Gripes and Groans

 

               Gripes and Groans

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The tree tops are doing the bendy splits against the sky. I am not having a good day. The Pacific storms continue to line up like a pre-school crocodile, one by one, holding hands, coming to get us. Coming to torture me.

Okay. Okay. I get it. Storms are not personal attacks. I’m not that important. If I’m going to gripe, might as well gripe big.

Pollen, we have pollen, we have lots and lots of pollen, to paraphrase an old song. Might as well sing. When the wind blows big, like now, pollen adheres to every pore, as you know, with the Montana winds. To me, pollen means runny nose and eyes dripping down my face. As you probably know.

My cousin Nancie has been here at her rancho home in Etzatlan a mere two weeks, a lot of that time, down sick. We’ve not even had a good visit. I urged her to go see the doctor. I was worried. She went, whether at my urging, no matter. Nancie has the flu.

Remember when we were children and we’d get sick, and to get well, it always meant a stick down your throat to make you gag and a shot in the rear? They still do that here, the shot, no age qualifiers. If you get sick, you are likely to suffer the indignity. I have. It works. Nancie is on the mend. Pat is down with same.

I’m not all gripes. Three more friends arrive this week. I’ve got a slab of sea bass marinating on the counter, fresh strawberries and whipping cream. I’ve a good book at hand, a comfortable home.

Despite the winds, I have a yard full of flowers and hummingbirds and butterflies. I have 3 new cotton ball cocoons hanging on one of my papaya plants.

My cousin feels better. I have friends who like me and a dog, whom I choose to believe adores me. Can’t ask for much more than that.

The wind will quit howling and settle down to its normal gentle breath. Won’t it? The raging Pacific storms will attend anger management classes and return to, well, pacific. Won’t they? The sun will soon brighten the sky. Won’t it?

The good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I hope to see what tomorrow brings me, good and bad and in-between.

Sondra Ashton      Looking out my back door

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This is October

 

              This is October

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I took advantage of a break in the drizzle and had a chat with my Azalea. “This is October,” I said. “October. You do not bloom until December. That is the rule. Understand?”

She thumbed her nose at me and showed me yet another emerging burst of white flower. Sheesh. Children. What can you do?

I pulled my baked potato out of the oven, steamed a handful of green beans and had breakfast. I’m at the point in my life where I eat what I want and when I want. No rules. Like everything else around here.

Drizzle, indeed. October is a dry month. Plant corn and harvest cane. Drizzle. Splash. Drizzle.

Yesterday was so grim and gloomy that I stacked up the fabrics I had laid out to make a shirt and a cap and dumped a puzzle onto my cutting table. I can do what I want and when I want. No rules, right. Well, up to a point. I do have my standards.

 I have all winter to sew my projects. Today I want to play.

If play means I bake a mango pie, that’s how I play. In July I froze a dozen bags of mangos from my tree. Pie is play.

Since I’m breaking rules, my dog Lola should benefit too. Yesterday I drained a cup of whey from my fresh batch of yogurt. I use whey when I bake bread. Today I drenched Lola’s dog food with the whey. Oh, yum. That did not take long to go from yum to gone. Licked her bowl clean.

I think I’ve spotted the papaya butterfly. There is a butterfly that attaches a cocoon like a cotton ball to the underside of a papaya leaf. Two cocoons are on the ground and a pair of middle-sized butterflies I’ve not noticed before are flitting around the area, playing and feasting on flowers, especially the aloe flowers. There are more cotton ball cocoons so I’ll keep on the lookout. I’ll name them Papaya Cotton Butterflies.

There is a stunning snail in my menagerie. The shell is elongated, close to three inches long, an upscale motorhome, the snail even longer when stretched on the go. Another newbie in the wet neighborhood.

The toads are out in force. These toads exude a substance, I am told, that drives dogs bonkers. My Lola is not a toad licking dog, at least I’ve not seen her stoned, but she loves to roll in their road-flattened carcasses. That is her delight.

