’s true for me. The world is full of a number of things, including vertigo, storms, the funnies, friends and fresh bread. As the youngers said, maybe in the 90s, cool beans.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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My Farm Crisis

 

My Farm Crisis

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You can take the girl out of the farm but you can’t take the farmer out of the girl. Okay, so I don’t really have a farm, but I have a lovely mango tree in my back yard, and therein, my farm crisis.

I’m standing at my window looking into my back yard at my mango tree, so loaded with fruit that we had to make stilts to keep the branches from breaking and to hold the fruit off the ground.

Today the reason I’m standing in my house looking out is that the rain, has not let up, cycling, ‘round and ‘round, through drizzle, mizzle and pizzle to light, moderate and unrelenting pounding, heavy on the pounding, all night and all day.

I love rain. You know I love rain. Every year I await our rainy season with fear and trepidation that after eight months dry, dry, dry, it will never rain again. Every year it rains again. Every year I love the rain all over again.

This year the rain came, daily, three weeks early. During sizzling heat of April and May I watched my tree form lovely mango fruits and grow them to size, almost ripe. With the rains, it seemed the green globes, which now should be yellow, quit changing. Quit growing. Quit coloring. Quit ripening.

Why? What’s wrong? Me, being who I am, I think I need to know why.

During lulls in rain, I moved around my tree, branch to branch, fondling the fruit. Any that felt almost ready to eat, emphasis on almost, I brought into the house to finish ripening. In that manner, one day I ate one mango, the next day two or three.

As a farmer facing an apparent bumper crop, forgive my mixing cliché and metaphor, I had been counting my chickens before they laid eggs. In my mind, I could see jars of yellow jam on my cupboard shelf, had gifted jars to all my neighbors, had filled bags of mango fruit in the freezer for future pies at community gatherings. Mango mania in my mind.

When I peeled my first basket of mangos, enough for a pie, I discovered that half were mushy and brown inside, despite feeling firm and looking perfect. Oops, no pie. Same disappointment the following day but with two days harvest, I had enough fruit for a pie to share with my neighbors. We love mango pie.

What I didn’t count on was that our early, daily, rain with cloudy skies, which brought on a lot of hallelujah and hoopla from me, also meant a 20-30 degree daily drop in temperature along with a serious drop in hours of sunshine and a halt in the ripening process of my mango fruit.

That’s my theory of why my mangos quit ripening. No worms. No bugs. Fruits are beautiful. Outside. Brown inside. My reasoning may be wrong, blaming the exuberant rain and lack of sun, but, my reasoning works for me.

I will not be totally bereft. I forced myself to lower my expectations. I’ll not make jam this year. Oh, I’ll have some mangos for the freezer. I’ll have a couple pies to take to community gatherings.  

You can truthfully tell me that I’m not having a real farm crisis. I’ll nod my head in agreement. But, dang it, it feels like a real crisis to me.

My herbs look good. The limes love the rain. The hibiscus, all colors, can hardly hold up their soggy heads but they keep trying. Those strange orange flowers, and the lantana and crepe myrtle, lilies and most other flowers are flourishing.

Silly me, to put all my hopes on my one mango tree. I know better. I should have bought a box when the truck from Tequila, where the yellow mangos I love ripen a month earlier than mine, sets up their stand along the highway.

What do all we farmers say when a crop fails? Oh, well. Shrug. Next year.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

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Remember when you were eighteen and dumber than a rock but thought you knew it all? Me, I wasn’t about to dedicate my life to being my Dad’s housekeeper, cook and bottle washer, so I showed him. I got married.

We newlyweds lived in a house made of three granaries knocked together, with no water, no bathroom, but, we had more than some. We had electricity. We had a good deep well with delicious water. Coming from a valley farm with soda water, that well water was fine stuff.

In a way, we had running water. I ran it into the house in ten-gallon buckets, one bucket in each hand, every blessed drop of it. I also ran it out in buckets. So, yeah, definitions are important. Running water, indeed.

Yesterday I turned on the spigot to wash mangos to peel and prep for a pie. Oh, first, fresh mango pie of the season from my very own tree. Nary a drop of water dripped from the faucet. Having a wealth of experience, I knew what to do.

I went outside and grabbed a bucket and went to the hose on the south side of the house. No water. Oh, right. Today’s an alternating no-water day from the city. I hiked the bucket to the hose at the north side, just in case. No water.

I phoned Leo, the man on whom we rely to solve all problems. No answer. No answer—no water. Leo does take one day off a week and rightly so.

The tinaco, the tank on the roof, is gravity flow with a float on top, simple and pretty fool-proof. So it will be a simple fix. Probably. The pipe, and filter, might both be plugged with sand and gravel. Or the float is stuck. Probably. What do I know?

Last fall I purchased a huge tinaco to be my stand-by-just-in-case reservoir, since water availability was becoming more chancy year by year. My reserve tank is lodged in a convenient southwest corner of my wall, before the steps up to the back yard.

This being the first time I’ve had to use this tank for water, I had to figure out which spout to turn on and chose the wrong one before I got the right one, of course. Well, it was a fifty-fifty chance.

Hauling buckets of water at eighty is a whole different proposition than hauling buckets of water at eighteen. Instead of ten gallons, I’m using maybe a three-gallon bucket. A bucket of water in one hand, cane in the other hand.

During the day I hauled five buckets of water, enough for dishes and flushing, the bare minimum. I set aside pie baking and other chores requiring water for another day.

Mother Nature, being of an ironic bent, sent down two heavy showers during the day and light rain most of the night. Ah, Mama.

Small problem, easily solved. Sand packed and plugged the filter. Leo came, looked, and flushed the sand out of the filter. The tinaco is full. Water freely flows from the spigots.

Today, I am not doomed back to pioneer beginnings.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Glitter More Precious Than Diamonds

 

Glitter More Precious Than Diamonds

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With the turning of May into June, came the rains, slowly at first, testing the ground, daily, even if a mere smattering.

My friends think me obsessed with weather. I think I’m normal, for someone raised on a farm, one with many years in drought country. I know the meaning of water. Blame my Dad.

One memory I revisit often is standing out on the ditch bank with my Dad. We are kitted out in irrigation boots. Dad has a shovel in hand, not leaning it, holding it in place. A shovel, to my Dad, was a tool, not a prop.

It is June.  My Dad scans the big blue sky, pristine in emptiness. Both our necks swivel from horizon to horizon, hoping for a puff of white promise, to no avail. My Dad glances at me, smiles his little half-smile and shakes his head. At our hope? At our foolishness to even look for what we know is not there?

My Dad never wasted words. One of my gripes was that he didn’t talk to me. He would explain what he wanted done and how to do it, once only, and expect me to do it correctly. It was oh-so-many-years before I understood that Dad trusted me.

