How I came to Own Half a Car in Mexico
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Recently I spent two weeks in Puerto Penasco, state of Sonora, northern Mexico, in a neighborhood which reminded me of Harlem when I was growing up, dirt streets and all. My friend Lupe had gone there from Mazatlan to work for a few weeks. Business was slow in Mazatlan but hopping in Penasco, so his company said. They would provide transportation north and an apartment. He invited me to visit him and see more of Mexico.
Lupe arrived in Penasco three days before me. His "apartment" was a 10’ by 10’ room with blue walls, one of six in a row, on the backside of the landlady’s property. "That’s okay," I said. "I’m coming to visit you, not an apartment." Meanwhile he asked a buddy if he could borrow a car to show me around. No, but he had one for sale. Being mechanically inclined, Lupe looked it over and handed his friend 5,000 pesos for a Dodge Grand Caravan. He could sell it when he returned to Mazatlan. Aw, shucks, this sweet man bought a car for me.
The car sat in a locked compound in Sonoyita, a border town an hour north of Penasco. Lupe knew he had two days work to get the car ready to drive. He could take the shuttle after work to change oil, pump tires, charge the battery, all those things he could do himself. For nine frustrating days, Lupe was unable to reach the compound owner so he could get our car. We walked everywhere. We walked a lot.
Finally Lupe got the car and took time off, grabbed tools and took the early shuttle to Sonoyita. He drove the car home, pleased with his purchase. Then we went to the government office in Penasco to start the paperwork.
We had no idea how our last three days together would be spent. Since the car was going to live in Mazatlan in Sinaloa, it would have to be registered nationally, rather than just in Sonora. Registration had to take place at one of the border towns. It has something to do with convoluted (my word) import laws. For $60.00 US the government agent at the office told Lupe that it took three days in Sonoyita but could be done in three hours if we went to San Luis Rio Colorado. Oh, and one had to pay in US Dollars. $900.00. Which neither of us had in our pockets.
But, I had my credit cards. The nice man at American Express had told me once that if I were ever stranded anywhere, all I had to do was call for help. Any bank would give me the money. We spent the remainder of that day going to banks. No, to American Express. No, to Visa. Any bank but not in Mexico.
We decided to go anyway, a day trip. We got up early and crossed the desert to San Luis Rio Colorado. First we went to the office that handled the registrations. Then, thinking it might work closer to the border, we tried to get money at four banks, to no avail. But, wait. All I had to do was walk across the border, find a bank, and walk back. The last thing I said was, "I hope my cell phone doesn’t quit when I cross the border."
I crossed the border, walked about six blocks to a bank, exited in two minutes with a fistful of US Dollars. I crossed back into Mexico. No Lupe. The rule is, when lost, which I figured must apply here, stay put. Which I did. I turned into a large grease spot on the concrete, in the 118 degree sun, texting furiously. Meanwhile, Lupe was waiting two blocks away, where he had been told I would exit, wondering why I wouldn’t answer his texts.
After an hour, I hailed a cab, "Take me to the Cathedral." It seemed logical to me. It was a place I knew. I sat a few minutes on a bench in the town square. Then I recognized the café where we’d had breakfast. Our car was parked across the street. To the left was the office with the paperwork. I found the office, asked the girl to call Lupe and downed two liters of water. I was hot. Take that any way you want.
We hung around the office until closing. "Manana," they said. We had the clothes on our backs. We began hunting a hotel. The first was cheap but awful. The second, gated, guarded and expensive, worse than the first. Like in the fairy-tale, the third was just right. I wanted to move in. We bought tooth brushes. Next day, "manana" again. I missed my flight home. The second night I scrubbed our sweaty clothing at the little sink. We talked a lot. We laughed a lot. Third day, it always takes three days when one is stuck in a fairy-tale, we drove back to Penasco in our new car, registered, legal and oh, so broke.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 11, 2013________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Saturday, July 6, 2013
How My Frugality Broke the Bank
A couple weeks ago I wrote about beating the system with Cheap-Flights-R-Us. Today I hang my head in defeat. I had bought a round-trip ticket on-line. Great Falls to Phoenix. My ultimate destination was Puerto Penasco in Mexico.
Sky Harbor in Phoenix sprawls over miles of concourse. Imagine my surprise when my plane landed in this itty-bitty place, tossed me out onto the tarmac and I walked into Gateway Airport, smaller than Great Falls International, in Mesa, Arizona. I looked at my ticket. Phoenix/Mesa. Oh.