Today is another day to play. I’ll bake that pie, read a book, work on the puzzle depicting book sales in a park along the canal. My neighbor will likely show up for an hour of puzzle time. It’s a good day to play. No rules. Ask my Azalea. Sheesh.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Clouds in my Coffee

 

Clouds in my Coffee

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Here I am, coming to you with another weather report from my little corner in Jalisco. In mid-September we begin holding our breath for the coming unwanted end of the rainy season. Was that the last rain? Will we get another?

No rain in sight the last week of September.  No rain marred the skies the first week of October, despite promises from hurricanes and tropical storms on the coast.   

Oh, my, the clouds.  Clouds topped the raft of mountains to the back of our little town, dropping their bounty on the other side, leaving us dry but hopeful.

On the horizon around us, cloud banks rise up like looming monsters in a movie, heads high, arms waving and weaving and threatening, “Ooooooooooooooooh, I’m going to get you!” And . . . disappearing.

Then we have an interval of blue sky sunshine. Then, like mushrooms, the next batch of monster clouds loom up from the horizon. All day long, alternating.

Cloud watching became our most popular entertainment, knocking watching grass grow into second place. You can, you know, watch grass grow. Ask any of us.

Crin, Janet and I went out to Laguna Palo Verde last week for lunch. The hillsides were the lushest I’ve ever seen. Feeding our eyes and hearts took precedence over feeding our stomachs. Unbelievably, green can get greener.

No matter where I am, autumn is my favorite season. I don’t welcome all the changes but manage to revel selectively. We get a new crop of birds and butterflies (along with snowbirds) to mingle with those here all the year.

The bed-sheet butterflies, wafting from flower to flower with grace, much like white sheets waving in a breeze on the clothesline, always make me smile. The yellowhead blackbirds return, once again in fewer numbers, but I’m happy to see them.

I’ll be equally happy to see all my snowbird friends return from the north country, some for a few weeks, some for a few months.

It is a simple pleasure, but, I enjoy visiting my favorite produce stand to see what goodness is new this season. Pepe had boxes of nectarines and peaches that tempted me. I picked up one of each. They were rock hard with no fruity scent, obviously shipped from afar, so I passed them by in favor of locally grown mandarinas, my favorite Dominican bananas and tunas, the fruit of the nopales.

Back on the street, from the back of a pickup truck, I bought two giant squashes, cream color with green vertical stripes. This large squash is an excellent vegetable and makes the best “pumpkin” pies.

With coffee this morning, I savored a slice of guava cheesecake I made with guavas from my neighbor’s tree. I picked a ripening papaya from my own tree along with one of my last avocados.

Once again the clouds are making monster faces on the horizon. Last night, despite zero percent chance of rain, coastal rains swooped over the mountains and dropped 2 1/8 inches of rain. Possibly our final moisture.

Our next season is “Dust”.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Ties That Bind

 

Ties That Bind

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Among the ties that bind, one of the strongest threads, I believe, is the place we call home.

When my family moved from the rolling hills of Ohio River country in Indiana to Harlem, Montana, I felt like my roots had been wrenched out of the earth and planted loosely in a foreign country.  My first day in school was my eleventh birthday and I had nothing to celebrate.

We gather experiences along the way, don’t we, and in later years, when I needed or wanted to come home, Harlem was my home. I had come to deeply love the people and the country. Home was where Dad lived. Home was the place that formed experiences that made me who I am today.

I’m fortunate to have experienced many places as Home. I feel as At Home here in Mexico as any place I’ve lived. It’s simply a different chapter in my Life Book. Yet, the deepest Home in my heart is still Harlem.

Events these last several days have left me feeling quite unsettled. The fire that destroyed the two historic buildings on Main Street rattled me. When I learned the fires were  deliberate, that news made it more heartbreaking, to me.