Dad, dependent on irrigation for crops, knew the value of water. Without a word spoken, my Dad transferred that knowledge to me.

Last night, early evening, five days into the month, the sky opened in a cloud burst for an hour, moderated into heavy rain for several hours, ending with light rain to close the night.

This morning, on my walk with Lola, I noticed the earth felt heavy with the weight of the all the water. A good heaviness, scented with green.

When the sun emerged from the smear of leftover clouds, every leaf, every blade of grass glittered, a gift better than diamonds.

Dad would have liked this new country of mine.

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Don’t Believe Everything You Think

 

               Don’t Believe Everything You Think

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In passing by, I saw a book title, “Don’t Believe Everything You Think” and I thought, that’s the truth. Pun intended.

I have a little, bitty story, which I’ll entitle, “Hair Today and Gone Tomorrow”, also not an original thought.

Several weeks ago, I was visiting John and Carol when a man showed up with clippers and scissors. Alfredo, or Freddy, as John called him, made house calls. I asked if I could get a trim also, since I was beyond shaggy and had been cutting my own hair, never a good idea, but I keep trying.

When Freddy finished my trim, I was pleased, especially given the impossibility which I had presented him while saying, “Make me beautiful.”

John and Carol are back in Duluth. I’m getting shaggy again. Lani walked over to visit me, said she feels desperate for a cut. So, she and I began the search to find Alfredo.

There are, no doubt, a hundred hair-cutters in town, but Lani and I both perked up at the thought of someone to come to us. We simply do not want to go to town and if someone is willing to make a house call, we want to be first on the list.

We had Alfredo’s phone number from John. We asked Leo to help because of language, which on the phone, with no visual clues, is difficult. After a week of unanswered calls and texts, the phone number we had vanished into the land of no existence, as has Freddy.

I remembered that John had told me, “Freddy knows Bonnie.” Leo said, “Bonnie knows every hair cutter in town, Sondrita, that won’t help.” “Oh.”

After several conversations, individually, among John, Lani, Leo and me, Leo finally had gathered enough clues to say, “I know who Freddy is. He probably is a trained barber, but, this man is not reliable. He has a problems.” I’ll jump in and paraphrase the rest of Leo’s conversation with a euphemism, “substance abuse”.

“Oh. That explains a lot.” In John’s defense, I’ll explain that John is a man, large in body, large in spirit, open and accepting of all people. Everybody John meets becomes John’s new best friend.

For a moment my heart sank. Freddy is a good barber. I’m a woman on my own and while I have nothing that Freddy would want and I’d willingly hand over my money, I don’t like the idea of feeling uncomfortable, unsure. 

We had spent a whole week thinking we needed to find Freddy. We are resigned (mostly resigned) to going to town. There is a woman I’ve gone to before, but she wants to be friendly with a thousand questions, which given the language difficulties, is off-putting to me. I always leave exhausted. I just want a haircut.

Lani and I will search out a different barber. We’ll find one among the hundred options. No doubt, we’ll compare the results to Freddy’s trim. We may even get a better cut, but in a perverse way that my mind often works, it will never measure up to Freddy’s superb haircut.

Meanwhile, if Freddy showed up outside my gate, I’d sigh with relief. I know that he would show up sober, with or without a working cell phone. I would say, “Hush, Lola. Let the man inside. He is here to cut my hair.”

I wonder if he would trim my dog too. Okay, so I’m well entrenched in the land of fantasy.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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If I Were A Car

 

If I Were A Car

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 If I were a car, I’d choose to be a 1945 Pontiac sedan, green. Why a Pontiac. Because the first family car I remember was a Pontiac, an older model than a ’45, pretty sure. I don’t remember my Dad ever buying a new car, but when he worked for Ford Motor in Louisville, he might have. Memory is a funny, fluid thing.

Somewhere in a box I have a photo of me as a little girl standing in front of our Pontiac, gray, holding my Dad’s hand. Since I’m not a car and this is my imagination, I can choose the year of my birth and the model and color I want.

In my real life, I like going to classic car shows, to ooh and aah over restored beauties. However, neither the real me nor the ’45 Pontiac sedan me, have been restored. I’ve always been a “what you see is what you get” kind of gal.

I’m amazed, daily, that I’m still running. Running, not as in marathon but running as in the motor still turns over. Not every part is original. I’ve been sanded down, hammered out and Bondo-ed in patches.  I’m rusty, faded and jaded. The thingy that registers milage quit working a long time ago. Every day that I back out of my garage is a gift.

This morning I cruised my back yard garden to check out my fruit trees. The first papaya from one of my new trees fell into my hand with only a little tug to help falling. If I left it another day, the birds would find it and begin boring holes into its flesh. I don’t mind sharing with birds, but not my first fruit.

My mangos are not ripe yet but the larger ones are beginning to glow, from green to yellow. I’ll have a fine crop of key limes. The limes go into a couple months of sleepy time once a year and bear fruit in profusion the rest of the year. I have learned to use a lot of limes.

The Black-bellied Whistling Ducks have been flying regularly through my yard, taking R & R breaks on the boughs of my Jacaranda. Across the lane is a variety of a Pine tree, very tall, very sappy. My tracking ability is not great but the ducks might be nesting in the Pine.

Yesterday I saw the strangest sight. One of the ducks, just hanging out on a branch of my Jacaranda, lifted his leg at a 90-degree angle, straight out perpendicular to his body, not to the front nor to the back, but straight out sideways. I’ve not seen any kind of critter be able to do that trick.

I learned something new the other day. Cane harvest is over as of last week. The cane trucks, over-loaded, every one, no longer rip up and down the highway to the factory in Tala. Yet I saw a truck loaded like a mobile haystack with cane stalks. So, I asked, what and why.

Those canes destined  back to the field for a new planting. The stalks are laid down in furrows, lengthwise, covered, and from the nodules, new plants spring out of the ground. I’ve lived here all this time and didn’t know that because I never asked.

I’m feeling like it’s time to refuel so I guess I’m not ready for the Final Junkyard today. I just made the best yoghurt, and, with fresh strawberries, that should keep me going.

Wait. Food will wait. I hear somebody moving cows out on the highway. I like to go out and watch them, nostalgia on the hoof. Toot. Toot.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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We Come Borrowed

 

        We Come Borrowed

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If I were to find myself in front of the Great Judgement Seat, in which I don’t believe, I’m pretty sure the first question (Picture black robe, powdered wig, furrowed brow, huge eyebrows, glaring eyes.) she would ask, would be, “What did you do to enjoy yourself today?”

I have an answer. “I rode my tricycle. Wah-hoo!”

