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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Tour Guide to the Car Wash

Tour Guide to the Car Wash
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Shortly after I moved home again, I discovered my new avocation as tour guide. Friends visit several times a year, usually for a week or longer and I want for them to see and to love this land as much as I do. I haul out my lengthy list of places to go, people to see and things to do. Frequently I hear, “Why did you move back to Harlem. There is nothin’ to do around here.” Always, we run out of time to do it all. My list includes the usual places, the unusual places and those under the classification, Huh?

My friends and I mull over the itinerary. Each morning we choose the day’s items and events. We know each day is a movable feast of fun. But nothing is cast in concrete. Detours are inevitable. Rocks in the road are guaranteed. If we don’t cover much ground that day or the café with the best buffalo burger is closed, there is always tomorrow. Or the trip next spring. We journey into the unknown, like Lewis and Clark.

We discovered The Car Wash quite by accident. My guests and I had spent the day touring Havre Beneath the Streets and the Clack Museum and two used-book stores. We had time to kill before meeting another friend at the supper club for an evening of feast. I pulled into the gas station to fill the tank. When the pump screen inquired if I wanted the Super-Duper Scrub and Rinse, I pushed “Yes”.

“Is this part of the tour?” my friends joked.

“Certainly,” I replied. “This may be the high-light of the day.” Actually, I was talking through my hat, since this was my first time at this particular car wash.

I eased the car into the enclosed wash-ateria. Torrential waters rushed at us from all directions. My van was soaped, rinsed and scrubbed with blasts of water. But then, when the three-colored polish, all pink, blue and yellow blobs, plopped onto the windshield, we cheered with delight at the unexpected beauty. It was as if Jackson Pollack painted a masterpiece while we watched. And that day a tradition was born.

Now when guests arrive, even before unpacking, they ask me, “When do we go to the car wash?”

I have gathered props for an adventure of living theatre at the car wash. I have appropriate music which includes such greats as, “See the USA in your Chevrolet,” “The Ballad of Thunder Road,” “Lost Highway’” “Hot Rod Lincoln,” and “Beep Beep.” While we wait our turn, I pass out party hats, streamers and noise makers. When we drive through the Rocker Panel Blaster and shift into “park,” I hand out the genuine plastic champagne glasses and pop the cork on the Sparkling Cider. When the tri-color polish hits the windows in explosions of pink, blue and yellow, we break into riotous celebration, horns toot, clackers clack, streamers stream and we lift a toast to the world-class tourist experience.

During the final rinse, we “bottoms up” our cider, put the party hats and noise makers back into the basket, exit slowly through the desert blast of hot air, and head out for the next stop on our tour.

I take my job as tour guide seriously. I am eager to initiate my next guests. After all, I have a reputation to uphold.

Sondra Ashton
Home Again in Harlem
January 30, 2009
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