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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Topsy and Turvy

 

                Topsy and Turvy

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Last week Crin wrote that she saw two full moons. I shrugged. That fits. The earth is flat, thank you, Pam. And the sun gallops around the earth at an unprecedented rate. The world and all its people have gone topsy turvy.  Karen in England says, “What a bunch of miserable.”  

Restless, irritable and discontent. I rarely have these kind of days. Tomorrow will be different. Today is sniffles and sneezes and low-level weariness. A mild summer cold.  And sadness. All will be different tomorrow. I think that is a prayer.

Thus September ushers in a change of season. Shade and sun change places. Fires, floods, winds, snows, plagues and people rage. Topsy turvy.

This week was to be our class reunion, a gathering we HHS Class of ’63 look forward to all year long. And for me, reunion meant my annual trip to the States. We cancelled months ago, of course. But the dates are marked on my desk calendar, staring me in the face with empty.

All will be different tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll see a full moon every night. Perhaps we’ll plunge off the edge of the world. Already the sun whirling around us at the wrong angle has chopped one third off September’s days.

Now that I’ve established a pseudo-scientific basis for life, let me tell you about the leaf mold. Overnight. My squash, second planting, coming along beautifully one day, the following morning, white with mold.

In a panic I contacted Master Gardener Karen in Floweree. Soapy water and vinegar. I cut off the most affected leaves, watched spores float everywhere, and drenched the remainder. Next morning they were bright and beautiful. But mold covered the itty-bitty cabbage and Brussels sprouts as if each leaf wore gloves. Sprayed everything again. Thank you, Karen, problem gone away.

That made me feel so good I dug all the potatoes from my potato bucket. I harvested enough to feed myself at least half a dozen meals. In fact, I felt so good I simmered a chowder in which all ingredients, all but the sea bass and cream came from my garden.

Hmmm. I wonder if one can grow sea bass in a bucket. In a really, really big bucket?

Several times a day I walk around my casita just to watch plants grow. It calms my mind and spirit. Already I see new potato promise. And peas, which failed me the first planting. Timing? And peppers—third time a charm?

Most days I feel contented, surrounded by grace; I cannot contain myself. Is something wrong with me, that I am satisfied being alone, sitting under my tree, watching clouds and birds while that pesky squirrel cha-cha-chas between my feet?

And why not. Why not feel like I am the center of the universe, just for a few moments, and watch that puffy cloud amble across the sky just for me.

However, days like today, when I feel low, I want touch. I miss skin. A hand shake, a shoulder bump, any touch from another that says I see you, I know you are here. I’ve not known touch from another human since March.

No, I lie. One day David from Vivero Centro came to deliver a new lime tree and bounded across the yard with a big smile and outstretched hand. I know I stared at his hand with horror for a microsecond, reminded myself I cannot be rude, and let him take my hand. It felt so good. As soon as he drove away, I scrubbed soapily, soapily. With a smile.

Enough! Enough whining. Enough whinging! Enough self-indulgence. It is a new day. The earth is once again roundish, revolves around the sun even if I want yesterday’s angle. The full moon is come and gone, only once. Science is restored. The world and all its people are still topsy turvy. Well, that’s just the way we are. 

Here comes Princess for her afternoon petting. That dog patters over with a smile. She doesn’t jump on me or beg. She comes to say, hello, here I am, pet me, and then she leaves, home to Stephany. Every day.

If you think life isn’t full of love, let me assure you. I have carrots growing in a palm pot. I don’t even own carrot seed. I have floral sweet peas in the squash bucket. Didn’t plant those either. Something yet to be determined has emerged in the asparagus fern pot. And a funny-looking orange flower is coming up throughout the yard. All planted by birds. If that isn’t love, what is!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 10, 2020

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Disaster of the Moment Club

Let me tell you what happened to me!
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The Disaster of the Moment Club


Last week I rode the Iron Horse from Havre to Spokane to care for Antoinette, my four-year old granddaughter, while her Mom attended a conference. We had a great time exploring the walking trails and the playgrounds at Riverfront Park . She especially loved the giant Radio Flyer wagon slide and the fountains. I indulged her every whim. It was hard to say good-by.

But at 1:30 Saturday morning I boarded the Empire Builder, tucked myself into my roomy coach seat and closed my eyes to sleep what was left of the night. At first call for breakfast, I scurried to the dining car. I love riding Amtrak. I meet people from every corner of the nation and the world. The attendant seated me at a table with three other women.

As I sat down, I rubbed my right knee which was feeling a bit stiff. The woman seated across from me, whom I will call her Ms. A, asked, “Are you handicapped?” I pondered her question. Physically? Mentally? Financially? But I needn’t have bothered. She was fishing for a chance to tell her own woes. “I can’t hardly get around at all,” she began.
“Nine months ago I had stomach surgery. I lost 145 pounds. But I got gangrene in my foot because of infection from the surgery. So they amputated two of my toes.” We all murmured words of sympathy.

Since the lead-in topic at the table seemed to be surgery, Ms. B, sitting to my left, spoke up, “I’ve been in Seattle to help my sister recover from surgery for cancer. She’s doing well so I’m on my way home to New Hampshire .” Ms. A promptly countered, “Speaking of cancer, I buried my sister last week. Tumors throughout her body. Worst they’d ever seen. Not only that, on the way to her mom’s funeral, my niece was killed in a head on collision. Drunk driver. Orphaned those three little children.”

We sat in a puddle of stunned silence. Then Ms. C spoke up, “Who is taking care of the poor children?” Ms. A sighed loudly, fiddled with the rings on her fingers and fluffed her hair. “I guess I’ll just have to take them in. There is nobody else to do it. That is, once I get back from my vacation. I’m going to meet an old friend in Tennessee where the horrible floods are. We’re going gambling on a Mississippi Riverboat.”

Bad things do happen to good people. Perhaps Ms. A is one of those good people caught up in a web of bad things. But I felt we all needed to come up for air. So I decided to shift the subject to the fun time I’d had with my granddaughter. Ms. A stopped me mid-sentence, “Shut up. You are such a loudmouth. You don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t care. Now, I don’t hold that against you. I’m just telling you.”

Well, that did shut me up. I recognized then and there that Ms. A was a dues paying member of the Disaster of the Moment Club. Not only that, she needed to have the worst disaster going. She was a master of one-downmanship.
I thought about some stories I had heard, like the one about an entire accident-prone family. One day the mother showed up in a wheel chair because she had fallen through the kitchen floor. Don’t you just itch to know the details?

But a man who grew up in Whitewater told the best disaster story. His large family was dirt poor. As a youngster, he worked summers on a farm in Malta . One year, when it was time for school to begin, he hitch-hiked back home to Whitewater. He walked into an empty house—no father, no mother, no brothers or sisters, no furniture. Nothing. Imagine that.

If I had been quick enough, or mean enough, I could have adapted those stories as my own, just to hear Ms. A try to top them. Instead, I gulped my coffee and hurried back to the comfort and safety of my seat.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door.
May 20, 2010
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