My morning starts early with a chorus of birdsong, which pretty much goes on all day, with the accompaniment of roosters, peacocks and a donkey, except for that strange moment of silence as the sun peeks over the horizon. Once birdsong resumes, I’m out of bed, dressed and out the door for a trike ride with my dog Lola running alongside.  

I’m old. My trike is a simple, one-speed, three-wheeled joy machine. If, after sixty years of not riding, I were to try to ride a bicycle, I’d be a danger to myself and a danger to you. Once I find my center of balance on my trike, it balances me.

This makes me feel happy. Actually, I’ve a better word. I feel joy, deep inside, simply from riding my tricycle up and down and around our lanes, Lola trotting alongside or racing to explore scents along the edges, breeze fluttering my hair, birds swooping around me.

“Venimos prestados”, “we come borrowed”, a Spanish phrase I recently heard, or as I prefer, “our lives are lent to us”. My friend Bob often said, “We are here to experience, to experience, all that life gives us.” I like that.

So, why worry so much. We all worry. I worry too, always about something over which I have no power, but I’ll worry it to a frazzle until I can come to acceptance.

A friend told me about a fundraising event held in her town last week. The weather was windy, stormy, nasty. There was a flurry of complaint in social media, the chief question (complaint) to the organizers being, “Why did you pick such a horrible time to hold this event?”

Really? Think about that question a minute. If that makes sense to you, I’m sorry. But, what do I know? That may be your pleasure and not for me to judge.

Now that my Jacaranda tree in the northwest corner of my yard is full and leafy again, I’ve moved my chairs from beneath the mango tree, back to the Jacaranda tree for my afternoon sit-and-read. The mango is still shady but as the fruit grows big, I grow uncomfortable, picturing a full, pointy fruit, falling on my head. See, I worry.

I experience my full share of fear and disgust and apprehension and all the so-called negativities. I experience them just as fully as the joys. Then I let them go or put them on the back shelf in a closet of my mind, if they need to be dealt with later.

The experiences I choose to give most attention are the joys, hedonist that I’ve learned to be. I’ve had a lot of years and experience in which to learn which is what and how.

This afternoon, I’ll lounge beneath the shady Jacaranda. I’ll read a little, swat mosquitoes, pick ants off my legs, watch the mangos and the papayas begin to glow with color, ripening before my eyes. I’ll try again to track that bird I hear but never see. More pleasure.

I’ll bookend my day with swallows. We’ve always had swallows when the mosquito season comes in its fullness. This year I see swallows in great numbers. I love to go out in the evenings and simply watch them, fifty or sixty or seventy swallows swooping and arcing overhead, flying along criss-cross lanes invisible to me, their pleasure giving me pleasure.

Maybe it’s kind of like riding tricycles through the sky lanes. It’s hard to be bad, mad, or sad when one is experiencing pleasure. But, what do I know!

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Air, Water, Earth and Fire

 

Air, Water, Earth and Fire

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Now and then it behooves us to think about the Elements. Usually when we hit a crisis.

For the past several days our air quality has been extremely poor. Our neighboring city of Magdalena, 26.4 kilometers by highway, about a half-hour drive on a winding highway, is beset round and about with wildfires. The mountains of Magdalena are famous for quality opals. Fire opals?

This morning I woke up knowing that there had been no progress in controlling the fires. How did I know. My breathing when I awoke was quick and shallow, unusual enough for me to be immediately aware.

I wrote to my friend Carol around the corner, “Move over. I’m coming to share oxygen.” I was not gasping but gasping was not far away. The morning smelled heavy with burn.

When I went to bed last night, the last thing I did was watch the light against the heavy smoke clouds. The morning colors shone gorgeous but tragic.

I decided that my morning trike ride was not a great idea but went out and waylaid my neighbor Josue, on his way to work, knowing he would have news of the fire. He told me that the Army helicopters were out with their giant buckets, aiding firefighters from all around the area, but that the fire was nowhere near being controlled.

I’m aware that you, having had years of experience with smoke while Montana and Alberta burned, know exactly what I am describing. Granted, the Smoke I’m smoking is on a smaller scale. However, there is no school. Everybody has been alerted to stay indoors if possible.

When Leo came to water my plants, he assured me that the town of Magdalena was safe. So far, the fires were just beyond town, to the northeast, in forest and brushy country. Oh, for rain, any rain. Rain down the flames. Rain up the aquifers.

Dry, we cry, dry. Our city of Etzatlan has begun water restrictions. Yesterday we got no water. Today we had water in the morning hours. People in some sections of town, especially higher up the mountain, have not had city water for weeks.

I figured it might be a good day to mop and shared my muddy mop water with two papaya trees. Waste nary a drop.

We don’t drink city water, heavy and often stinky with minerals. We buy purified water for drinking and cooking. Our water is from aquifers fed by mountain streams. The mountain streams have been affected by centuries of mining.

Etzatlan is older than Guadalajara. When the Spanish came through Jalisco, they immediately discovered that “there’s gold in them thar hills”. That was in the early 1500s. I’ve been told Guadalajara was built as a waystation for shipping our gold back to Spain.

The gold and silver mines operated until the 1930s or ‘50s or 70s, depending on who tells the story. Three or four years ago, somebody reopened the mines with Big-Gulp Machines. Most of you know that mining and water don’t play nicely.

We are fortunate to have some water, most days. At times, given ancient infrastructure, water simply doesn’t flow. Last year the City instituted every-other-day restrictions for several months. One learns to live with that and be grateful. This week the city began restrictions again.

Rain, please. The earth is parched by drought and afternoon temperatures which hit the high 90s. Rain might be a month away for us. Magdalena, in a rainier pathway, gets a lot of rain in comparison to us. I don’t begrudge them a drop. There is hope. There is always hope.

Sondra Ashton  

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Recipe for Those Puffy-Fluffy Things

 

Recipe for Those Puffy-Fluffy Things

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 I’m a decently good cook using simple, good ingredients. I am not a gourmet cook. I leave that to Kathy, an honor she deserves. I like to have guests to share meals. I’m past cooking for large groups. I’ll leave that to Nancie; that’s her forte. Some things I won’t attempt, much as I love them. Lani makes the most delicious chicken livers, which I savor.

A long, long time ago I learned to leave specialties to special people. Rose made raised doughnuts that floated off the plate. I watched her make them, took notes, followed precise instructions. I failed.

 Back then we had an old shepherd heeler, Mike. I tossed my final batch of failures out in the yard for Mike. Poor Mike. He tried. Tears ran down his face as he looked at me as if to say, “Doorstops?”

I make excellent cake donuts of all sorts. I’ve never tried raised doughnuts again in all these years. I love baking bread of all kinds. Anything yeasty, bready, biscuity, sconish, I’m all over it.

