Staring at a blank piece of paper

 

Staring at a blank piece of paper

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Here I am again, sitting at my computer, staring at a blank page of paper that’s not real paper, waiting for inspiration to write, to share with you, the latest happenings in my real life.

And one of the most real things that occurs to me is guilt. I feel guilty. Real good ol’ Catholic guilt.

Let’s take the little things first. Every day it rains, here on the high plateau surrounded with mountains in central Mexico. Beginning in June, through July and now into August.

The elders in this area say they haven’t seen rain like this since they were children. We’ve been experiencing extended drought for years. Finally the aquifers are being replenished, though it takes more than one rainy season. In September I’ll be grumbling again about how dry it is. Dry from September until June.

Meanwhile, I’ve been pruning and plucking out plants plagued with curly leaf, black leaf, rust, green mold, black mold and white smut. These are not scientific descriptions but words I use to identify problems induced by too much rain. Much of my bucket garden rotted in the pots. I’ll replant in September.

Where is the guilt in this? Obvious, I would think. I am only too aware that you, my friends up north, cannot breathe through the drought induced dust, the smoke from out-of-control range and forest fires, while watching crops wither on the vine or be decimated by grasshoppers. In the evenings lightning starts more fires than rain can put out. In Glendive, where my daughter lives, today one can wade across the Yellowstone River.  

Guilt is neither reasonable nor unreasonable. It simply is. Olay, that’s one guilt.

Another guilt is generated by our high school class reunion, now officially cancelled, again, due to the pandemic, the smoke and fires, hospitals full up, the dangers of travel. I had already made the decision not to travel this fall, so why the guilt? See above.

My two classmates from Oregon, the planners for our reunion, had to cancel two years in a row. I’m relieved to not have to make excuses for myself for not going had they continued. I would have made the circle, Oregon, through Washington and Montana.

Of course I miss you all. It’s been two and a half years since I’ve been with friends and family. That’s a long, long time.

Next guilt: Yesterday Kathy took Richard to the emergency room. He’d collapsed. We don’t have a definite diagnosis yet but evidently something might be misfiring in his heart. Richard is one of the strongest men I know. He’s probably quite calm through this crisis but Kathy isn’t. Nor are we, his friends.

Later the same day, Lani who has been in Idaho with her daughter, had a stroke, was taken by helicopter to a hospital in Spokane, and had surgery. More than that, we don’t know. Her husband, Ariel, is beside himself and thank goodness we are here to keep him calm, urging him to get more information before making any flight decisions to go where he probably would not be allowed in the hospital to see his wife.

Just as I sat down to my blank paper which is not paper, my phone rang. Another friend is care-taking a friend of his through emotional and physical crises. He just needed an ear. And to know I am okay. But mostly, he needed an ear.

Survivor’s guilt? Not really but perhaps a second cousin once removed to survivor’s guilt.

I sat myself down for a good strong chin wag. Guilt, I figure, is a costly luxury, not a necessity. I pretended I was my Grandma giving me what-for when I was a child over my latest error in judgement. A little grim but that soon set me on a different path.

A word or two of comfort, a little heart-felt care, a little prayer. It doesn’t change the world but it changes me.

I woke up this morning, still breathing, still alive as far as I can tell. I walked outside to greet my dog Lola and the sun, in that order. I took a deep breath of the morning air, fresh with a spicy redolence of wet earth happy with itself.

Today is another blank piece of paper.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 12, 2021

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Having a Wonderful Time--Wish you were here.

Having a Wonderful Time--Wish you were here.

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            For a group of classmates from Harlem, Montana, none of whom grew up with “advantages”, Harlem being not exactly the cultural center of the world, what an amazing opportunity for us. Here we are, Class of ’63, in a foreign country, soaking up life like the sponges we always have been.

What did we know but hard work and vagaries of weather? Our recreation consisted of school sports (boys’ only), a summer swim in the Milk River, ice-skating in the winter. Most of us knew a touch of poverty, even if we weren’t aware at the time. What one grows up with seems “normal”.

            Travel—Ha!—We never made it further than Havre. Our music was Hank Williams and Marty Robbins, Ricky Nelson, Elvis and The Big Bopper. Dance was the two-step and jitterbug. A symphony or ballet? Not a possibility. The radio took us to foreign places--I used to listen to opera on a station out of Regina Saturday mornings, the most beautiful music in the world, though I was more comfortable with Country-Western.

Many times during these two weeks we talked about how you would have loved the little towns perched precariously on the mountainsides, the ancient Cathedrals dominating each plaza, watching the man make floor tiles by hand from start to finish with a simple but ancient press.

            Or maybe your favorite thing would have been soaking in the sun on the beach, having a shopping party, both treasures and trash, all at your feet, while vendors display silver jewelry with semi-precious stones, Mexican blankets in riotous colors, embroidered blouses from Oaxaca, and wispy beach wraps. Certainly there is something for everyone. Highly polished animals carved from ironwood, turtles from obsidian, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, straw hats, sunglasses, sandals, “Rolex” watches made in China. Treasures and trash, yes, all delightful.

            We went from the sea to the mountains, roamed cobblestone streets of villages reminiscent of old Harlem. We marveled at the architecture, ancient alongside the incredible skyscrapers of modern Guadalajara.

We swayed and jiggled and tapped our toes to Mexican music, especially the mariachi, loved the folk dances, the traditional regalia, the art of various regions. We ate from carts on the street; we dined in fashionable restaurants.

In the tiny village of La Noria, where we happened to be on the day of their street market, I found a broom, made by hand of stiff wide bristles, perhaps bamboo, attached to the stick with wire woven through the strands. This is the kind of broom used to sweep hard-packed dirt patios. I brought it back to the tour van and announced, “New transportation.”

Our only complaint; there were not, would never be, enough days to do all we wanted. Growing up the way we did, hard as it was, I wonder if those early years conditioned us to better appreciate every adventure, even the uncomfortable.   

You know, the stories we told might have been the best part of the whole holiday. I’m not talking about the good stuff, the successes. We shared our past hurts, the real stories, the pains of growing up in difficult times (Though what times are not difficult?). We each thought we alone were awkward, bumbling, made stupid mistakes. We had struggled through rough patches in secret, without a confidant. How similar our experiences! We had known one another only on the surface.

After two weeks of increasing intimacy, our love and respect for each other has grown bonds which can never be broken. Yes, you would have loved to be with us. We missed you. See you soon with, as our guide Leo would say, a thousand-thousand pictures.

Hope you can make it next year. Hope I can make it next year.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 2, 2017

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