Out of my mangled mind.

 

Out of my mangled mind. 

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I wrote my title and immediately saw two meanings of “out of my mind”. Let’s just let both apply and be happy.

My mind goes weird. Yesterday I woke up singing a mangle of Mighty Mouse:

“Here I come to seize the day!”

I sat down to write John and Carol, who have left or are leaving for Duluth, driving their vintage blue and white Vincent Van Go, any hour:

“Are you on your way,

Won’t be back

For many a day?”

Remember Calypso?

John’s reply:

Sad to say, we’re under weigh

Cruising along in our Vincent sleigh,

We’re in Jimenez, without Jose

And tomorrow we’ll be entering

The you ess ay.

At my home, halfway up the mountain on the west side of Oconahua, the skies have a different energy today; the air smells like rain, the rain that will be here soon.

Cicadas are out in full force, singing down the rain according to ancient folklore, singing welcome hope, singing until the sound becomes nearly unbearable, rains flow from the sky and the singing mutes, stops, until next year.

Rain birds have flown back and are inhabiting their nests, eggs tucked into the sack-like nursery purse.

“Just a singing

Down the rain.”

It will splish-splash early this year. It will. It will.

Speaking of mangle, Kathy sent this quote this morning, don’t know from whom she snitched it, which I scoochied around a bit:

“Give it twelve hours and the undo of the redo of the previous undo of the un-implementation of the delay of the redo will be undone.”

No explanation necessary.

Lee contacted me to be part of the memorial service for his father, one of my very best friends ever. Al, David and I built a 100 seat black-box theatre with no money, no grants, nothing but our wit and determination and a handful of volunteers. That experience built a depth of friendship which death cannot break.

Our theatre has grown, is strong and in better hands today. Forgive my pride.

I declined Lee’s invitation to join my friends. It might not be raining here just yet, but if I went to Al’s Celebration, my tears would cause a flood.

Like an unrepentant thief, I stole the next bit from long-time friend Sandy. In the seems-distant past, Sandy and I shared the good, the bad and the ugly. She always made me laugh. Life happened. We lost touch.

Recently, and gratefully, we reconnected. Again, we share the deeps of our all too-human stories. Age and physical miseries and our opening awareness of all manner of things dominate our talk.

As Sandy said, “We are on the last plane out of Saigon.” If you don’t “get it”, that’s okay. It’s unlikely that we will be around to clean up the mess.

Let me leave you with this thought:

If you are not part of the solution . . .

Then you must be part of the . . .

Sediment.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

May 22, 2025

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Among the Mung Beans & Family

 

               Among the Mung Beans & Family

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Mung beans have never been my favorite food bean. Pintos. Limas. Navy beans. Yum! Not mung. If you like them, that’s great. I’d rather have spinach.

Well, the other day a woman drove up and off-loaded a huge pile of vines, green and bushy. Ana looked like a tree packing the vines in her arms across our common area. “What are those?” I asked.

“Mung beans. I’m going to cook them now.”

“I’ve only had the dry beans; I’ve never eaten them green and fresh,” I responded, wondering if the difference would be huge, like the difference between green limas and dried lima beans. “I’ll bring you some,” Ana said.

Indeed, she did, indeed. Ana showed up with a serving bowl heaped with mung beans steamed in their little husks. She showed me how to pinch open the husk and eat the bean inside. Hmmm.

I meant to eat a few to be polite. I ate the whole bowlful. In one sitting. I returned the bowl of husks to Ana for the chickens.

What I’m saying is, that you might give fresh mungs a try. It might mean you must plant a patch of mung beans. Harvest them green. Steam them tender. Yummy.

I lost another person from my life this last week. Over the past few months I’ve thought a lot about the importance of Family, Friends, Community.

The woman who died was not close to me but she was a constant in my life. Loss, all loss, hurts the same hurt. I met her at a CYC dance when I was in high school. Then later knew her at three very separate times in my life. I liked and respected this woman.

At my age, Community, sharing feelings of solidarity, being family, chosen and by blood, matters. I cringe to say that with age it “matters more”. At any rate, I think about these things frequently, ponder the importance of people in my life, love them more.