The nice lady at the information desk directed me to a good motel with free shuttle from the airport. She let me use her phone to secure a room.
The shuttle driver proved to be an encyclopedia of information. He told me that a cab from Mesa to Dos Portes Superior in Phoenix to catch the shuttle to Mexico, would be at least a hundred dollars. Nope, he didn’t know of an office in Mesa. He said my best way to get from Mesa to Phoenix would be by private driver.
The nice man volunteered to drive me for fifty dollars. "Deal," I said, shaking his hand. Was it a good deal? Well, he got me there and on time.
The Dos Portes Superior office in Phoenix, a tiny room with a few folding-chairs, quickly filled to capacity. The shuttle van was late getting started. While my command of Spanish is improving, it is mostly lacking. A white-haired gentleman took me under wing and helped me to know what was happening. Finally we boarded the van and headed south. No air conditioning. The driver gave us a choice to turn around or keep going. I voiced my vote with the other passengers—we kept going, through the southern Arizona desert, hot-spot of the nation. We passed through beautiful country including Organ-Pipe Cactus National Monument, a must-see.
At the border, just so you know when you plan your own trip, the van stops and all passengers exit with luggage, aptly named. We lugged our bags through customs into Mexico. Since I was not carrying guns they let me cross. We walked to another even tinier Dos Portes office to await the van from Penasco. It was a tiny bit late, just over an hour. There was no bathroom. But at 123 degrees, it didn’t matter.
When we got close to Puerto Penasco I texted my friend Lupe to meet me at the station. Unbeknownst to me, when I crossed the border, my cell phone no longer worked. I entered the final office, tired, hot, sweaty and scared, with no phone and no Lupe. Using Spanglish and waving arms I asked the man behind the desk to call my friend.
Now for the return trip: I had missed my flight by two days but that is a different story. At Dos Portes I bought a ticket to the Mesa office, there was one, for an extra twenty dollars. At the border, the first driver didn’t tell the second driver I was going to Mesa. So he took me to Phoenix. "Look," I said, holding my ticket in front of his face. "I paid for Mesa. I need to be at Gateway in Mesa in a half hour." After haggling, and for an extra forty dollars, the man took me to Gateway. I thanked him profusely and rushed into the airport.
There were ticket lines to Grand Forks, Billings, someplace in Idaho and Minneapolis. No Great Falls. A young woman, an angel, spotted the consternation on my face and asked if she could help. "They don’t fly to Great Falls every day." There must be a solution. "Billings?" She took me to a special counter. "Billings is boarding now. I’ll see if I can get you on," she said. I figured I could get a shuttle flight into Great Falls.
Previously I had purchased trip protection so asked if I could use that against my new ticket. "Not when you miss your flight," she said. "But look. You made a mistake that works for you. You booked your return for July, not June. (Red face.) Let’s make this work. Uh, the flight is full. Let me check cancellations." Minutes later my angel raced me through security. For another two hundred dollars, almost the entire cost of my round-trip ticket, I took the last and only seat available, due to a "no-show".
I landed in Billings, picked up my bag. There are no shuttle flights from Billings to anywhere in Montana. None.
Another angel suggested a rental car. In tears and one-hundred thirty-two dollars later not including gas, I drove a little black sports car from Billings to Great Falls International, in the dark with no map. It took two hours to get gas, turn in the rental, locate my van, gas up again. When I finally got home, eyes like pinwheels, I had exactly ten dollars to my name. The cheapest flight I ever booked had become the most expensive trip I ever took.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 4, 2013_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
How I Beat the Odds and Flew the Cheap Flight
My friends Richard and Marcia told me about a new airline with really cheap flights if you happened to want to go to one of their destination cities. Richard said that for the cheapest seats, they strapped you to the wings. That Richard is such a tease. But I understood that this would be a no-frills flight. Not even a tiny bag of free peanuts!
Once I figured out how to unlock the information for "flight only" on the website, bypassing all the marvelous vacation deals with hotel, rental limo and gourmet meals, I discovered that I was indeed in luck. I wanted to go to one of the Sun Cities for a short visit with a friend. Cheap-Seats-R-Us listed my city as one of their few destinations. I could make the entire round trip for less than I usually pay for gas to get out of Montana.
Living in Montana is like being stuck on fly paper. It is hard to lift off! When I lived in Seattle it cost me a fortune to fly into Great Falls, the closest airport to home. It was cheaper to fly to London. On the other hand I could fly to Las Vegas, should I want to go there, for $69.00. For the same price, and with a strong tail wind, I can fly from, say, Harlem to Turner.