In a way, the fire felt personal. The buildings were empty, abandoned, sad monuments to our past. You want to know what still lived in those blackened ruins? Our memories.

The movies we saw. Our favorite seats. The people we sat alongside, watching those films, laughing or crying or clutching their hands in terror as the gorilla climbed the Empire State Building. Oh, wait, that one was laughter.

Being female, some of my memories of Don’s Pharmacy are more terrifying than any movie. Back in the old days, we had to go to Frank, our faces red with misplaced shame, to ask for personal products wrapped in brown paper, tucked behind the back counter. Over the years I learned that Frank always acted with kindness and never with judgment.

Buildings aren’t what make a town. People make the community. History. Buildings and people come and go, changeable. More history. Following the fire, it is even more heartbreaking to have a hostage situation in town, to know that people died and people were injured.

The person who set the fire, the man who held a woman hostage, the woman who tragically died, those people who were injured, all are human beings, each with a story we may never know, but, each person, every human being, leave an impression, that becomes a part of our town, that affects us, whether we are in town or far away. Each story is important and should not be dismissed; that is my belief.

Eight of us ‘girls’ who graduated from Harlem High in ’63, have formed an email group and are in touch every few days. Some of us were discussing the recent tragic events when one of us dismissed my concern with the words that, “It is no longer our home. It is no longer our world.”

Those words made me feel even more sad, though I know parts of my friend’s story and why she feels that way. I disagree.

The home ties to our town, the school, the friends, those neighbors we knew or knew their names, the streets we walked to the Confectionary for a hamburger and milk shake at noon, the library, which burned soon after we graduated, as did our newspaper office later, the grocery stores and hardware stores, the churches, the gumbo roads, the Milk River, the old grain elevator, the trains rumbling through town, the bank where I had my first account, all create threads of memory, ties that bind us home. Most of all, the people. All are pieces of our world that made us who we are today.

I’m lucky. In later years, I came home and created new memories. I explored the countryside, most especially Hill, Blaine and Phillips County backroads, found sheer beauty that I never knew existed, met newcomers and got to know old timers, all in my town that was a shell of its former self, with an already gutted Main Street, a town with less that half the population of that when I was in high school. Harlem is still my hometown.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Here Be Dragons

 

          Here Be Dragons

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Here be dragons on my mind map.

I think. Therefore I am. Am I? Until I’m not. Will the me that I am I go on thinking? This is 4:00 in the morning when my mind leads me, willingly following, down strange pathways. Not often. I treasure my sleep, laying up storerooms of good dreams, a few uneasy dreams, and, way, way back in the dusty corner, a couple of old nightmares whinny.

Now and then my mind wakes me up, grabs my metaphorical hands and dances me onward.

What started last night’s dance was a length of fabric. Our neighbor Janet had been cleaning out cupboards. She had given a piece of cotton goods to Crin who brought it over to me a few months ago with the suggestion that maybe it would suit us both for outdoor cushion covers. I put the fabric, colorful, obviously a piece of decorator fabric made for a specific purpose, evident by its narrow width, on a shelf for later.

Every single piece of clothing in my wardrobe, long pants and tunic tops, I stitched with my imagination and a sewing machine. Most of my clothing began as used discards, teardowns and remakes, sheets, odds and ends and finds.

Fabric stores in town sell synthetics suitable for weddings, dancing, quincineras and such. I wear natural fibers, so find cottons and linens when and where I can. With time, a most useful commodity, and thought, my finds gradually reveal to me what they want to become and I make it happen.

This is not a hardship. I live frugally. I live creatively. I own a dressmakers form. I like figuring out how to make wearable clothing from things not meant to be worn. My clothes look nice, are unusual, colorful, and are comfortable.

Now and then I would pull this length of cotton, fuscia with gray ribbon stripes, off the shelf and sit with it a while in silence. It remained mute.