Take yesterday. Ana and Michelle had a BBQ Potluck at their home. There were eight of us, a small group, comfortable, easily able to converse around the large oval table.  

Steve and Judy, their friends from Seattle, were strangers to the rest of us. Three of the group are friends of mine. They know Ana and Michelle, but not well.

We came together that afternoon as a mixture of strangers, acquaintances, friends. You might say each one of us was an individual mung bean in our husk. It is rarely, in my experience, that the magic spoon stirs us around as it did yesterday.

By the time we sat down at the table to eat, plates heaped with deliciousness, we were friends, one and all. By the time we left the table, we were family. I don’t know how else to say it. It is a rare and beautiful magic that melded us.

Later, I wafted across to my casa, feet never touching the ground, while the rest of the group settled down to watch The Game.

I avoid the Super Bowl, avoid it assiduously. The last time I went to a Super Bowl party, I married the man with whom I went. Dangerous things, those Super Bowls.

I’ve had a whole week of mung bean wonderfulness, letters and pictures from family, visits from friends, all of us connected with heart threads, Community.

Yes, at my age, I watch as people I know and love make their exit. Magically, I also watch as new friends enter my life and cement in as family. Magic? Natural? Grace? Who cares? I don’t question it. I love it.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

February 13, 2025

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My Circle of Gold

 

My Circle of Gold

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My friends, I don’t have a story for today. Instead, I’ll send a poem. It is raw, fresh and flawed, but I no longer care about flaws.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love. Remember how we used to say “Make love, not war”? Today my chant would be, “Make love, not hate”.

Love is difficult, takes careful consideration, time, decisions. That’s my experience. I’m so fortunate to have known and to know so much love. I’m human. I get angry, frustrated, irritated at my friends, but love is bigger and I love you anyway. Why not? You continue to love me. So here is my love poem for today.

“Sondra, you need a man in your life,”

Says my young, young friend. I laugh.

“Are you applying for the job, Pool Boy?”

My rejoinder. I am the only woman,

Living alone, in a tiny community,

In a foreign country, a dozen or so

Snowbirds, who come and go,

Willy-nilly. Most of the year I am

The only gringo. I don’t feel alone.

I grew up as if an only child, although

I had a sister. I’ve been married,

Have children, grandchildren to love.

Now I’m an old woman, comfortable

With whom I am, alone.

I’ve had a full life.

Took years of aloneness

To learn not to be lonely

With whom I am alone.

Around me, near and far, a circle

Of quiet people, fluid with comings

And goings. These, you, have become

The ring on my finger,

My circle of gold.

 

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

November 7, 2024

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Do you ever get down in the mouth?

Do you ever get down in the mouth?

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            Depression by any other name is no rose, let me tell you.

            Steve and Theresa, my friends from my long-time home in Washington, are back in their home. We had a lovely time together; I especially treasure the stories we told, peeling back layers to reveal more of ourselves.

            When friends leave me, typically I count on three days depression before I can get myself back in gear. I don’t mean deep-clinical-want-to-rip-my-heart-out-with-a-rusty-machete-and-no-anesthetic type depression. Just a low-level down in the dumps.

            Hey, they are my friends. We just had ten days of intimacy. They flew away. I’m left alone. I miss them. To make it worse, I am the only gringa on the rancho. Isolated.

            But I’m leaving on a jet plane for a couple weeks visit with my daughter and her family so I need to buck up, pull myself together.

            What to do? I consider some typical remedies. Ah, ha! Booze. I live in Jalisco, home state of Tequila. I’m serious. Look it up. But then I remember that I’ve already tried that. Didn’t work for me then and I doubt it will work for me now. So scratch that option.

            Food? I’ve said that I’ve never met a food I didn’t like. Can’t say I’m too fond of chittlins but I’ve eaten them, admittedly, in a social situation in which it would have been quite rude to turn my nose. I’m not anxious to taste eels but they might be yummy.