But that is neither here nor there. On Cheap-Flights-R-Us, I found I could fly round trip from Great Falls to my destination city for a mere $86.30. A hot-diggity-dog deal.
But wait—what about those add-on fees, such as the Federal Excise Tax. And what is this "segment fee"? Bugs have segments. But I’m a human being. Did I count as one segment or more than one segment? Are arms and legs each a segment? What in tarnation is a PFC? And a September 11 Security Fee? I kept my booking receipt just to prove it to you. See, says so right here. To all of this, add on a Carrier Usage Charge. I guess that means I was allowed to actually board the plane and stay on it from Point A to Point B. If I wanted to choose my seat, I had to add another $30.00. If I let them choose for me, I paid nothing. That was a tough one. I like to sit with my damaged leg on the aisle so I can get out of my seat at the end of the flight. But, hey, thirty dollars is thirty dollars. I’m now up to $133.98 and at the mercy of computer-pick seating, which is like a poor-man lottery.
Now we come to the fine print—baggage fees. One is allowed to carry on a purse or wallet for no charge. However, on Cheap-Seats-R-Us, a carry-on bag costs $30.00 if you pre-pay. More if you wait until you check in. The first checked bag costs $50.00 and the next one costs $80.00, pre-paid, more at check in. This brought my $86.30 ticket to a grand total of $235.96; that is for myself and one bag, pre-paid. Get the picture?
Ha! I created the perfect solution. I was headed to sunny shores for a short couple weeks. I had to smile at how clever I was. First I put on an adequate number of sets of undergarments. Then I squeezed into my bathing suit. Over that I pulled on two pair of shorts, two short pants, one long trousers, one loose wide-legged dressy pants. With five or six blouses and shirts, I was set. I strung several necklaces around my neck and jammed a ring on each finger. I didn’t say I looked stylish but I certainly did look cheerful. I could tell because everybody grinned at me. I wore my best sandals. In my oversize purse I tucked my toothbrush and several "beach read" type books and a folded large plastic trash bag. I could hardly move my arms or legs.
I knew I’d be in trouble if I had to take off my clothes to clear Security. What a relief when I was directed through the full-body scanner. The person monitoring the scanner made me stand on the mat with my arms up while he called over several co-workers to take a look. Finally he waved me through with a friendly smile. When I boarded the airplane, all I had to do was squeeze into the seat, extend the seatbelt to the longest length and tug it to fasten it.
When I got off the plane I waddled down the concourse to the nearest bathroom. I quickly stripped down to one set of clothing and stowed the rest of my garments in the plastic garbage bag. Voila. I walked out of the terminal carrying my plastic luggage and a savings of $102.00.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 13, 2013_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My kaleidoscopic variegated shifting scenes of life
My kaleidoscopic variegated shifting scenes of life
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I don’t understand the concept of boredom. As a child my family made sure that if I even looked bored, I got handed a do-list. I distinctly remember a time, when I was single-not-by-choice and raising my kids, when I prayed daily, please, let me experience boring. While I wasn’t exactly operating on the crisis of the moment, every day was hand-to-mouth and I certainly had tapped into the fast moving physics of cause/effect. My requests for boring were denied. I got "different" instead. I never got to know boredom.
I remember one long-ago day when my oldest child complained, "I’m bored." With a gleam in my eye, I found her a dozen ways to avoid boredom and she never complained again. That tactic worked with my youngest too. To my credit, I didn’t hand them just a list of jobs but mingled the chores with fun things to do.
Mother Nature seems to work under a similar principle that keeps each day full and different from the previous. One rainy day we in Harlem were under flood advisory, our water and sewer usage restricted. Our dated waste-water system could not handle the run-off, not with every sump pump in town adding to the flow. But the next day the sun was shining and all was well. Then the following day, after two more inches of rain, we hovered anxiously on the banks of the Milk River, watching the roiling waters rise. Life as usual on the High Line. Certainly not boring.
It had never occurred to me that my yard work might keep my friends and neighbors entertained. In an effort to avoid watering and mowing and watering and mowing the lawn, ad infinitum, a few years ago I had 15 yards of bark chips delivered to my driveway and spread them over my seeming five-hundred acres of grass. That mountain of chips was the talk of the town, but once spread, the bark chips eliminated the grass and most of the weeds. I planted fruit trees and flowering shrubs and made my yard beautiful.