Yesterday, Crin, here for a three-week surprise visit, came over to ask if our fabric would be good for covering two couple kitchen bar stools. Perfect, I told her, and there will be plenty for leftovers to make a matching table cloth. Or place mats, she countered.

At 4:00 in the morning, awake with my thoughts, a quite simple tunic began to design itself. They do that sometimes. First, I saw the front and back take shape. Then a scalloped neckline showed up, giving the severe lines a softness. Once I got to going down that pathway, there was no return. How about a slender cap sleeve, with the stripe going horizontally rather than vertically. Oh, yes. In my mind, I saw the shirt cut, pinned on the dress form and stitched together.

I dragged myself out of bed at the usual time, early riser that I am, went to my sewing room out in the bodega, measured enough fabric for the tunic with a few added inches for any changes that might need to happen, folded the fabric and set it aside for putting together later. The design that has unfolded is so simple and so obvious that I am amazed at myself, that I never saw it earlier.

I folded Crin’s portion, plenty for barstools, a large tablecloth and several placemats, to give to her when she comes over this afternoon.

That is how I spent part of my time. What did I use for currency? I paid attention. My wallet of time is thin. It seems to me that I spend more time than I save time, yet, there always seems to be enough time.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Lo, the Dancing Mountains

                Lo, the Dancing Mountains

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I live at the foot of mountains. Each direction from my house, I see mountains. Some mountains march in a row. Some island mountains stand alone. Mountains are so changeable. I like that about mountains.

From my evening reading chair, I look onto an island mountain, not a great distance, juxtaposed against a far roofline. Sometimes the mountain edges off into the trees. Sometimes the mountain hugs closer to that house. Sometimes the mountain stands tall, sometimes snuggles the earth.

The mountains do not stand still. They dance about. Some days the mountains arise, tall like giants and some days the mountains hover, soft and low. The mountains change color too, but, we all know that. Sometimes the mountains disappear altogether, but they always return. Mountains are reliable like that.

I know there are rational scientific explanations for these things, maybe to do with atmosphere and the angle of light and such. To me science does not take one iota from the magic of dancing mountains. Science adds dazzling ingredients to the magic.

Today above the island mountains, those to north and east of me, huge narrow, upright columns of pure white cloud loom, climb high into the sky. The columns appear much like volcanic eruptions, although these mountains have been dormant for a few years. I like watching these columns lift and grow and change and climb the sky.

I don’t own a television, but I’ve never had a problem entertaining myself.

At my age, one gets to be introspective with no apologies. I’ve been pondering Eleanor Roosevelt’s words, making them mine, that I am here in these times to be a witness.

For years, I’ve always said that in my next life I want to be a tree. I’ve changed my mind. I want to be a rock. I like trees. I like the pulsing life of a tree. However, a rock also has pulsing life, just softer and lower.

Building on the idea of being a witness, if I get to return as a rock, I’ll be around longer, will see more. Maybe my rockiness will emerge from volcanic activity, maybe otherwise, maybe I’ll live on one of the dancing mountains, here or there, maybe along a singing river.

I want it all. I want the burning sun to bake me. I want the freezing ice to crumble and crack my surface, to create crevices for the unknown to happen. I want the wind and rain to whittle away and burnish my surface. I want to see what life comes next. I want a dropped seed to find home in one of my crevices, to bloom and grow, maybe a tree.

Sondra Ashton         Looking out my back door

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Parsing the Weather

 

Parsing the Weather

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If you know me at all, by now, you know I’m obsessed by weather.  Blame my Dad. He instilled the trait in me that day we stood side-by-side on the ditch bank, scanning the sky for the least wisp of cloud, in that dry, dusty summer when I was so young. Once instilled, the weather virus flourished.

I, of all people, know that the only real way to tell weather is to step outside, look, listen, smell, poke your hand under the elements, and feel. Predictions are seldom reliable.