All that is background. John and Carol are leaving for Duluth soon, so I invited them over for breakfast. Whatever possessed me to offer a menu from which to choose, I don’t know. ”I’ll make pancakes with fresh strawberries and cream, or scones with jam, or beignets. You choose.” I’ll make café de olla. I’ve aced café de olla.

Carol phoned me, “Let’s have scones. Oh, wait, wait. John is waving his arms in the background. He asked if you would make those puffy-fluffy things that you sent over a few weeks ago.”

“Beignets?” “Yeah, whatever they are.” Beignets are small bites of fried dough.

I began making beignets when a friend brought me a box of mix from the Café du Monde in New Orleans. I might have gotten the recipe from the back of the box. I don’t recall.

While we stuffed our faces that morning, Carol looked at John and said, “Why don’t you make these?” John is the chief cook at their house. So, John, here you go.

Dissolve 1 packet yeast in a cup and a half warm water. Stir in 1 cup evaporated milk, 1 t vanilla, 2/3 cup sugar, 2 eggs, room temperature,  and 1 t salt. Add 4 cups flour and beat with spoon until smooth. Mix in 5 T shortening, and 3 more cups flour. This will make a sticky dough. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours. Overnight is better.

Roll a portion of dough on floured surface to ¼ inch thick. I know. Believe me, ¼ inch. Cut into small squares.

Up here at high altitude, I heat oil to 380 degrees. At sea level, 360. So adjust as needed.

Fry in small batches until browned and puffed, drain on paper towels. Shake powdered sugar over hot beignets and serve immediately with your best coffee.

Call them what you want, these puffy-fluffy things are addictive. Make sure you invite friends to share.

Like Rose’s doughnuts, these little morsels float off the plate, into your mouth. The difference between beignets and doughnuts: Doughnuts are dense all the way through. Beignets are air with a skin of fried dough.

If you want Rose’s doughnut recipe, let me know. Good luck.

Sondra Ashton

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We Don’t Have Robins Here

 

               We Don’t Have Robins Here

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We don’t have Robins here. We do have a similar bird, similar in coloring, larger, a Rufous-collared Thrush. Unlike the Robin, herald of spring, the Rufous-collared Thrush is here year-‘round.  He’s a tyrant of the Lantana bushes with their multi-colored flowers and seeds like blackberries. He’s a bit of a bully, plowing out his territory with swagger.

Ah, Spring. While up North it is snowing one day and melting into the 70s the next day, here in Etzatlan, we have entered our hottest two months, roughly mid-April through mid-June, when the thermometer shoots daily into the 90s. I’ve been here ten years and cannot get used to it. Eagerly, like a little girl waiting for Christmas, I latch onto any sign, however folklore-laden, of the coming rainy season and relief.

I’ve seen a pair of Black-bellied Whistling Ducks. The Rainbirds have hung their purse-like nest onto a seemingly fragile branch of the Jacaranda tree. The doves of all varieties are shamelessly cuddling and nesting. Every evening the Swallows swoop through the skies, dive-gulping mosquitoes. Those horrid, irritating, little black flies are everywhere, most especially seeking out eyes, noses and mouths, mine and yours and all the animals.

We don’t have Crows here but we have their cousins, the Tenates. Same thing, Crow cousin, pushy, likes glitter and bling. No Jays but we have a most delightful Black-throated and White-throated Magpie Jays, large  birds, beautiful, with long blue tails, twice as long as their bodies, also a Spring bird.

Last week I had a Real Scare. I awoke to Silence.  We don’t do Silence here. We do cheeps and chirps and whistles and screeches and screams. That’s just the birds. Everyone must raise their voice to greet the morning, including the neighborhood Roosters, cackling chickens, the Donkey across the Arroyo and the pair of Peacocks down the way.

Even the air was still, stolid. Leaves might have been painted on the trees, not a wiggle. Even the overloaded cane trucks did not lumber past on the highway, on the way to the processing plant in Tala.

Trying to ignore the Silence, I got dressed and went out for my morning walk with Lola. Lola followed me to the gate and refused to go further. In her scruffy dog-language, she said, “No way. Too scary.”

I love my early morning walk with Lola. I count on the antics of the birds. Every day the same, every day different, every day a delight. The Morning of Silence, I saw nary a bird. Back home I sat with morning coffee in hand and scanned my back yard. No birds in sight.

Silence. No birds, no roosters, no donkey, no peacocks. My uneasiness lasted until late morning when the Mourning Doves bravely came out of hiding, followed by the little Quail Doves and the ever-present sparrows and those tiny little gray fluttery birds with the soft “cheep-cheep-cheep”. It was afternoon before I saw any Tanagers or the more colorful birds.

I suppose I’ll never solve the mystery of the Morning of Silence. I feel relieved to wake to morning racket. You might ask me if I feel the same way once the Cicadas come out.

Meanwhile, it is spring. All the birds are singing, especially the ones that sing a song that sounds like “shooba-dooba-dooba-doo”. Flowers are blooming. Jasmine fills the air. Trees drop pollen in a haze of yellow dust. The neighbor’s lawn mower is growling through grass. I sneeze heartily. A slight breeze of undulating hips dances the top tree leaves. Joy is in the air. What’s not to love!

Sondra Ashton

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Living the Unscheduled Life

 

Living the Unscheduled Life

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“Sondrita, how’s your wonderful retired life?” That’s a regular question from our rancho-helper-with-garden-and-more. It is a good reminder that life is full of wonderfulness.

I like the wonder of my life, as in “I wonder what today might bring me.” Not all gifts from Day come gift-wrapped with ribbons but all gifts bring an element of wonder.

Take yesterday, for example. I’d invited two neighboring women over for breakfast, loosely scheduled, of pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream, scrambled eggs, and I do make the best egg scrambles.

While we are poised to dig into a breakfast of decadence unlimited, three men in a red pickup truck show up to build my new ramp for my tricycle. Unscheduled, sort of, maybe, scheduled. This means sand, gravel and cement, dust and noise. Kathy and Janet jumped up and closed windows to keep out dust. I took the pancakes off the griddle. We dug in.

It all worked out, no bumps, no grief, no problems. In fact, the three-red-truck men ate the rest of the pancakes. I am constitutionally incapable of not making too many.

The ramp is to enable me to get my new tricycle out of and back into my yard more easily. ‘Nuff said.

 The day proceeded as days will. Kathy threw out a fishing line. “Want to take a drive?” I took the hook. Kathy and I have a 25-years or more history of road trips, short and long. No specific idea of destination, just go. Left, right, turn around and head north toward Magdalena. I suggested we head down to the balneario, the turnoff shortly before you come to Tequila, an extremely beautiful, deep canyon.