In my process of downsizing my life (Phase Two), it occurred to me that if I put my house on the market, I might do well to re-install a lawn in front, even if that means water, mow, water, ad infinitum, or until the house sells, whichever comes first. So I hired a man to rake up all the bark chips and move them to the back yard, where the chips look perfectly wonderful in and around the fruit trees, which needed new chips this year anyway.
The other day my cousin Shirley said to me, "Everybody in town is asking me, ‘What is Sondra doing with her yard?’" Of course, nobody asked me. In our small town way, everybody wants to know but nobody wants to be nosey. I don’t mind. You may knock on my door any time to ask me what I am doing. My life is mundane, but it fascinates me and I’ll share it with you. Soon a truck and crew will show up with sod and I will have instant lawn. I could set up chairs and charge admission, serve lemonade.
Just this morning at 6:30 coffee with the boys at the City Shop, Chuck asked me if I had a real estate sale sign in my front yard. "No," I answered with lifted brow and a questioning look. I hadn’t told anybody that I had just signed papers the day before. "Oh, I heard you did." Mis-information travels faster than the speed of rumor in this small town.
I had agonized for months over selling my house. House and yard get larger and more demanding every year. One day soon the realtor will show up and pound a "For Sale" sign in my front yard, the yard with instant grass.
Meanwhile, I’ll keep working, trying to take each day one step at a time. I’m not the most patient person on the planet. I want my life mapped out. Nobody wants to know what tomorrow will bring more than I. But since life never has worked that way for me, I have learned not to push the river. That doesn’t mean I don’t jump in from time to time and try to divert the flow into a different channel, one I think looks more promising. A couple times I’ve woken in the dark night screaming at myself, "What do you think you are doing!" Eventually I come to my senses and allow the river to flow without my help. Tomorrow will be what it will be, neither better nor worse than today, but it will be different, not boring.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 6, 2013___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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I don’t understand the concept of boredom. As a child my family made sure that if I even looked bored, I got handed a do-list. I distinctly remember a time, when I was single-not-by-choice and raising my kids, when I prayed daily, please, let me experience boring. While I wasn’t exactly operating on the crisis of the moment, every day was hand-to-mouth and I certainly had tapped into the fast moving physics of cause/effect. My requests for boring were denied. I got "different" instead. I never got to know boredom.
I remember one long-ago day when my oldest child complained, "I’m bored." With a gleam in my eye, I found her a dozen ways to avoid boredom and she never complained again. That tactic worked with my youngest too. To my credit, I didn’t hand them just a list of jobs but mingled the chores with fun things to do.
Mother Nature seems to work under a similar principle that keeps each day full and different from the previous. One rainy day we in Harlem were under flood advisory, our water and sewer usage restricted. Our dated waste-water system could not handle the run-off, not with every sump pump in town adding to the flow. But the next day the sun was shining and all was well. Then the following day, after two more inches of rain, we hovered anxiously on the banks of the Milk River, watching the roiling waters rise. Life as usual on the High Line. Certainly not boring.
It had never occurred to me that my yard work might keep my friends and neighbors entertained. In an effort to avoid watering and mowing and watering and mowing the lawn, ad infinitum, a few years ago I had 15 yards of bark chips delivered to my driveway and spread them over my seeming five-hundred acres of grass. That mountain of chips was the talk of the town, but once spread, the bark chips eliminated the grass and most of the weeds. I planted fruit trees and flowering shrubs and made my yard beautiful.
In my process of downsizing my life (Phase Two), it occurred to me that if I put my house on the market, I might do well to re-install a lawn in front, even if that means water, mow, water, ad infinitum, or until the house sells, whichever comes first. So I hired a man to rake up all the bark chips and move them to the back yard, where the chips look perfectly wonderful in and around the fruit trees, which needed new chips this year anyway.
The other day my cousin Shirley said to me, "Everybody in town is asking me, ‘What is Sondra doing with her yard?’" Of course, nobody asked me. In our small town way, everybody wants to know but nobody wants to be nosey. I don’t mind. You may knock on my door any time to ask me what I am doing. My life is mundane, but it fascinates me and I’ll share it with you. Soon a truck and crew will show up with sod and I will have instant lawn. I could set up chairs and charge admission, serve lemonade.
Just this morning at 6:30 coffee with the boys at the City Shop, Chuck asked me if I had a real estate sale sign in my front yard. "No," I answered with lifted brow and a questioning look. I hadn’t told anybody that I had just signed papers the day before. "Oh, I heard you did." Mis-information travels faster than the speed of rumor in this small town.