Take yesterday. I sat at the computer and the little tease at the bottom left screen said, “cooling trend the next five days”. I opened the weather tab to check the details. It showed warmer temps for the following five days. Probably another AI glitch. AI is good at glitches. Probably meant to say, “cooking trend the next five days”.

Rain is falling, listlessly. Has been for the last couple hours. Barely sprinkling. The sky is getting lighter so I predict the sprinkle will end soon.  There is no wind. Temp this morning is 68. Humidity is extreme. UV is extreme. AQI is good. Air pressure is up and down like a yo-yo, which for me, translates to an Arthritic Pain Index of extreme.

In an hour, all the above will have shifted except for that final measure, which I call the API. In other words, normal.

Me, I’m having a good day. The house is reasonably clean and tidy. I’ve freshly baked bread on the counter, a tray of cookies in the oven, a slab of salmon thawing for dinner.

I’m also having a sad day while a little rain falls down my face. Two good, close friends recently have been diagnosed with cancer. At our ages, this is common, right? That doesn’t make it any easier because I’m selfish and want to keep my close friends close as long as I can.

 I’ve become more consciously diligent lately to tell my friends that I love them, to let them know I care.

It’s your turn. Most of you know me better than I know you. I read the obituaries. Some people I know well, some names I know. I’m aware the names unknown to me were neighbors, that perhaps we passed by one another way back when at the library in Chinook or on the street in Havre or at the car show in Turner or driving on the highways. Each Passing Beyond gives me pause for respect and honor and caring.

I believe there are variations in degrees of loving, similar to the air quality index, perhaps. I may not know you well enough to know your moods and desires, that you love lilacs and can’t stand the smell of brussels sprouts, that your heart has been broken and that you are a Cubs fan.

On my Love Quality Index, I can always say I love you and I don’t want to lose you and when you hurt, I hurt too. So, here it is. I love you. I care. I give you honor and respect as the human being you are.

In this short time, rain has stopped, the temperature is rising, clouds are parting for the sun. I love you.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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To State the Obvious.

 

To State the Obvious.

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Life is hard.

I’m fortunate. I never had to go through the shock of ease ripped away. Life for me was always hard. I thought that was normal. I still think it is normal. I’m aware of how easily we rewrite our own histories, making them fit some drama-trauma of excuse. I try to hold myself to standards of emotional honesty.

I’ll give a hard life credit for my ability to find beauty and peace and love in small moments. Ease and comfort have never been my goal. I’m quite capable of choosing the rockiest road all by myself.

Having said all that, I’ve never faced a tsunami of mud or experience my house shatter around me in a tornado or live with fear of Eboli or live in a cardboard box under the bridge, although I’ve had the fear of being under the bridge in the cardboard box with starving children.

I used to pace the floor, telling the Great Mystery that if the box under the bridge was next, okay, but I’m not going alone. I told the Great Mystery, whatever that means, that he-she-it would need to be there with me. Somehow, some way, a job popped up, rent got paid, the power wasn’t shut down, we had food to eat and work to see us through to the next bridge.

See, I’m fortunate.

For me, life is winding down. I’m in my 80s with all the pains and age deterioration that goes with waking up another day.

Life is hard.

I just got word that another close friend has cancer. First, I told him, as I’ve told others, “No. I forbid it.” Sure, that helped a lot. Then I wrote a long letter letting him know how important he is in my life and how much I’ve always cared for him.

Life is hard.

We just got ripped with a destructive hailstorm accompanied by wind from four directions and two inches of rain in two hours. The part of Mexico where I live is lush with vegetation, greenery abounds. Amazingly, here on the rancho, none of our houses were seriously damaged. No trees were uprooted.

Everything was shredded. Thick skinned plants such as my Madre plants, succulents, my pineapple, the papaya, all look like they contracted small pox. The papaya fruits which are close to ripening look like they are bleeding with small pox. Tree and plant debris cover the ground.

The following days, every morning, my back yard hosted sixty or seventy birds, foraging through the grass and debris, searching out goodies all kinds.