Then we spotted a sign pointed toward San Martin. What? Where is San Martin? Obviously it is this side of the same canyon, so, why not? We followed the road around and about and I do mean around and about. Kathy pulled off to the side several times for us to feast our eyes.

At the very bottom of the deep and steep canyon sits San Martin. Our friend Julie lives in La Masata, a mountain town with narrow streets all carved into steep hillsides. San Martin makes La Masata look flat. There were more vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, on blocks, than vehicles still road worthy. We saw a dam across a river, young people out on motorcycles of all kinds, an elderly Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, in other words, a regular small village. We stopped at a small tienda de aborrotes for a drink and road snack.

Kathy asked about a street to the river. A lovely woman grabbed her and took her to the street and pointed here and there, arms waving. The young woman at the till pointed her phone at me with this message, “The road is ugly.” I nodded that I understood and made motions to let her know we would not try to find the Rio this trip. The word “feo” in Spanish means much more than “not pretty”.

In no time at all the streets spit us back out onto the road home, satisfied with our small adventure.

Take today, for example. Today Kathy takes the autobus to Mazatlan, five days on the beach, then flies back to Victoria until her return in October. I decided to ride along, delaying goodbye and depression, normal-reaction depression.

Kathy is, by far, the most super-organized person I know. We got to the bus depot in Zapopan. Leo drove. He got out and put her suitcases on the sidewalk, turned to hug Kathy goodbye.

Kathy has this strange look on her face. Disbelief and consternation, mixed with remorse and seasoned with a touch of self-recrimination. She’d left her wallet with Mexican ID and credit cards in her casa. What’s to do but laugh a little, reload the baggage, change her ticket and drive home. Definitely unscheduled.

I chose to skip the second run. What will I do with the rest of my day. I’m sure the day will unfold as days do. That is enough for me to know.

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Fire on the Mountain

 

               Fire on the Mountain

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 Kathy arranged for the six of us women to go to the Laguna Colorado for my birthday dinner. Four of us piled into Kathy’s car. John agreed to bring the other two and drop them off. We arrived at our favorite little restaurant under the large palapa by the water. The owner treats us like family and the food is good, the laguna full of all manner of water birds. What’s not to like!

Kathy, being the youngest, popped out of her car and immediately announced, “Smoke”.

By the time the rest of us groaned ourselves upright on the ground, the smoke had become visible flames. Within ten seconds the wind-whipped flames rolled over the top of the mountain and began the rapid descent down toward the restaurant—and us.

Another half-minute and we were zooming up the dirt road back to the highway, a cloud of dust in our wake. On the way we met John. “Fire. Turn around. Follow us.” We met two water trucks and approximately forty volunteer firefighters on the way to tackle the blaze.

By the time we got to the highway we had decided by committee consensus to turn left, to La Canada. (Cahn-yah-dah)

The food was excellent, the company, superb, the stories, mostly true, the laughter, real. Our energy had ramped up to the top of our scale by the drama of the fire.

It was my best birthday. All the women agreed that I didn’t look a day over 81. Four of us are in our 80s so they had to say that. (One of them whispered, “That changes tomorrow!”) We don’t exchange gifts, yet I came away with an extendable back-scratcher.

When we were ready to go home, rather than split up, rather than call John to come get passengers, Crin and Janet figured out how to cram us all into Kathy’s car.

Kathy is the get-away driver. I always sit in front, not because I am the birthday girl, but because I get car sick and threaten to throw up on everyone. Crin is small, so she tucked into the back seat between Lani and Carol. Janet, who is younger and more flexible, fit herself into the back luggage area, legs extended, “The best seat in the car,” she declared.

On our way back we could see the smoke still rolling black clouds into the sky from the fire. We are concerned about the restaurants along the lake, but more worried about the small scattering of homes. Fire doesn’t care.

However, our energy levels and camaraderie had not dissipated one whit. Four of us are in our 80s. We all have scars. Conversation in the back somehow centered around scars that look like zippers, should I get a tattoo to cover it, you must have shaved your legs this morning, (?) good grief, you could grow a kiwi vine up that one, show and tell, swinging legs, that trouble walking, through the air like acrobats, women comparing bruises and dents and purple veins, all with much teasing and hoots of laughter. Kathy and I wanted to climb over into the back seat and join the fun.

We are ladies in our 80s.

We are girls.

“Girls just wanna have fun.”

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Ruins at the Ruina

 

Ruins at the Ruina 

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Every time I’ve taken the bus on the toll road to the coast, when we pass by the outskirts of the mountain town of Ixtlan del Rio, I’ve noticed the sign that points toward “Ruina”. That’s all it says,” Ruina”, a blur seen from the bus window.

That little sign was enough to make me want to see the ruins. I’ve been to Guachimontones in Teuchitlan and to the Palacio de Ocomo in Oconahua several times. These sites are a short drive from home, either direction. Both are fascinating places that fill my imagination with the lives of people of an earlier time.

Last year I’d shared my desire to see the Ixtlan del Rio archeological digs with Jim, who has been there, as well as many archeological sites all over Mexico and Central America. He promised we’d go this year.

We did. We went. We took off from Etzatlan very early in the morning, hoping to beat the heat of late afternoon. In our desire to make the trip, a minimum of two hours, even more delightful, we determined to take back roads getting there and coming home.

We headed due west through several small villages, on a narrow road that was gravel a mere five years ago, climbing all the way. In Amitlan de Cana we stopped for breakfast/lunch in a café along the Plaza.

I am not fluent in Spanish, to my shame, having lived in Mexico thirteen years. Too many people speak English, making it easy for me to slack off. I can make myself understood in most situations. I took online classes for a short while and then got lazy. Recently, my shame got strong enough to urge me to search for a better lingo class, so I’m back in school. I’ve been studying short lessons, not every day, but, I’m happy to brag that I asked directions, along with other opportunities to use Spanish, with confidence and more understanding than in my past.

We only got mixed up a little making our way out of Amitlan de Cana and back onto the road up into and over the high mountains and down into Ixtlan del Rio, from a direction that took us wandering through town streets until we found the way to the ruins.

When I describe Jim and I as “ruins at the ruins”, I mean that we are well matched as traveling companions. I have a gimpy hip on one side and many-times repaired knee on the other side so I use a cane as a constant third leg. I get by, slow and steady. Jim has COPD, making frequent stops to rest and breathe.

I won’t try to describe the ruins. They are better explained, with photos, in articles online. Each location I’ve visited is of a civilization from a different time, with different ways of life, and of setting up their administration buildings, homes, and places of commerce, worship and burial. I see differences and I see similarities. Much of it is not different from our own daily lives.

Jim and I spent several hours at the ruins, wandering around the restored structures, stopping frequently to sit on benches and to imagine the men, women and children of the past going about their daily lives, working, bartering, playing.