I had agonized for months over selling my house. House and yard get larger and more demanding every year. One day soon the realtor will show up and pound a "For Sale" sign in my front yard, the yard with instant grass.
Meanwhile, I’ll keep working, trying to take each day one step at a time. I’m not the most patient person on the planet. I want my life mapped out. Nobody wants to know what tomorrow will bring more than I. But since life never has worked that way for me, I have learned not to push the river. That doesn’t mean I don’t jump in from time to time and try to divert the flow into a different channel, one I think looks more promising. A couple times I’ve woken in the dark night screaming at myself, "What do you think you are doing!" Eventually I come to my senses and allow the river to flow without my help. Tomorrow will be what it will be, neither better nor worse than today, but it will be different, not boring.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 6, 2013___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Downsizing My Life: Door Number One
Downsizing My Life: Door Number One
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One windy day last October I tripped over a leaf-covered obstruction in the sidewalk and broke my wrist. Looking back, my painful wrist was the first catalyst I can identify that began to steer my thinking in the direction of a major life change. Since my accident, I can no longer do a lot of things I used to be able to carry off with panache.
Just yesterday the man I hired to do some yard work I can’t handle any more, stuff involving a wheel barrow and pitch fork, asked me, "How did you ever get in the recovering furniture business?"
My son was five. My daughter was a senior in high school, getting ready to go to college. I was a Mom on my own. I had enrolled at the U of M to start work toward a Master’s degree. Got a job. Put Ben in daycare. After a nightmarish two weeks, he and I agreed that daycare didn’t work for us. I withdrew from school. I quit my job. There had to be a way I could support my family using skills I had learned growing up, at the same time doing something I enjoyed. For a few months I supported us by hemming blue jeans and replacing zippers in ski jackets. It was hand to mouth.
I continued to focus on sewing and in a few short months things came together in a wondrous way. I bought a commercial sewing machine. I learned upholstery. I moved to Poulsbo, Washington and started a successful business, specializing in antique restoration. All these years later, after a move back to my hometown, I continued my business on the High Line. But then I fell and broke my wrist. The break healed but RSD, a nerve disorder, set in. Much of the physical work I was used to doing is now difficult or close to impossible.
Then in early spring, my son was diagnosed with lung cancer. A young man with cancer is not the way things are supposed to be. But nobody is immune from a hit from "not the way things are supposed to be". He became my second catalyst. His doctor sent him home to write his "Bucket List". As we talked about it, Ben reminded me that I had wanted to devote more of my life to my painting and writing.
You have to understand, I have the most wonderful and patient customers in the world. "Get healed," they said. Furniture piled up in my shop. I ran away from home and went on an extended retreat. When I returned I had made the decision to change my life. I would finish the work for the customers I had committed to and then to lock the door to the Recovery Room.
At the rate I could work one-and-a-half handed, I figured closing that door might take as long as six months. That door might stay cracked open forever. So I called my friend and colleague Steve, a furniture upholster from Silverdale, Washington. This week Steve rode out on the train to help me with my heavier projects. I can handle the smaller jobs. And then I my life and identity as an upholsterer will be at an end.
Working with furniture, making wonderful but shabby old pieces new and stylish, has been a part of my life, the love of my life, for almost thirty years. Yikes! I must have subtracted wrong. Nope—twenty-nine years. It will be like losing a limb. Can I do it? I want to. I have to. I will.
I’ve always liked the cliché, when one door closes, another door opens. And that may be true for you, but in my life, I generally find multiple doors, none with a neon flashing arrow pointing "Choose Me", from which to choose. Remember Monty Hall in that old television game show, "Let’s Make a Deal"? Remember the "Big Deal" at the end of the show, where contestants got a chance to trade their booty for the possibility of grabbing something of greater value, behind Door Number One, Door Number Two or Door Number Three. We viewers held our breath as the contestants pondered which door to pick. We wanted the best for each participant. For the contestant who had won the washer and dryer, we wanted the Biggest Value Deal of all, the brand new shiny red Cadillac convertible, gleaming with chrome. What satisfaction we vicariously felt, when they chose the door that opened to the best deal of all. What a finale.
So I will finish my work and close my shop door. I am confident Life will present me with Doors Number One, Two and Three to choose from. My show is just beginning. Oh, the anticipation! Which door will I open? It doesn’t really matter. Every door opens to vast possibilities. Life, let’s make a deal. Bring on the doors.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 30, 2013________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
One windy day last October I tripped over a leaf-covered obstruction in the sidewalk and broke my wrist. Looking back, my painful wrist was the first catalyst I can identify that began to steer my thinking in the direction of a major life change. Since my accident, I can no longer do a lot of things I used to be able to carry off with panache.