For some reason, the ants proliferate. All kinds and sizes and colors of ants. The leaf-cutters have obliterated my oleanders and dancing-skirt plant and crepe myrtles, among others, leaving naked stalks and branches. I feel itchy crawling on my skin and generally find the culprit to be one or another of the ants, which I crush without a qualm. No Zen from me toward ants. Having said that, I let three different kinds of spiders live, with a shrug of kindness. I don’t claim to understand myself.

Life is hard.

I hurt. My insides are a mess. My outsides are rusting, broken, missing parts, falling apart, out of gas. I could bore you with physical complaints, but, they bore me more. I figure I’m past eighty years so I should hurt. I do.

I’m fortunate. I woke up this morning, got out of bed, had coffee, measured the night’s surprise of rain fall, let my dog slurp all over my hands, baked a batch of cookies.

 Life is good. Hard doesn’t negate the good. I learned in my early years that I could choose to find goodness or to live in despair. To me that choice is a no-brainer.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Even the Earth Cries

 

               Even the Earth Cries

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For me here in central Mexico, the week has been extraordinarily quiet and peaceful.

I am well aware that all around me is a world in flood, beset by fierce winds, on fire, people, families, entire communities lost, wars and rumors of wars.

My friend Sandy wrote me that one of the greatest joys in life is savoring good food.

Instead of an article, I’m sharing a photo taken in one of my favorite markets, Etza Fruts. Pepe, the proprietor, always has a smile and a good word for every person who passes through. His market is filled with fresh fruits and vegetables, grown locally and throughout Mexico and Central America.

Sometimes I like to simply stand in the middle of an aisle, just for a moment, close my eyes and inhale the various scents, especially of the exotic (to me) fruits. The vegetables have their own earthy scents. I am a fortunate woman, indeed.

Looking Out My Backdoor

Sondra Ashton

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Family

 

               Family

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I was hanging laundry on my rotary solar dryer when I could hear the phone ringing in the house. I don’t carry that thing around with me. When I went inside, I checked to see who’d phoned and called Leo back.

“Would you like to go for breakfast?” I’d had oatmeal/avocado cookies with coffee an hour earlier. “Of course, I’d love to go.” I figured I could fit in breakfast and call it lunch.

I didn’t even ask where. Leo headed out of town toward San Marcos. My mouth, which knows its own mind, prepared itself for lengue. I told my mouth not to get so uppity. Lengue is a specialty and they run out early. Sure enough, Leo pulled into the roadside eatery.

This place must have a name but I don’t know what. It’s built like a three-sided shed with the open kitchen at the back, tables, large and small, at the front. The floor is shale gravel.

Leo is a pleasure, always respectful, with a full bag of stories of family, friends and community. We both are weather worriers. We care about our land, our surroundings.

After rain nearly every day through June and July, we turned the corner into August, historically the month with most rain, and August became October. October, with morning cloud fogs, winds, tall grasses browning. No rain. It’s a worry. A big worry. Even the quality of light shouts, October!

This is a beautiful morning, too lovely to bury ourselves in worry. The sun is shining, quickly burning off the foggyf cloud cover. The breeze is light and pleasant. The mountains are still lush from July rainfall. What’s not to like?

Leo’s tamales, rich with pork and red salsa, a side of frijoles, looks good. My lengue, smothered in green tomatillo salsa, tops a cheese-filled gordita. Two versions of heaven on plates. We dig in. I know my face mirrors my satisfaction.

Halfway through my meal, I sat back a moment and started laughing.

“What?” Leo asked. “This is so perfect, Leo. Just look around us. Look at the mountains, the view, the fields across the highway crowded with corn taller than any Oklahoma elephants’ eyes, in full tassel, perfect food in front of us, surrounded by people having fun.

“Leo, the family sitting behind you, three generations, talking and eating and seeming to love life. You don’t fake that. The couple beside us over there, same thing. The older couple just came in, greeted and hugged the family behind you, squeezed the baby, and now, look, they are hugging the couple next to us. That’s pure community, good neighbors.

