No Habla Espanol But I Do Gestures Well

No Habla Espanol But I Do Gestures Well
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Just today a gentleman in Great Falls, upon hearing I will soon move to Mexico, mirrored my enthusiasm, "Oh, I love Mexico. My wife and I go to Cancun every year." Then he followed with "Aren’t you afraid to go to Mazatlan? We hear so much bad news about the drug traffic there. Even in Cancun, when we walk the beaches, we are accosted by people trying to sell us drugs."

"Well," I answered, "I have walked alone and with friends through many districts in Mazatlan and on the beaches and nobody has ever tried to sell me drugs." I almost felt disappointed. Do I look that, what, boring, intimidating, Pearl of the Pure Heart, or just plain old?

Last weekend Terry came to my house with his young son, TJ. They loaded my van with boxes and other items I had packed for the trip. I wanted a test run, so to speak. Since I will be taking with me only what I can get into my van, I needed to see just what would fit. Normally I trust my judgment of spatial relations. But I wanted to make sure I could take all my carefully selected, packed and Spanish- labeled treasures.

Imagine my face-splitting grin when everything fit—and all in the front of the van. I have lots of room. "Figure out what else you want to take and I’ll come back in a few days to finish," Terry told me.

So I wandered room to room. I carefully considered this and that. Especially the ‘this’ and the ‘that’ items I had first wanted to keep and later rejected. I retrieved my Kitchen Aid Mixer, vintage 1963. I discovered that I had said my good-bys. I am at peace with letting go of my treasures and items of beauty for others to enjoy.

Since I have oodles of room, I’ll ask Terry to spread the boxes over the whole floor of the van. Of course, there will be some last minute additions, some items I still use every day. And some, like a few plates, bowls, a skillet, one knife, fork and spoon, I’ll leave for the new owner to adopt or toss.

I’ve been blessing the house for Kim. I want her to receive as much pleasure from living here as I have. This home provided me a launching pad for new ventures in growth, such as serving on city council and related boards. Where else could I have acquired so much fodder for "Looking out my back door". My intuition tells me that Kim is ready to expand her life too. I want to leave her that legacy, so I go from room to room and plant good memories.

One more week of living in this house, living out of a suitcase and with a depleted refrigerator. But I’m so busy that I hardly notice. Today I attended another final board meeting. I hesitate to say good-by, rather, hasta luego. I have made new friends, some I feel I’ve known forever. We will keep in touch.

Tomorrow Craig is coming to spend a day or two. I met Craig about a dozen years ago when I cast him in "Nice People Dancing to Good Country Music", his stage debut. He spent much of his time on stage with his head beneath the hood of an old truck dropping bolts into an oil pan. We got to be good friends. We do what friends do; we visit.

It is hard to leave the good people I have come to know. Remember, the road runs both ways. I’ll be back to see you. And you will come spend time with me in my new casa, address as yet unknown. So make sure your passport is up to date.

In my new home, because I’m still the same old me, I will surround myself with new art, more books, and every variety of experience. Since I’m a great tour guide, when you visit, I’ll take you places and show you things nobody else would ever think about.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep in touch through my articles. The next couple months I may not write a consistent article a week, but I will keep them coming. After my auction sale, I’ll be on the road, making my leisurely way south to the border. There are a couple hot springs I want to check out along the route. Once I get to Mazatlan and get settled, I hope to keep showing you what is going on out my back door.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 19, 2013
Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the High Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.
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Woman on the Move in Full-Blown Panic Attack

Woman on the Move in Full-Blown Panic Attack
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Storm alert:  All points bulletin. High anxiety winds precipitate storm of indeterminate velocity and duration. Woman in full state of panic attack. Coordinates unknown. Situation critical. Last seen headed toward the deep end. Take cover.

For no identifiable reason. At least, none I can put my finger on.

Early morning. The phone rang. One of my readers called to wish me well; she showered me with words of encouragement, praised my courage, asked me questions. I bluffed my way through the conversation, especially the one itty bitty question for which I had no real knowledge to answer. At the end of the conversation I felt quite smug. 

I enjoyed a normal morning, puttered around my boxes, straightened this, tossed that. Tried on all four bathing suits to see if they still fit. I don’t even swim. I had purchased three of the suits on different trips over the years when I forgot to pack one. I know. Nobody flies to coastal Mexico without a bathing suit. Shrugged and decided to take all of them.  

Ate breakfast. Phoned the phone company about my defective service. Read four newspapers. Scanned my three-page list of last minute things to do before I move.

Something nagged at me—some little detail. Some question plagued me. I had talked with ex-pats, explored online, official and unofficial websites, read books, out-of-date and recent.

Without conscious thought I found myself in front of my computer, reading and re-reading, searching articles about immigration. I cannot say I found anything new. If anything, I found an updated report on new immigration laws to be encouraging. Yet, everything I read, I read with dark glasses. What yesterday made me feel jubilant, today skidded me into the slough of despond. 

Okay, so maybe that is not totally truthful. It might have been such a silly thing that threw me into a tailspin. You know the herbs I had so carefully cultivated in my backyard bird-sanctuary herb garden, the ones I dried myself and stored in colorful and whimsical glass jars. The ones I had packed and then re-packed. I can’t take them. Nothing that comes from seeds or nuts can cross the border.

This paragraph followed the paragraph about no guns in the “what not to take” section with a neat reminder that a bullet could land one’s jolly bottom on a jail cot for an indeterminate stay. I actually giggled. I own neither gun nor bullet. I do have a genuine faux antique vase made from a brass shell casing, cannon sized, I bought outside a lovely old cathedral in the mountains. It stays.

So I cannot take my herbs or spices. Big deal. But why does my head feel like a ping-pong table with six simultaneous games? Could it possibly be the fine print about a complete inventory of each packed box, in triplicate? Could it be the realization that I have to open, scrutinize, itemize and repack every single box? Itemized in both English and Spanish. I swear, I never read that fine, fine, fine print previously. The good news is that I’ll know the Spanish name for everything I own.

Ah, well. Better here than at the border crossing, out on the asphalt, under 118 degrees of unclouded sunshine, scrutinized by unsmiling armed guards who don’t see any humor in the situation.

I’ll do it, of course. I will. I’ll open each box, discard anything I think might be the slightest bit questionable, seedy or nutty. I’ll be the only thing both seedy and nutty. I will create an itemized inventory to be the envy of any bean counter. If I wear to shreds both my English-to-Spanish dictionaries, small price to pay. And if I spite myself, well, I’ve done that before.

Meanwhile, I’m going to bed, pull the covers over my head and have a pity party for one. I don’t care if it is mid-afternoon. Don’t wake me. I’m not getting up until I weather this storm. Don’t bother to call. Don’t bring chicken soup. There is no comfort, hot or cold. Oh, I’ll get over it.

Or maybe I’ll just move to Jordan. You know, between Mosby and Brockway. There are similarities to Mexico. It is almost a foreign country. Cultural differences are huge. I don’t speak the language. I’ll be as much a gringo in one place as another. But I won’t have to repack my boxes.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
September 5, 2013
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