Jim is a great companion for visiting ruins, simply because he can make comparisons of the structures in Ixtlan del Rio with his knowledge of other ruins throughout Mexico.

The sun was heading toward the west when we finally hit the road for home, heading east, this time taking the back road down the high mountains into Magdalena, a small town close to home, famous for opal mines, where we stopped at the first well-shaded street stand for tacos and pozole.

Thank you, Jim. What a day. I had a great time. I am still smiling at the memories.

My friend heads home for Missouri tomorrow morning. We talked about where to go next year, the Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.

Sondra Ashton

3^rd week April

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Shooting Lola

 

               Shooting Lola

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I’ve never bought into the theory that when children, or dogs, turn out difficult or neurotic or “bad”, whatever that means, it is the fault of the mother. Mom plays her part and I can make a long list of other factors, but that is for another story.

The person who used to give my sweet dog Lola her vaccinations is no longer available to do the job. With one thing and another in the chaos of the last couple years, Lola has gone without her normal rabies and whatever-the-other one is, although I think I heard it called a 3-in1 shot, which covers a lot of ground.

I am not medically inclined. Personally, mention a needle of the type attached to a syringe and I visibly blanch, this, despite the fact I use sewing needles almost daily, for fun.

I began worrying the problem of Lola being overdue for her shots a few months ago. Leo went to a vet in Ahualulco to buy the appropriate medicines, which I kept refrigerated, according to instructions. When Jim showed up in January, I said, “Ah ha! In one of his past lives, Jim was a nurse. He knows how to give shots.”

Jim agreed to take on the task and gave Lola her rabies vaccination a few weeks ago. The vet who sold the medicine said to give Lola the rabies vaccine first, to be followed a month later by the “other”.

Did I mention my own completely baseless and totally irrational fear of needles? I cannot bear to see myself be injected. My reaction is even worse if you are getting a shot. My stomach rebels and I squinch my eyes tightly shut while holding my throat closed.

Poor Lola. She pretty much always has a similar reaction. Much as we try to hide it, with loves and treats and distractions, she always manages to see the needle coming and fights it and us, us being two holders and one shooter.

It is time for the second shot and now Jim is unavailable. So, off to the vet’s we go. Leo hooked Lola’s leash onto her collar and jumped her into his car. I did not tell her where we were going.

When we got to the vet’s, Lola jumped out with Leo. As I opened my door, Leo urged me to stay in the car. I did. Happily.

Leo poked his head in the window to tell me that this vet had an array of leather muzzles in different sizes. Leo informed me that if I bought her a muzzle, he would give Lola shots in the future. He’d given injections to cows, horses, pigs and sheep.  He simply wanted Lola muzzled. Why had he not told me this years ago?   

 From my seat in the car, I could see through the large open doorway and watched Leo place four different sizes of muzzles over her mouth until he found the one that fit best. Lola stood there looking bored. Had it been me holding the muzzle, she would not have let me near her mouth.

A few minutes later, Leo led Lola out of the vets. She jumped back into the car, looking none the worse for wear.

Filled with my own anxious concern, I asked, “How did it go? Did she fight? Was it hard?”

“No. Lola was fine. She just stood there.”

“You mean she didn’t try to back away?”

“No. Nothing.” 

I know that Lola is sensitive to my moods. At times she seems to read my thoughts.

Does this mean that all the frustrations, fights, and troubles giving her shots in the past were because of me? It was all my fault? Always blame the Mom? Like Scarlet, I will think about that later.

I gave Lola the stink eye and whispered, “Traitor.” She just wagged her fluffy tail and grinned.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

In April

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Smallish Moments of Glee

 

Smallish Moments of Glee

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I’m fairly predictable. Each morning at sunrise, Lola and I walk the lanes to the highway, stop a moment to watch the goats being milked at the goat-milk stand across the road, turn for home, coffee and a nosh. This walk is for Lola. So what if I enjoy it just as much.

Now with my new trike, I have a new routine. After coffee and a few chores, now that my shiny new trike has an extended seat bar for my height and I have sneakers with soles so flexible they hug the pedals, we bike the same pathway, two or three times. Not at warp speed, mind you; I’m still in Granny Gear.

Lola seems rather blasé, bored. I’m “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

I’m so happy with my trike. She hasn’t bucked me off. Yet. I’ve named her. Dora, the Explora.

However, with every up, comes a down. Now that I’ve pretty much mastered the straight and narrow, I yearn to venture out, but how? I’ll worry my problem a bit. Where there is a worry, there is a way.

I’d no more than turned my face toward my casa and Dora’s new parking shelter today, when two rib-racked horses followed me down the lane. “Not much to nosh around here, sweet guys, but you are welcome to try.”

We are well into the Dry and quickly settling into the Hot. Grass is short and brown. My two new acquaintances didn’t stay long, headed back to the highway in search of greener pastures, which I hope they find. Simply being near horses makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

As Dickens said, “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” I confess that I have difficulty keeping my focus on the balance during these particular times. I get discouraged. Another writer acquaintance reminds me that in every bad, there is the possibility for good, just as in every good, there is the possibility for bad.

I planted a mango tree in my back yard the first year I lived here. I dearly love the fruit of my mango tree. More than that, I’ve come to appreciate the energy from this particular tree. Laugh if you want. When I feel stress, tension, or anger, I go sit under my mango tree and let it all my anxiety flow into the ground. My tree surrounds me with shade and a sense of peace.

Generally, my sweet scruffy Lola follows me and sniffs out all the neighborhood doings of interest to a dog. She finds the most scintillating patch of sunny grass, throws herself onto her back and rolls and wriggles and scratches and squiggles with the widest grin and the most vivid expression of glee on her face. I cannot help but let her glee transfer to me.

This morning, while soaking in Lola’s grassy glee, my mango transferred a half dozen yellowish-green crawly bugs, onto my head and the back of my neck. Soon, a half-dozen Western Tanagers swooped into the mango tree, Through the leaves, side to side and back, scarfing down a buggy feast, saving me from new despair.

The good, the bad, the up, the down. We get it all.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

April 1, 2026

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How I went from 80 to 8 in moments!

 

How I went from 80 to 8 in moments!

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 I’d mulled this notion for a year. Everybody bicycles around here. When I first moved here, more people used bikes than drove cars. Then, seemingly overnight, cars proliferated. Now that parking is near to impossible, more people have dusted off their bicycles.

I checked several bike shops in town. Nobody had what I wanted. With the words from Queen bouncing through my brain and out my mouth, “Tricycle, tricycle, I want to ride my tricycle. I want to ride my trike. I want to ride my tricycle. I want to ride it where I like,” I ordered a gorgeous orange tricycle with a perfect basket in back for Lola to ride along like the queen she thinks she is.