“This is a perfect morning for me. I know I’m not part of the families but I feel like I share with them anyway, even out on the perimeter. Thank you for bringing me, Leo.”

“What would you be doing if you were still at home?” Leo asked.

“Mopping my floor,” I replied. “Of course, I’d really rather be home mopping than here enjoying the great day, great company, great food.”

This is where I live. This is my life.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

Still dry in August

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Living With Lizards

 

       Living With Lizards

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Last night when I swished back my bedcovers and hoisted my legs into bed, a small creature slithered from top to bottom of the bed on the other side. My immediate fear was of a scorpion. My fear was immediately relieved by my astute scorpion knowledge. This critter was too skinny, it didn’t attack and the outline shape didn’t fit. Whew!

The part of me which wanted to ignore my bed partner was overruled by the part of me which had to know. Out of bed and around. Oh, cute. A baby gecko, about two inches long. I left the child perched on the lower corner and climbed back into bed.

I know an adult gecko lives in my bedroom. I’m familiar with it, used to her presence. She’s lived with me for months, perhaps years. I give it no attention except an occasional, “Nighty night.” She likes to hang onto the window screen, hoping a mosquito will slither through the mesh, which happens. It talks to me most nights. I don’t speak lizard, so I’ve no idea what she says. In the daytime, the gecko hangs out behind a picture frame.

When I first moved to Etzatlan, whenever I would spot a lizard, any lizard, seen because they move so quickly, I would startle. You know. The involuntary jump, heart in throat, squeak response. Lizards come in several sizes, colors, styles. They blend into their backgrounds so well, you hardly know they are around until they move. Those little guys are whip fast. In short time, lizards became background to me. I see them everywhere, and now I hardly register that they are present.

Of course, there are iguanas too, a different creature entirely. I appreciate lizards, including the geckos, for eating ants and flies and mosquitoes, of which, there are too many. Iguanas are vegetarian, favorite food being my hibiscus blossoms, preferably each eaten in a whole gulp. I’ve considered making iguana soup, or iguana on a stick. Tastes like chicken, right?

Back in bed, my mind wanted to play a game: If a mama gecko hatches one egg, how many eggs might a mama gecko hatch? I told my mind, “Shut up and go to sleep. I’m too tired to play.” Sometimes that works. Do they lay eggs? That started a whole new train of thought? Where is papa gecko? Is the gecko I heard outside my living room window really inside my living room? Soon the boxcars began lining up on the siding.

I’m tired and a tired mind makes up its own stories. Do we need a daddy gecko? How many geckos live with me? Do they go outside? How do they get inside/outside? Chug, chug, toot, toot. I recalled picking up two kernels of gecko, uh, evidence, from beneath my coat rack by the door. Finally, the train motion lulled me to sleep.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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A Pie Eyed Mess

 

          A Pie Eyed Mess

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 It’s been a rough week for me and my pooch, Lola. I’m a mess. Lola is doing better than I am and she’s the one who limped home bleeding.

I’m going to fill in a bit of the back story for you. Sky is about a year and a half old now. Up until one day in April, Lola and Sky were good play buddies. Sky often accompanied Lola and me on our walks and it was a pleasure to watch their running-dog games.

On the day play turned mean, another dog attacked Lola. Sky watched, tilted her head and you could almost hear her thoughts, “Oh, so that’s the way it’s done.” Sky joined the fray. This took an instant, rolling Lola and biting at her. I began yelling and wielding my cane, lot of good that did, but the dogs let go, Lola raced home, unhurt.

From that day, Sky lay in wait, on the alert to bully Lola. Lola scampered home multiple times. Lola is not and never has been an alpha dog, despite her age.

