Thanksgiving—Therapy With Vinegar

Thanksgiving—Therapy With Vinegar

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            Maybe it’s the phase of the mountains of the moon. Maybe it’s the juxtaposition of Mars with Saturn on the cusp of the night sky in the morning fog.  Maybe aliens from within or without have invaded and sucked my energy into a vortex to be re-used when I am reincarnated as an artist, punished for my past life, forced to paint a thousand renditions of velvet Elvis.

            Such was my state of mind this morning as I kicked myself metaphorically around my casita, wondering why I couldn’t feel more thankful.

            Tis the Season. I’m supposed to feel Thankful. Of Good Cheer. Deck the Halls and Folly Lolly Lolly.

            Fortunately, for my state of muggling mind, this morning Leo showed up early to help me wash windows. My house in tiny but it is walled with windows, not much for walls, just windows, each one five feet wide and arched to four feet high. I bask in the light, refuse to block windows with curtains.

            Window washing is my least favorite chore. I make my bed as soon as my feet hit the floor. I cheerfully mop my floors almost daily. Dirty dishes are NOT left to pro-create in my sink. But I put off—avoid—ignore washing windows as long as I can.

            Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your point of view, Leo, who helps me keep my little corner of my world looking like a magical garden-park, thinks I should wash windows once a month. I can successfully outwit him and procrastinate for three or four months.

            So last week I committed to this week, grumbling all the while. Today is the day. The deal we struck is that I would wash the windows inside and Leo wash them outside, which requires either ladders and/or arching one’s body over large pots of foliage.

            Armed with spritz bottles of vinegar and piles of cotton rags, in tandem, we attacked the dirt, dust and window grime. Leo cranked up his boom box with Christmas tunes, in English. I growled, under my breath.

            As a therapy, window washing might be under-rated. As the windows began to sparkle, I began to sweat, also good therapy.

            When we finished the windows, Leo, young enough to be my grandson, said to me, “Do you feel better now?”

            “I didn’t know it showed.”

            “You lonely, Sondra. You lonely.”

            No man that young has the right to be that perceptive.

            It’s a feeling. It will pass. My windows sparkle. I won’t have turkey for dinner but I could if I wanted. I’m hardly suffering.

Mostly, I’m content. Holidays aren’t always the best time of year. I’m surrounded by all kinds of goodness, living in Paradise. My family is battling Northern elements.

So, yes, Leo. Today I feel lonely. I feel separate.

Not lonesome enough to hop a plane to the frigid north. But should you want to come south, I’ll meet you in Puerto Vallarta.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November Thanksgiving Week November 22, 2017

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Love In The Treetops

Love In The Treetops

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            A friend, a man who has been single for a number of years, wrote to say that he’s been feeling down in the mullygrubs. He said he’s probably just feeling lonesome. He’s considering jump-starting a romance, even though he thinks he might be headed the wrong direction.

            I’m not one to sneer at romance in any form. My inclination, and I suspect my friend does likewise, is that when I meet somebody I tend to color in the blank spots to fit the pattern I want to see. That’s never worked for me yet.

            Since I live in such a place and in such a way that I don’t meet available men, romance is a moot point. But I have to confess that the last few days I’ve been wishing—well, I don’t even know how to form my wish.

            This vague dissatisfaction began while I was sitting out on my back patio in the shade of the jacaranda tree, watching birds.

            Ah, the birds. The birds of Jalisco    look like flowers in the treetops—splashes of color, reds, yellows, oranges and blues. I can, and do, watch them for hours. Which is exactly what got me into this slump.

            Instead of celebrating their beauty, I noticed the birds are all in pairs. Hims and hers. All of them. That’s not possible. There’s got to be extras. Old maids. Hermits. Curmudgeons of the feathery variety. I’m not seeing them.

            When I do spot a single bird, sitting on a wire, chirrup, chirrup; in swoops a mate, and shameless behavior begins. They don’t have to flaunt it, do they?

The lovebirds are the worst offenders. No wonder I feel lonely. These are quail doves, according to my Mexican bird book, smaller than our mourning doves, with a prettier coo, and entirely lacking in inhibitions, which is why I call them lovebirds.

            There is another bird, quite handsome, that has a call that sounds like a wolf whistle. I kid you not. First time I heard it, I almost sprained my neck, twisting around to see from whence it came. I hadn’t heard a wolf whistle in forty years. So, it wasn’t meant for me; still, I thanked Senor Bird. At my age, I take it where I can get it.

            Critters provide me unending entertainment. If flower petals had wings, they’d be butterflies. Like the birds, butterflies display an amazing array of color combinations. The bed sheets, not their official name, are back.  I’ve seen four of them so far. Up close, these huge white butterflies have the most delicate black edging, like lace.

            Lizards of unending sizes, colors and types, iguanas, bunny rabbits (cotton-tail variety), squirrels; every critter is paired. You’d think the Ark just came to rest on the mountaintop, the door dropped down, and two by two, the animals march off to do what they do in the Spring-time.

            I don’t resent my avian friends. Envy, yes. Resent, no. How could I resent creatures which so enthusiastically greet the morning?

            At first light, before the actual sun is even a hint on the horizon, the many-membered chorus of birds begins to sing, each individual song full-throated, top volume. This musical cacophony, like an orchestra tuning instruments, goes on for about forty-five minutes. Out of this variety of voices, don’t ask me how, beauty emerges.

            Amazingly, as soon as the sun, the tip of the red ball, peeks over the horizon, the chorus segues into silence, a holy time as the sun rises. Once Sol is topping the trees, individual species begin their daily chores, a different music. Birds begin to feed, to flit, to flirt.

            If nothing else, it would be nice to be able to turn to another person over cups of coffee and say, “Ah, the birds are at it again.”

            But, wait. This is unbelievable. A handsome yellow bird, all shades of yellow from pale to vivid with greenish hues at the edges of his wings, one of the many Warblers, just landed on my windowsill, cocked his head and spoke to me. Flirted, actually. I’m out of the loop, but I do remember flirting. Oh, the songs. Oh, the sweetness. He winked. “Come with me Toots. I’ll show you a good time.”

            I shook my head. “It won’t work,” I told him. Cultural and language differences notwithstanding, I can’t but imagine his shock and horror when he discovers all my pillows are filled with feathers.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 15, 2017

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