I don’t intend to take my trike to town, much as I like the thought. I bought it to ride the lanes here on the rancho, nice flat lanes.

Eight days for delivery—it arrived in three! I’m not stupid. I hauled it to one of the town shops for the Bike Man to assemble. I’m no fan of instructions translated from Chinese to either English or Spanish by Artificial Intelligence. It’s hard enough to put something together when translations are guessed out by real people.

The following afternoon, while I was out walking my Lola Dog, Leo drove into the rancho in his pickup, my orange trike in back. That part of the lane runs through a nice flat, though very small, “field”. Leo unloaded my bike. I parked my walking sticks in the basket and had a series of instant realizations as I lifted my leg to climb onto the seat.

The seat was too short. We adjusted it as tall as it would safely go.

I must buy sneakers, pronto. One should not ride a self-powered vehicle in open sandals, slides or flip-flops, which are all that I own.

I have never used gears. My bicycle was the simple kind. I could not find a simple kind of trike, so thus, mine is geared.

And, what are brakes doing on the handlebars. Brakes are for feet.

I’m in for a learning curve. Nevertheless, I climbed on and wobbled up and around and back and around, wibble, wobble, wow.

Instantly, I was transported back in time to my eighth birthday. My Dad bought me a real bicycle. He ran alongside me as I wobbled on the lane between the barn and the house, holding me upright until I could hold it myself. That afternoon, I could feel my Dad’s hands on the back of the trike seat. I could smell him, faintly redolent of Camel cigarettes and good sweat and laundry soap.

Yep, I will have to learn how to ride all over again. I searched my memory. I’ve not rode a bicycle since I was 18. Next week I’ll endure my 81^st birthday. Oh, my.

First, I will go to town and buy sneakers. Next, I’ll stop at the bike shop and buy a longer post for the seat. Then, I’ll climb on, ask my Dad for help, and wobble until I don’t need to wobble. This will take the time it will take.

Once I’ve mastered balance, I may need to find a more sophisticated bike shop in Guadalajara. I may need a pair of those skin-tight bike shorts, you know the kind I mean. I’m thinking of cobalt blue with yellow stripes. Oh, and a matching top, which means I will also want a padded push-up bra, you know, for definition. And I’ll need one of those water-bottle thingies with a hose to your mouth, and a bike helmet.

Maybe my bike helmet should have a built in telephone in case I crash and need to call the ambulancia. Also, perhaps, one of those SMV triangles.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

April 2, 2026

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My Wild Water Story

 

       My Wild Water Story 

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Etzatlan, the little agricultural town to which I moved ten years ago, is bursting out of its britches.

In practical terms, to those of us living here, growth shows in various ways. Parking near the center of town is nearly impossible. Traffic has increased exponentially. Building happens, tear downs, remodels, add-ons and build ups, on every block. Corporate greenhouses sprout like acres of mushrooms. Strangers who work in Guadalajara have discovered this as a viable bedroom community, hence, cookie-cutter, ticky-tacky housing colonias, which were not here yesterday, seemingly magically rose from the ground. 

Nowhere does this growth show more clearly, to me, than in our water situation. “Situation” is my make-nice term for shortage. The city has dug two new wells but growth out paces infrastructure.

 This is my story so all I can tell you is how I adjust the best I can, to the “situation” which became alarming about three years ago. These “situations” always, always become alarming too late. I think it is a natural law, like gravity, polarity, and cause and effect.

I quit watering my lawn. A lawn is a British affectation. My grass is native so it’s nature is to brown in the dry season and green up in the rainy times. I drastically reduced my garden to essential herbs, fruit trees and a few essential flowers. Don’t argue with me. Flowers are essential to health.

I pat myself on my head and said, “That’s nice, honey.” Nice, but, not enough. We began having “no water” days in which no water flowed down the pipes from the city wells, not just to us out on the periphery but people in town also don’t have water. In the beginning, these days were during the height of the hot season. Now these days are any week of the year.

My 500-liter tinaco (water storage tank) on the roof is adequate for my one-person household but is inadequate in a crisis.

Leo, my all-purpose helper, and I put our heads together. Three days ago I bought a 2500-liter tinaco for a cistern or reservoir. Two days ago my huge tank was delivered. Yesterday, the plumber/electrician came to hook my tank up to city water. My tank began filling. One could stand near it and listen to the water falling from the pipe on top.

Late in the same afternoon, I was standing in the shower when my shower slowed, dribbled and quit. Water had showered down—and then it didn’t.

I phoned Leo who was at the hardware store buying hose to move water from Big Tinaco on the ground up to Little Tinaco on the roof. “Do you think gravel might have plugged the water line again?”

No. My Little Tinaco was bone dry. Leo climbed the ladder to the roof, cleaned the tinaco, a semi-annual job anyway, hooked up the new hose to the new pump and pumped water from BT to LT. We’d had drastically low water pressure all week. I don’t use a pressure pump. Usually the downhill flow is adequate.  Unbeknownst to me, no water had reached my roof in days. None.

Okay, so here’s the wild part of my story. How likely is it that the very day my Big Tinaco is hooked up, my Little Tinaco runs dry? Figure the odds on that one, will you.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

March 18, 2026

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A Sunday to Remember

 

A Sunday to Remember

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We recently experienced an interesting Sunday. I use the word “interesting” to cover a lot of ground.

It was mid-morning before I knew anything unusual was happening, I heard some crackling noises, then an explosion, and saw plumes of black smoke billow up out by the highway.

My phone rang. Leo called to tell me that the Jalisco cartel was burning vehicles to form roadblocks. I’ll simplify and paraphrase his conversation. Mainly, he said, do not leave the house.

I was in my house watching the smoke cloud fill the sky to the west. Leo, our rancho all-around helper, was in Rincon, near Puerto Vallarta, lounging on the beach, with phone connections to friends in our little town of Etzatlan. I don’t think Leo had a relaxing holiday.

Leo told me that the head of the Jalisco cartel had been captured and died. The blocked roads, burned vehicles, on highways throughout the state, were disruptions in acts of retaliation.

Thus went the day. Several vehicles burned near our entrance onto the highway, on the little bridge over the arroyo, and further up the highway toward the main part of town. Our homes are near the eastern entrance into town. Leo and other local friends kept us informed. Informed mostly meant “stay put”. We did.

To say we were a tense bunch is, again, to oversimplify our fears. Speaking for myself, for I can only speak for myself, I never felt any danger or fear for my life. Our friends with information were reassuring. Not knowing what is happening is a good way to ratchet up the tension.