Most days I could talk Sky down so the dogs could play. About a month ago Sky got a new companion, Cloud, a street dog rescue. Both dogs are big. Sky is not dumb. She taught her new mate everything she knew. Some days Lola would not leave our yard. I kept on the alert.

I was out cutting a magnolia flower from my tree outside my wall. I like to put a magnolia in a small bowl and have the scent waft throughout the house. All of a sudden, there was this unholy racket, barking, squealing, yelping pain. I screamed, “No, no, no.”

I’m not about to separate fighting dogs. My yelling stopped the pair of aggressors and Lola limped home, bleeding freely from her front leg. Her back, thick with long hair, was coated with slobbers. I couldn’t find any other owies. Lola would not let me touch her leg but the purple stuff sprays everywhere.

I kept a watchful eye on Lola in case we needed to go to the vet. Lola is fine, healing quickly, hasn’t even picked her scab. I’m a mess. If I were a dog, I would pick.

I let the neighbor dog owner know what happened. He won’t take any action. Dogs will be dogs. That’s true. One thing I know, true or not, is that once a dog has tasted blood, they will go for it again. It will happen. Dogs will be dogs.

I’ve rearranged outside time for me and Lola. I’ve a large back yard, so Lola has plenty of running room. I use the back gate for our shorter walks, out of the line of sight.

I’m a mess. I don’t feel safe from dog attack, not for Lola, not for me. I could easily be mowed down in the middle.

 Lola is part of my therapy. She senses my unease and gives me extra attention. I know, it should be the other way around. 

My other therapy is my oven, my go-to stress relief. I baked buns. I made crackers. Yesterday I whipped up a leek pie. Today I made an apple pie.

I could do worse. It keeps me off the street. My few neighbors benefit. I share with Lola.

And, I’m filling my freezer.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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Oh, Dem Bones

 

Oh, Dem Bones

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It’s Sunday morning, cloudy sky, stormy in the area with weather lurking. I just walked next door to see if Janet needed help. I can do little things. Open a can of cat food. Cut up a pineapple.

Thursday, Janet was lugging a full garbage can of garden debris, walking backward, tripped on a jutting brick, and broke her right arm. Yesterday our Bone Doctor set her break and put it in a cast.

All of us women on the rancho are enamored of our Bone Doctor. He’s the man who fixed my hip. He’s more than just a pretty face. He works and teaches at University Hospital in Guadalajara and comes to Etzatlan on Saturday. Our little hospital brings in all kinds of specialists. 

Janet and I are the only gringos still on the Rancho this summer. We know we need one another. More so when any one of us sustains an injury. Others around us pitch in to help. People are good that way.

I’m not the only help she has. Others around will pitch in. Bonnie and Samantha surely will be checking on her regularly. Bonnie makes the best bone broth. Leo doesn’t work Sundays but I’ll bet you a homemade doughnut that he’ll call around a today to see if Janet needs help. Ariel will stop by to ask if she needs anything from town. Our friends from Oconahua will be by.

These are awkward days and Janet will make it through them with help. Needs keep us aware of how we are connected with friends and neighbors. Needs coupled with pains make us aware of how interconnected all the parts of our bodies are, other kinds of neighbors.

Break an arm and it’s not just the broken part. One’s entire arm swells and throbs. Fingers become useless. Balance is off. Every motion of our body needs to be thought through. Add worry and frustration to the pain and our whole digestive system goes bonkers. Muscles we didn’t know we had are called in to compensate for those which no longer can function. More pain.

Like it or not, we are made up of parts which work to be a whole. There is an old song that says it better than I can.

The arm bone’s connected to the pain bone. The pain bone’s connected to the heart bone. The heart bone’s connected to the neighbor bone. The neighbor bone’s connected to the community bone. The community bone’s connected to the County bone. The County bone’s connected to the State bone. The State bone’s connected to the Nation bone. The Nation bone’s connected to the World bone. The World bone’s connected to the  . . .

You and I are somewhere in the middle, shaking dem bones.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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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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