Just yesterday the man I hired to do some yard work I can’t handle any more, stuff involving a wheel barrow and pitch fork, asked me, "How did you ever get in the recovering furniture business?"
My son was five. My daughter was a senior in high school, getting ready to go to college. I was a Mom on my own. I had enrolled at the U of M to start work toward a Master’s degree. Got a job. Put Ben in daycare. After a nightmarish two weeks, he and I agreed that daycare didn’t work for us. I withdrew from school. I quit my job. There had to be a way I could support my family using skills I had learned growing up, at the same time doing something I enjoyed. For a few months I supported us by hemming blue jeans and replacing zippers in ski jackets. It was hand to mouth.
I continued to focus on sewing and in a few short months things came together in a wondrous way. I bought a commercial sewing machine. I learned upholstery. I moved to Poulsbo, Washington and started a successful business, specializing in antique restoration. All these years later, after a move back to my hometown, I continued my business on the High Line. But then I fell and broke my wrist. The break healed but RSD, a nerve disorder, set in. Much of the physical work I was used to doing is now difficult or close to impossible.
Then in early spring, my son was diagnosed with lung cancer. A young man with cancer is not the way things are supposed to be. But nobody is immune from a hit from "not the way things are supposed to be". He became my second catalyst. His doctor sent him home to write his "Bucket List". As we talked about it, Ben reminded me that I had wanted to devote more of my life to my painting and writing.
You have to understand, I have the most wonderful and patient customers in the world. "Get healed," they said. Furniture piled up in my shop. I ran away from home and went on an extended retreat. When I returned I had made the decision to change my life. I would finish the work for the customers I had committed to and then to lock the door to the Recovery Room.
At the rate I could work one-and-a-half handed, I figured closing that door might take as long as six months. That door might stay cracked open forever. So I called my friend and colleague Steve, a furniture upholster from Silverdale, Washington. This week Steve rode out on the train to help me with my heavier projects. I can handle the smaller jobs. And then I my life and identity as an upholsterer will be at an end.
Working with furniture, making wonderful but shabby old pieces new and stylish, has been a part of my life, the love of my life, for almost thirty years. Yikes! I must have subtracted wrong. Nope—twenty-nine years. It will be like losing a limb. Can I do it? I want to. I have to. I will.
I’ve always liked the cliché, when one door closes, another door opens. And that may be true for you, but in my life, I generally find multiple doors, none with a neon flashing arrow pointing "Choose Me", from which to choose. Remember Monty Hall in that old television game show, "Let’s Make a Deal"? Remember the "Big Deal" at the end of the show, where contestants got a chance to trade their booty for the possibility of grabbing something of greater value, behind Door Number One, Door Number Two or Door Number Three. We viewers held our breath as the contestants pondered which door to pick. We wanted the best for each participant. For the contestant who had won the washer and dryer, we wanted the Biggest Value Deal of all, the brand new shiny red Cadillac convertible, gleaming with chrome. What satisfaction we vicariously felt, when they chose the door that opened to the best deal of all. What a finale.
So I will finish my work and close my shop door. I am confident Life will present me with Doors Number One, Two and Three to choose from. My show is just beginning. Oh, the anticipation! Which door will I open? It doesn’t really matter. Every door opens to vast possibilities. Life, let’s make a deal. Bring on the doors.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 30, 2013________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Quantum Physics of Communication
Several years ago I read Gary Zukov’s "The Dancing Wu Li Masters" about quantum physics and relativity. Inspired, I devoured a dozen other books on quantum physics. Go ahead. Pick yourself laughing off the floor. Did I understand these books? Well, no. But I gained a deep sense of patterns of energy, of dancing with imagination and, most of all, the interconnectedness of all things, human and otherwise.
Whenever I feel myself a bit off center, not quite in plumb, not balanced, I look slantwise at patterns in my life to see where I have pulled a plug and disconnected myself.
Three months ago my son Ben, who lives in the Seattle area, was diagnosed with the Dread Disease. Ben and I have always maintained an unusual sense of closeness. The parallels in our lives are woo-woo spooky. I break my wrist; Ben’s arm hurts. Ben gets sick; I can’t sleep. You get the picture.
The Terrible Treatment left Ben shaky, emotionally, mentally and physically. He chose to wall himself off to focus on healing, to conserve what little energy he had. He told me he needed to break all communication with me. He assured me he would contact me again when he felt strong enough. Here’s what happened when Ben pulled the plug as it were and he and I were no longer connected.
