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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