            Comfort food. Let me see. Chocolate. Bread in any form. Pineapple empanadas, a form of bread. As is chocolate croissant. Problem is, I already had breakfast and I’m not hungry and I need to figure out what will make me feel better right now.

            Tea! A cup of tea. Always a good thing, Tea with milk and sugar. Steaming hot. Ahhh.

            Then there is retail therapy. Unfortunately, I hate shopping. At any rate, I have no money. No problem. Shop online and slide the magic plastic. But I’m afraid that would bore me to tears and I’m already in tears so what kind of solution is that?

            I hate to bring logic into the picture but here goes. Not only do I dislike shopping but there is nothing I need. Or want, really.

            Activity is good. I have a friend who cleans closets when she is feeling down. I could deep-clean my house. But why? I’m leaving; the house will be empty. I have another friend who follows her suitcase out the door with a wet mop in hand. Me? I will clean when I return, windows and all. 

            Exercise? You are kidding, aren’t you?

            Maybe gambling? Buy a lottery ticket? I know a couple of sweet women friends who derive great pleasure from casino machines. I don’t get it. But, if there were a pot of twenty tickets and I bought nineteen, the other ticket purchaser would win. My luck.

            Comes from a misspent childhood. I’ve thought this one out. If you are going to be born, choose to be a single child or one of a large family.

Here’s why: in my family, I was “encouraged” to throw the game and let younger sister win. Why? Because she was little and whined.  If you must have a single sibling, be the younger. It pays.

In a large family, life is a free-for-all. Games are “grab what you can” and whiners are ignored.

Okay, I get it. I’m whining. I’ll take a shower and get dressed. Pajamas at noon? Not my style. I’ll play some music. Blues always make me feel happy. Or real old country and western.

I’ll roll my suitcase in from the bodega and start packing. Go sit under the jacaranda and watch butterflies, track the birds, listen to the cicadas. Sp another cup of tea.

A sure way to feel better is to talk with friends. You are “it”. Today you get to be my ears, hear my sorry story.

Tomorrow I’ll be on my way north, excited and full of anticipation and joy to be back in Montana, even for a few days.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 30, 2019

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It’s A “Fur” Piece

            It’s A “Fur” Piece

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            From there to here. I’m not sure what sparked my curiosity, but from Havre in Montana to Etzatlan in Jalisco, Mexico, the distance is 2449.9 miles. That mileage does not take into consideration any deviation from the route: no searching for a better hotel or non-franchise-plastic-food eatery, no side-trips to see friends or relatives close to the route.

            Imagine a human automaton, hands glued to the steering wheel, eyes on the road, single-mindedly moving forward, only forward. Such a one might conceivable collapse on my doorstep emaciated from lack of food and sleep deprived. Any way you slice the distance pie, 24449.9 miles is a “fur” piece.

            But, if you’ve a mind for exploration and adventure, if you are willing to add miles and time to the trip, the drive can be an incredible experience. Add a weekend visit with Uncle Jack and Aunt Mable in Denver, a side trip to the Grand Canyon, why not, and a jog to Houston, once the flood waters have receded, to visit that old school chum you haven’t seen in forty years. Now we’re talking a real trip.

Once you cross the border, I guarantee you’ll want to spend a couple days in Monterey. Better drive the pick-up truck. You’ll see plenty of un-resistible roadside treasures.

            If you are not up for a road trip, you might fly. Airplanes are not as much fun as a cross-country drive, but if you are on a time budget, a plane will get you here quickly. I’ve made more than one flight without as much as a word to my seatmate. But on my last trip I met Rodrigo and we chatted from LA to Guadalajara.

            My newest friend Rodrigo is a recent graduate in film and photography and had been in Los Angeles for a “shoot”. He invited me to let him know when I’d be in Guadalajara and he’d be pleased to show me around. Not empty words. This young man meant it. He likes people and has learned that each new acquaintance expands one’s life.

            Older friends, both in age and length of friendship, Crin and Kathy, fly home to Victoria tomorrow. We’ve never lived in close proximity until this past year when we became next-door neighbors. Cousin Nancie from Sedro Woolley, Washington, arrives in two weeks. Distance is what we make of it.