Once I got over my hurt feelings, I could understand my son’s decision. When I’m sick, I tend to hole up and wait for the illness to pass, rather like an old dog, curled under the porch, licking its wounds.
I could not be with him. I could do nothing for him. But I had to do something. So I ran away from home. I drove to an old haunt, Pacific Beach, on the far Washington coast, a place more isolated than Harlem. It was the perfect retreat, no phones, no television, no radio reception, no internet. I spent days walking the sandy beach and listening to the surf. My son had disconnected from me. I disconnected from the outer world.
My daughter talked me into flying on to Mazatlan in Mexico. I spent three weeks, still in retreat, still walking the beach and still listening to the wisdom of the surf.
But here’s where the interconnectedness of all things visibly broke down. I had taken my cell phone with me. The fourth day in Mazatlan my phone died, dead, kaput, nada. Now I was disconnected from everyone. But I am comfortable in Mazatlan. The world went on turning. Day followed night. Be happy. Don’t worry.
Upon my return to Harlem, I had to be in touch. I broke my retreat. I ordered a new phone. Fed-Ex delivered it a half hour before I left for the Elected Officials Workshop in Billings. So I took it with me, went to the Verizon store while there, and activated it.
As Mayor Bill and I drove back into Harlem he pointed out the new Nemont cell tower on the edge of town. When I tried to use my Verizon phone, it locked onto that rival tower and I could not complete any calls, in town, out of state or out of the country. This led to hours and hours with Verizon technical support folks. I now know their names and their children’s names. Finally every function except for international calls had been restored. I want international service. Like a bulldog, I hung on. Turns out the company that owns the tower does not have international capabilities. Ca sera sera.
Finally, the evening of Mother’s Day, Ben broke his long silence. We talked for two hours.
Ben said, "Mom, I had a brand new phone for work. Cost $650.00. I dropped it on the pavement and shattered the case. Parts flew everywhere. Replaced it with the same model. Four days later I dropped it in the toilet. Had to get a third. It’s the ultimate. You can run over it with your car. It will withstand a thousand pounds collision force. You can drop it six meters underwater for six hours and it will still work. At the same time my work provided a new laptop. While I was moving stuff around in the back of my car, the laptop slid out of the unzipped case, fell to the sidewalk and cracked the frame. What do you suppose is going on?"
So I told him of my phone adventures. "It’s just a dance around technological limbo, the relative interconnectedness of all things. Don’t worry. It’s the Wu Li Masters at play."
Ben laughed. "Mom, if the phone doesn’t work, we can send smoke signals."
Ben feels weak but is responding to treatment. We’re grateful. We have hope.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 16, 2013 _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Revisiting Graduation, Fifty Years Later—Impressions
Revisiting Graduation, Fifty Years Later—Impressions
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I walked into the empty gym at Harlem High. Not the same gym from which I graduated. Not the same school, but one rebuilt after a fire twenty-five years ago. The "Little Gym" and band room are the only remaining portions of the old structure. Bleachers flanked both sides of the gym floor. A balloon-lined pathway separated rows of chairs. At center back, a huge circular entrance arch, festooned for celebration. To the right the band was practicing in the bleachers. Chairs on risers for the graduating Senior Class angled right front. To the left, a podium, chairs for administrators, teachers, speakers. In back, The Honor Drum.
The band is newly formed. I listen, impressed, proud how far they’ve progressed. Shook conductor’s hand. They should be proud. Several students even play two instruments. I talked with some parents. Harlem shows pride in what it’s built.
Back out in the hallway. Some impressions. Families, grads, milling. Nervous with anticipation, fear, excitement. Hugs. Tears. Cameras flash.
Parents, friends, neighbors file into gym. Find chairs. Fill bleachers. Band plays without cease. Buzz of celebratory talk fills the air. Sounds of welcome rain pound the roof. Last minute stragglers enter. Peer over shoulder at clock. Quiet settles. Heightened anticipation.
Band swings into the Processional March. Pomp and Circumstance. One by one, step, step, step, grads enter. Pause beneath arch for photos. Beautiful young men and women. Sons and daughters. No longer children. Unashamed tears run down the face of a father seated before me. Proud of son. Look around. All eyes misty. Smiles. Grads with bashful grins. Confident. Hesitant. Soup of emotions.
The Ceremony begins. Rite of Passage. The Welcome. Greetings. Salutatory and Valedictory addresses. Funny. Intelligent. Grown up.
