Grieving the Leaving and Turning the Page

Grieving the Leaving and Turning the Page

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

            As I threaded my way on a crazy-quilt patchwork route through Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregon, Nevada and Arizona, headed for the border into Mexico, I have memorized, imprinted and loved every scrap of color and beauty. Except for one drab piece of brown southeast of Yakima.  

            For much of the trip tears rolled down my face. Each bend in the road seemed to generate memories; memories of those in my life who have died, memories of precious times with friends and family, memories that I had hoped would lie buried forever. I drank deeply of each memory.

            Ever since I made the decision to move, I have been aware this is my opportunity to create a new life, a life without the familiar comforts of place, friends, language and culture. For me, this means I can also leave behind some old, worn-out beliefs. While driving through that drab empty brown, I “got it”. I “got” that I really will create a new life. I “got it” on a deeper, visceral level and burst into loud, gasping wails doing seventy down the freeway. 

            Exciting? Terrifying? Cleansing? Rejuvenating? Yes, all at the same time. Along with all the tears has come a heightened awareness of how special it is to be alive each new day. Each day is a new page on which to write my new life script. 

            Along with heightened awareness has come a lowering of my cellular brain mass. Or something. Let me describe a typical day. I drove the Spaghetti Bowl into Las Vegas to spend a couple days with Tim and Tara. Tara is one of my “girls”. She and my daughter Dee went to college together, spent holidays at my home and Tara even lived with me a while. Tim and Tara teach school in Vegas. 

            I asked Tim to help me download Microsoft Word. I had belatedly discovered that my new/old-reconditioned laptop computer did not have Word. That explained why I could not get it to load a new Word page for me to write. Believe me, I had tried. In the process Tim asked me for my email address. “sondrajean@yahoo.com”, I told him. I left out the “.ashton” part. Visa took my money. Microsoft refused to download. Tim fiddled around with no success for an hour. Finally he called Microsoft for support. As we are together going over all the data again, I strung together sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com. (There you have it if you would like to email me.) When I realized my mistake, I wanted to shoot out my eyeballs and bury my corpse in the desert. 

            See, writing a new page each day without the past hovering over everything one does is like being a young child who has not yet learned her ABC’s. That’s me. It can be infuriating. I’m learning all kinds of new things from the basement up. 

            It gets even better/worse. The afternoon I left Tim and Tara in Vegas, I headed for Kingman, Arizona. The entire route had me exclaiming, “Oh, My God,” around every bend of breathtaking beauty. I pulled into a clean, cheap and adequate motel in Kingman, secured a room and opened the back of my van to get my bag.  

            I had placed my bag where we three each had to stumble over the top of it to get out the door. Tim and Tara had spent the afternoon out. They got home at the same time I was patting around for my invisible bag. We both called and got each other’s voice mail. Finally connected. “Tara, I would replace everything but it has all my new underwear. And my money.” They brought me my bag. They drove my bag to Kingman that evening. 

            I felt like Scarecrow on the Yellow Brick Road, all straw and no brains. Two weeks ago I spent fifteen days soaking in lithium-laced hot water springs in the mountains of Montana. I would love the explanation that I am still in lithium la-la-land. Part of me wants to return for another dose. 

            The rest of me is committed to move forward, turn a fresh page and when I find myself tripping down the Yellow Brick Road, I can always sing and dance.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 14, 2013

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Camel Sweat and Cow Dung

For intro: Ah, the sweet smells of home.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Camel sweat and cow dung


“I fell in love with him because he smelled like horses and leather,” I told Karen. “He swung me up on his rope horse and taught me to ride. Well, the horse taught me to ride. My husband taught me to notice things along the trail. I had a tendency to ride with my head down, looking for rattlesnakes. He taught me instead to pay attention to my horse’s ears, which would twitch and point if he saw a snake along the way. When I didn’t have to worry about snakes, I learned to look out over the land. We rode for fun every evening, often after a work-day in the saddle. That horsey-leather smell still makes me wistful.”

“I grew up on horses,” Karen said. “My favorite smell is a sweaty horse, one that I’ve been running hard and he’s warm and stomping and blowing and full of energy. When I rub him down, I flick the sweat off his rump with my hand. I love that smell.”

We were driving up and down the streets of Harlem at about three miles per hour. It was Friday evening, the day before the school reunion. We were reminiscing, trying to remember just who used to live in the house on the corner, or in the house that is no longer there. We got to talking about how over the years our values have changed. And somehow that led us to talking about good smells.

“Horses,” I said. “That’s probably why I like camel-sweat tea.”

Karen raised her eyebrows. I told her the story. “In ancient times, merchants from China and India carried tea and spices to the Mediterranean countries across the mountains along the Silk Road . The tea leaves became soaked with the camels’ sweat. Every few nights the men had to dry the tea over their campfires, giving it a strong smoky flavor. My friends call it my “stinky tea”. Lapsang Souchong. It’s my favorite.”


“I like the smell of cow dung,” Karen confessed with a side-long look. “Especially when it is fresh and steamy on a cold winter day.”

“Me too. But my favorite is pig. It reminds me of raw brown sugar.”

We burst out laughing. We had both had grown up surrounded by animals. A whiff of scent triggers a host of memories.

This time of year the wild rose and milkweed blossoms and wet dirt drop me back in time to our farm on the Milk River . Once again I’m walking along the irrigation ditch, watching the dirt crumble off the bank into the swift brown water. I’m carrying a jar of iced tea and a fresh cinnamon roll to my Dad. The smells of cut grass and new-mown hay, scooped into windrows in the fields, make me feel rich, though it is neither my grass nor my fields.

When summertime heat has settled in, dust and sagebrush will have me back riding Sputnik again, moving cows to pasture, scanning the sky any the hint of a cloud, praying for rain. Although too many years have passed, memory is vivid.

On return trips to Harlem when my Dad was alive, rolling down the east slope of the mountains into Ellensburg, I could smell the feed lots, the dust and the sage. I was instantly transported to Montana , though I had hundreds of miles to go. The lure of dust and sagebrush eventually reeled me back home for good.

Whiffs from back yard barbeques reminded Karen and I that we had not yet had dinner. We headed home, still puttering along at about three or four miles per hour, remembering, forgetting, laughing and talking, reliving events from forty and fifty years ago. We heard shouts. There were nearly thirty people sitting on a front patio. I recognized a friend waving his arms. He shouted for us to join them for dinner, the barbeque was ready to put on the table. I looked around, the way one does when one is not sure who is really being motioned to. “Yes, you. Come eat with us and meet some of my friends.” We parked along the crowded street and joined the celebrants.

It was nearly dark when we left. Rain hung heavy in the air, along with another familiar night scent. “Now that’s another smell I really like,” I told Karen. “Eau de skunk.”

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 15, 2010
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________