            The technological world being what it is today, keeping in touch on a regular basis is made easy. A mere fifty years ago, in my family, long-distance telephone was used only for announcing a death in the family. In fact, fifty years ago, I lived on a ranch south of Dodson with no telephone service. Today, if I were so inclined, I could let you know each time I belched.

            I need to know if my friend Dan in Houston (I really do have a friend in Houston.) is safe.

  I’m overdue for a long “visit” with Vidya in Port Townsend, Washington. She’s one of my friends with whom it always feels like we just saw each other a few minutes ago.

            I’ll let Lola in Idaho know that I tried a quick and easy “Mexican pie” made with corn tortilla shells, bottom and top, instead of pie crust. Lola is allergic to wheat flour. This is not a traditional dish though a Mexican friend gave me the idea. I used apples, pecans, brown sugar and cinnamon for the filling, baked it like an ordinary pie and it is delicious. Imagine this Mexican pie with blueberries!

            My friend Cheryl from Tillamook, Oregon is having a medical procedure. Our email group of gals who grew up and graduated together are all waiting to hear her news.

            Much as I want to, miles mean I can’t simply walk cross the back yard and have coffee with you, my Montana, Oregon, Texas, Colorado, England et al neighbor. We can still exchange everyday news. When is the last time you had coffee with your next-door neighbor? It’s not that far.

            The longest distance cannot be computed by miles. The longest distance between two hearts is silence.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 31, 2017

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Field of Dreams With Converse

Field of Dreams With Converse

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            “I love my night life.”

            “You don’t have a night life,” my cousin Nancie, in Mexico for a three-week vacation in her house across the road from mine, countered. “You’re in bed when the sun goes down. What do you mean, night life?”

            “My dreams. I dream marvelous stories. I usually wake up feeling happy and full of energy. Most of the time I don’t remember my dreams once I’m out of bed.  Most of my dreams are like playing solitaire with a pinochle deck, but, lately, I feel that in my dreams I’m solving problems or answering questions.”

            About that time Nancie parked her car and we took our “old-woman shopping trolleys” out of the back and set out to stock up on fruits and veggies and a few necessities at the tianguis in Etzatlan. 

            We have our favorite vendors but there are always new and different things to see, especially since we don’t go every week. I bought 15 kilos of mangoes for 10 pesos a kilo. When you go to the IGA check out mangoes. I bought mine to make jam. It’s mango season.

            I hiked my mangoes back to the car, emptied my cart, and rolled it back to the market to fill up with 6 potatoes, 3 onions, 2 peppers, a pineapple, 6 guavas, lettuce, 5 tomatoes, 2 avocados, etc. Groceries for one.

            While prepping mangoes for jam at my outdoor kitchen, I mused about the dream I had last night.

            Several classmates and I set off on a trip together. We met somewhere vague—this is a dream, remember—and traveled in a large vehicle. At times it seemed like a tour bus. Other times we were clowns in a VW Beetle. We crossed eastern Montana. I distinctly recall going through Malta, Saco, Hinsdale, Glasgow, some places, recognized, some places, unknown. Dreams are quirky that way. They don’t make sense in the awake world.

            Among those on the bus were Jerry and Lola, Karen, Jess and Sharon, Jane, Fred and Sandy, and Denise and Don. Jim climbed on the bus in Glasgow. We were on our way to a wedding in North Dakota. My dream wasn’t specific about who was getting married. Quirky dreams.  

            Half way across North Dakota, in the winter, I realized I’d forgotten to pack shoes to wear to the wedding. All I had were the sandals on my feet. Sandals, in winter snow, in North Dakota.

            I don’t usually recall my dreams in such detail. We drove into Rugby, (Yes, Virginia, there is a Rugby, ND) afternoon sun fading behind us, and I said, “Let’s go to a western-wear store. I’ll buy a pair of leather boots. Warm enough to keep my toes toasty yet dressy enough for the formal wedding.” I never claimed to be a fashion maven. 