Commencement Address, by Harlem Grad, Rick Haluszka, Class of ’08. Humility and Purpose. Life will repeat those words. Humility and Purpose. Life, the continuing education.
During the Honor Song, memories of my own graduation intrude. May 23, fifty years ago. Class of ’63, Harlem High, the "Little Gym". I remember the speakers. Not the words. Remember classmates I haven’t seen in all these years. I think of classmates I see nearly every year. New-found friends built on an old foundation of shared school years. Wish they were here with me to share these moments. We were less sophisticated. Walked with the same pride. Same Rite of Passage.
Scholarships and awards given. Diplomas presented. Mortarboards flung into the air! Hugs. Kisses. Guys’ gentle punches. Enfolded in family. More photos. Class of ’13. Graduated.
Today a Senior Class. A unit. Together these twelve years. They think they will be together forever. Tomorrow scattered to winds of individual choice. Some leave Harlem. Some stay. Some re-unite in later years. Friendships endure. Shared school experiences, a bond which cannot be broken.
The depth of my feelings surprises me. I see every person, class after class, through the years, here in this gym, this day—vital to their school—vital to their community—vital to one another. The love. The bonds. The ties. The legacy of small town, small school. The Gift Harlem gives each grad—The visceral sense that every person is important. Each one carries this Gift into his and her world. Precious foundation. Strength. Humility. Purpose.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 23, 2013___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I walked into the empty gym at Harlem High. Not the same gym from which I graduated. Not the same school, but one rebuilt after a fire twenty-five years ago. The "Little Gym" and band room are the only remaining portions of the old structure. Bleachers flanked both sides of the gym floor. A balloon-lined pathway separated rows of chairs. At center back, a huge circular entrance arch, festooned for celebration. To the right the band was practicing in the bleachers. Chairs on risers for the graduating Senior Class angled right front. To the left, a podium, chairs for administrators, teachers, speakers. In back, The Honor Drum.
The band is newly formed. I listen, impressed, proud how far they’ve progressed. Shook conductor’s hand. They should be proud. Several students even play two instruments. I talked with some parents. Harlem shows pride in what it’s built.
Back out in the hallway. Some impressions. Families, grads, milling. Nervous with anticipation, fear, excitement. Hugs. Tears. Cameras flash.
Parents, friends, neighbors file into gym. Find chairs. Fill bleachers. Band plays without cease. Buzz of celebratory talk fills the air. Sounds of welcome rain pound the roof. Last minute stragglers enter. Peer over shoulder at clock. Quiet settles. Heightened anticipation.
Band swings into the Processional March. Pomp and Circumstance. One by one, step, step, step, grads enter. Pause beneath arch for photos. Beautiful young men and women. Sons and daughters. No longer children. Unashamed tears run down the face of a father seated before me. Proud of son. Look around. All eyes misty. Smiles. Grads with bashful grins. Confident. Hesitant. Soup of emotions.
The Ceremony begins. Rite of Passage. The Welcome. Greetings. Salutatory and Valedictory addresses. Funny. Intelligent. Grown up.
Commencement Address, by Harlem Grad, Rick Haluszka, Class of ’08. Humility and Purpose. Life will repeat those words. Humility and Purpose. Life, the continuing education.
During the Honor Song, memories of my own graduation intrude. May 23, fifty years ago. Class of ’63, Harlem High, the "Little Gym". I remember the speakers. Not the words. Remember classmates I haven’t seen in all these years. I think of classmates I see nearly every year. New-found friends built on an old foundation of shared school years. Wish they were here with me to share these moments. We were less sophisticated. Walked with the same pride. Same Rite of Passage.
Scholarships and awards given. Diplomas presented. Mortarboards flung into the air! Hugs. Kisses. Guys’ gentle punches. Enfolded in family. More photos. Class of ’13. Graduated.
Today a Senior Class. A unit. Together these twelve years. They think they will be together forever. Tomorrow scattered to winds of individual choice. Some leave Harlem. Some stay. Some re-unite in later years. Friendships endure. Shared school experiences, a bond which cannot be broken.
The depth of my feelings surprises me. I see every person, class after class, through the years, here in this gym, this day—vital to their school—vital to their community—vital to one another. The love. The bonds. The ties. The legacy of small town, small school. The Gift Harlem gives each grad—The visceral sense that every person is important. Each one carries this Gift into his and her world. Precious foundation. Strength. Humility. Purpose.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 23, 2013___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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