Until evening encroached. In the late afternoon, early evening, a large diesel truck with double trailers was stopped directly across the roadway from my nearest neighbor. I heard the explosion as the fuel tank blew and watched as the black plumes, edged with vibrant flames, mounted into the sky, were caught by the wind and blown back toward our homes.

Now, I felt proper fear. What scared me was that the roadsides were edged with high, dry grass. My fear was that the grass would catch fire, which would ignite the trees, especially the jacarandas edging our lawns, which are losing their leaves, perfect dry tinder to accelerate the fires. I stood at my doorway watching, as though that would make a difference, until dark, retreated to a window where I kept a lookout until around 10:00 that night, when finally, the smoke no longer seemed edged in flame.

Monday was quiet. No road traffic. No cane trucks. Quiet. By morning we knew that during the retaliatory burnings on Sunday, the pedestrians had been herded off the streets, were warned that there would be a burn. Drivers and passengers had been escorted out of the hi-jacked vehicles, that despite several people losing their cars or trucks, overall, the damage in our community was minor.

Monday the Police were out rounding up alleged suspects, were clearing the highway and main street of husks of charred vehicles, were directing cleanup of any damage and mess. The highway was opened again. People began to go about doing what needed to be done, whether foraging for food or reassuring their family, going to work. The airports were in operation, under heavy guard, both in Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta, with limited flights. It helps to have friends who know these things.

I never thought I’d ever say that I was happy to hear road traffic noise, but, believe me. I was happy to hear road traffic noise, the more, the better.

Tuesday, we were back to life as normal. All the businesses, cafes, and stores in town were open. Delivery trucks from Guadalajara delivered milk and diapers and other life essentials. Friends met friends in town. We replenished groceries. Life. Normal.

And so it goes. I’m okay. My friends are okay. We were never in danger.

Let me qualify that. We were in no danger so long as the grass did not catch fire.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

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My Last Road Trip—Maybe

 

          My Last Road Trip—Maybe

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Jim from Missouri, one of my part-time neighbors, walked over to ask if I would like to go with him to Isla de la Piedra, otherwise known as Stone Island, across the estuary from Mazatlan, my old stomping grounds.

We quickly knocked out the details for a short trip, two days on the road flanking two days on the water.

Jim and I have talked, with much laughter, a lot these last few weeks about impending death, our own, which is not to be taken as morbid, but, as practical. We might be considered the halt and the lame, me mechanically, Jim with lung challenges. We both have friends on the coast we wanted to see, at least once more.

Monday we drove the cuota, the toll road, over which I’ve been many times but not in the last five or six years. So, for me, this drive was much like seeing the country with fresh eyes.

Once we’d arrived, we filled our time in exactly the ways we’d intended.  I met Jim’s friend, Lynn, truly a character and a delight, a woman with energy to spare. We sat around a campfire on the beach. 

Lynn is a decade older than me, more spry, with a never-ending repertoire of stories. May we all have Lynns in our world.

My own main purpose for the trip was to see my old friend, Carlos.

Carlos drives a pulmonia. The pulmonia is one of the modes of public transport in Mazatlan, an open air conversion of a WWII model Volkswagen. When I lived in Mazatlan, Carlos, and then his family, took me under wing and helped me navigate through much of my business and personal needs.

We became close and I needed, wanted, to tell Carlos, face to face, how important he and Selena were to me and how much I love them all. Hugs, tears, laughter, stories of family: that describes our day of sweet wonderful. That’s the best way I can say it.

When not with Lynn or Carlos, we filled our hours with fresh seafood, with watching the waves roll in. Our hotel rooms overlooked the beach with an excellent restaurant adjacent. What’s not to like!

Thursday, on the road again. We took the toll road as far as Tepic, a bit over halfway, then jumped onto the camino libre for the winding road through mountain villages and lava fields, with frequent stops along the way. This is my favorite part of the road, slower, with several hold-your-breath turns, but more scenic by far than the cuota.

While we were gone from home on our not-so-epic journey, the season turned from winter to spring, a welcome coming home for two grizzled, happy and exhausted travelers.

Both Jim and I felt like we’d done something important. We’d told people we loved them, and face-to-face is always better.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

March 4, 2026

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My Heart for Art at the Casa de Cultura

               My Heart for Art at the Casa de Cultura

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Leo, our all-around Rancho helper, plunked down in the chair in front of me, early in the morning, before I’d had my first cup of coffee.

“Remember years ago, when you gave me all the paints and brushes and art stuff to give to an artist when you couldn’t use them any more?”

“Leo, that really was a long time ago. When I give something, it is gone from my head. But, yes, now that you say it, I do remember.”

A bit of back story here: When I moved to Mexico, I brought my best easel and boxes of all my art supplies. I kept myself so busy just settling in, first in Mazatlan and then in my forever home in Etzatlan, that all I did with art was shuffle it from bins to cupboards.

I had boxes of oils, watercolors, brushes, some old and others with price tags still attached, charcoals, oil pastels, drawing tablets, a French easel, canvases of every size. I was constitutionally incapable of passing an art supply store without going in and stocking up on what, after all, I might need, someday.

I dearly loved to paint. I enjoyed the feel of the brush on the canvas, the smell, the mixing of colors. I always ended up with paint on my face, my hands, my shirt. Didn’t matter.  I never was a good artist. Didn’t matter. I loved to paint.

Once I moved, most of my painting was practical, with larger brushes. I painted walls. I painted furniture. I painted concrete and wrought iron, doors and benches, but, sadly, neglected canvas. Until one day during the pandemic, I set up my easel and my oils and my favorite brushes and started a painting, scraped it off, started another. Set up watercolor paper and destroyed several sheets. Get the pictured?

My hands were no longer able to work the magic. The tremor I’ve had for years had gotten worse with time. I sat myself down and had a CTJ meeting.

I asked Leo to take all my art supplies to give to an artist in town who could and would use them. Leo said, “I know just the person.” The only thing Leo told me about him later was that the man’s father was ill, he was his father’s full-time caretaker, and it would be a while before he would be able to paint. That was that.

I poured a cup of coffee for Leo as he told me that Pepe, the artist to whom I’d given the art supplies, his father now passed, was using the materials to teach classes and the first showing opened tonight at the Casa de Cultura. Would I like to go to see their work?

“Would I go? You can’t keep me away.”  I’m so tickled that I can hardly hold my own self in my own skin.

That evening at the Casa de Cultura, oh, my, bursts of color, rows of oil paintings on easels, walls of pastels and charcoals, a wall of drawings, but most importantly, the artists, the young people and the older ones, their families and friends, all bursting with pride at the works they had created. And, rightly so.

Me, I’m bursting too, bursting with delight that something I could no longer use, is put to good use in creating joy in the lives of so many others.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

February 18, 2026

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