            My friends milled throughout the small store and helped me pick winter boots, soft brown leather, exactly as I had imagined them to be, knee-high, lace-tie front, sheep’s wool lining, with fur trim around the top. Classy.

            Then a pair of classic Chuck Taylor Converse red high-tops jumped out and snared me. I had to have that pair of red Converse high-tops.

            While I tried on the shoes, Sharon sat down beside me. “How could you have forgotten to bring your shoes?”

            “Usually I travel alone. When I pack, I make a list and check it twice and then check it again. This trip we are traveling together. I had all of you with me so I didn’t need to worry.”

I woke up remembering all those details. When we have friends whom we are confident will be there for us, it doesn’t get any better than that.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 6, 2017

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Sunshine On The Beach; One Dark Cloud In The Sky

Sunshine On The Beach; One Dark Cloud In The Sky

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            I always like being back in Mazatlan, the town I visited year after year, the town where I lived nearly three years. Familiar places, familiar people, old friends.

            A sadness, a worry, clouds my holiday. You remember Carlos, my friend who drives a pulmonia? He would take me for groceries, for medical care, for important paperwork. He became my interpreter when I needed one. He and Selena helped me paint my apartment. We shared meals.

Three days prior to my leaving Etzatlan, Carlos phoned. Something was troubling about the call. He could hardly speak with me—or the connection was bad—or interference clogged the airways. His message sounded muddled. But he wanted me to know he would not be in Mazatlan to pick me up at the bus depot.

I felt puzzled. I felt confused. Was Carlos ill? Selena? This family had adopted me soon after I arrived in Mazatlan. They took care of me. After I had moved to Etzatlan, Selena made sure Carlos phoned me once a month. She said if I wasn’t happy in my new home, they would come get me, move me back to Mazatlan! That is how much they cared for me.

Julia just celebrated her quincenero, her fifteenth birthday, a landmark occasion in Mexican families. Carlitos, eighteen, is a baseball prodigy. Young as he is, Carlitos has played baseball in international tournaments two years consecutively.

When I got off the bus in Mazatlan, I went to see Anna, Carlos’ family friend who works at the Post and Ship, a woman whom I had previously met. Her son and Carlitos have played on the same baseball team since they were young boys.

Anna told me Carlitos had been in the hospital in Mazatlan for a month. Last week the whole family accompanied Carlitos in an ambulance to a different hospital in Obregon, about nine hours north of here. A cancerous tumor fills his left lung, pressing against his heart. Carlitos cannot walk and is unable to breathe unaided. After tests, doctors began treatment to shrink the tumor this week. Carlitos seems to be getting excellent care. That gives us hope.

It is hard for me to be here without having my friend drive me wherever I want to go. Whenever I show other pulmonia drivers my picture of Carlos, they always break into a big grin, “Oh, Carlos. He’s my amigo.” His family has a lot of supportive friends in Mazatlan. I stop and see Anna every few days.  

More than this I do not know.  I’m worried. I’m hopeful. I’m scared. I’m grateful Carlitos is getting good care. I’m realistic about how financially devastating this is for the family.  Carlos and Selena are with their son, surrounding him with love. Julia often stays with him throughout the night.

Once again, I’m reminded, life is not fair. Me? Sun, surf, and unending shrimp dinners. But my good old reliable Catholic guilt has kicked in and I don’t enjoy my good fortune in the same way I usually do. My heart is with Carlos and family.

I would love to hop on a bus to Obregon and give Carlitos a hug. But the family can better use the money that trip would cost me. Kathy and Crin are pitching pesos into the pot too. Because of me, they’ve come to know and love Carlos. Crin has put out the word to generous friends in Victoria. One of our dollars buys a lot of pesos.

The donation that means the most to me is from Crin’s neighbor, ten-year old Owen, who gave his savings of twenty dollars because he plays baseball and Carlitos story touched his heart.

We give now. We’ll give more. Money helps but it’s not everything. We wish our donations to enable the family to stay in Obregon, to continue to surround their son and brother with healing love.  

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 4, 2017

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