Not in My Back Yard
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I am a reasonably tolerant and lazy gardener. When an unsolicited seed shows up in my back yard, sprouts, shoots, flowers and flourishes, I’m open to letting it stick around. Unless the newcomer is a noxious weed.
My work-free gardening philosophy has evolved over time. My Washington home sat perched on the crest of a hill, surrounded by two acres of dips and doodles, ups and downs, populated by trees, berries, and shrubs galore. Natural landscaping was a breeze. I could spit a seed and grow a tree. I planted. It flourished. No fuss. No muss. No work. Year-round blooms and beauty.
Back to my roots: ‘Welcome to Harlem, Flat Spot of the Nation’. But, hey, here one can grow great sagebrush, spiny cactus and tumbleweeds. The first two years I battled the grass infested weeds. Finally I identified the most invasive pest—Russian thistle. I geared up with heavy leather gauntlets, armed myself with a digger tool, and marched off to battle. Thistle won the battle. In desperation I bought scorch-the-earth poison and a flamethrower and declared all out war. I won the war. For the last couple years, nary a Russian thistle is to be found.
Meanwhile, because I am lazy and cheap, maybe it was during my third year, I replaced the lawn with fifteen cubic yards of bark chips. And, because I am an artist and hungered for balance, I insisted on something vertical to offset the seeming acres of horizontal.
I envisioned trees and shrubs creating islands of vertical interest. I conducted scientific research. I drove around town to see what was still alive on the vacant lots. If it could live with benign neglect, that was my kind of bush.
Lilacs. Lots and lots of lilacs. Every hue of lilac. And apples and plums and choke cherries and June berries and sand cherries and raspberries and rhubarb and currants. I broke open the pottery of gumbo ground and plunged naked sticks with a straggle of bearded root deep into the earth. I only lost two sticks. Each year it gets better. Not only is Spring alive with the sound of lilacs but the fruits of my labor have yielded an orchard jungle.
For finishing touches to my rather four-square piece of property, I needed shapes, circles and amoebas and patches of paisley. What better than flowers! Zero maintenance flowers. Another scientific tootle around town convinced me to keep it simple with iris and tulips, peonies and day lilies, hollyhocks and sunflowers and babies’ breath. So I planted them in great batches of color.
This summer a colony of bachelor buttons popped up in a surprise appearance among the bark chips. Bachelor buttons, while not exotic, are fetching, especially when their little pink and blue and white heads bob and dance in the breeze. How did they get to this one little patch of yard? Not a clue. Never-the-less, come little bachelor buttons, be at home.
Sounds idyllic, does it not? But, oh, must there be a snake in every garden. This particular snake must have sneaked in two by two and immediately began breeding. The snake in my garden is not fauna but flora—Canada thistle. It wasn’t there in April. (I was gone.) I didn’t notice it in May. I was gone (again) in June. By July Canada thistle had grown into a robust weedy family with numerous cousins, twice removed, determined to take over every available inch of unoccupied territory and encroach on the occupied. Canada thistle is not nice. It bites and scratches and fights back.
My options are limited. It is too late for me to resort to poison. Every fruit and flower is flourishing. Apples burden branches to the ground. Berries hang in bursting heavy clusters like grapes. On rainy days I pull on my gloves, set my feet, rip and pluck thistles out of the ground. On dry days, I take my whicker-whacker and chop them down at the ankles. I lay their fallen bodies in mounds of mulch to rot and return to the earth.
Lazy or not, every day I tackle a portion of garden. Yesterday I cleared thistles out of the sand cherries. Today I liberated a plot of lilies. Tomorrow I will pursue the caustic weed in and out, over and under, around and through a stand of sunflowers and, if it isn’t raining, attempt to relocate the strawberry bed.
If I don’t get these buggers under control soon, if I can’t eradicate the Canada thistle by the end of August, I’m going on another trip and ignore it until the snow falls. Rumor is, early winter. Bring it on.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
August 8, 2013___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Saturday, August 17, 2013
The Mystical Weather Psychic Foretells Winter
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It is a dire and dirty job but somebody has to do it. Every night for the last week thunder rumbled while lightning forks split the sky and sundered the earth. Every night, during the sky show while rain pelted the town, I paced the floor, single-handedly keeping town and my part of the world safe from fires and mayhem. The responsibility weighs heavily on my sleepy shoulders. I decided to come out of the closet and confess to my prescient gift. I’m a weather witch.
Really. Sure, my joints ache when it rains or snows or the wind blows. That’s normal. I can open the NOAA National Weather Service site and scan the radar. That’s easy. I can stand outside, sniff the wind, feel the raindrops on my skin and tell you it looks like a shower coming. That’s obvious.
No, I’m talking knowing ahead a year or more. I’m not sure when I first noticed I had the gift. It seems it was always there. I remember being with my Dad out in the field irrigating sugar beets and watching him scan the sky for clouds. That was a desperately dry year. Clouds formed on the horizon, moved to the center of the sky, split up and moved around us. Not that it mattered which direction they went. They clouds carried nary a drop of moisture. Nobody lost crops to hail that year. I could have told him.
Worse than the prediction gift, I can call down rain. The first time I recall consciously calling rain was many years ago while visiting friends in Oregon. The man of the family remarked that his newly planted blueberries had to have rain or they would die. We were eating dinner. I looked up at the bare blue sky and said, "Okay." An hour later rain began to fall. All afternoon it rained. It rained only on the eastern ten acres of his little farm, the acres planted with blueberries. True story.
One day this summer I didn’t want to set up the hose to water my lawn and flowers. Without much thinking it through I called down rain. I know that sounds trite. I apologize. I only meant it for that one day.
And I don’t take responsibility for every daily rainfall. Not all of them. Only that once did I lift my face to the empty sky and call in the clouds. Generally, I don’t mess with Mother Nature. Always she sends along unseen consequences.
Farmers tell me this year the windrows of hay roll up so high they choke the balers. The wheat fields ripening in the daily sunshine promise plump kernels big as berries to overflow the bins. Cattle in the field fatten to a fine fettle on the lush grasses. Town-folk mow their lawns twice weekly. Mosquitoes colonies flourish in every puddle, threatening to carry off puppies, cats and small children.
My pay-back from Ma Nature comes every night. She shakes me awake with the first far-off rumble of thunder, stumbles me out of bed to pace from window to window and keep watch over my town. Night after night.
When I gaze into my crystal ball, clouded by fog and murky with condensation, it shows winter blasting across the eastern plains come October. Already I feel winter’s cold breath lurking around the corner. Despite the fact that the hills, which should now be brown, are still green with grass, the grass heads golden ripe, the first of August feels like September.
Our summer rains will soon freeze to snow. Winds not gentle will force snow into every crevasse, will bury grasses beneath heavy crusty blankets of drifts. This will be a winter people talk about. So hold back some of that good hay, tempting as it is to sell every bale at the current top prices. Our cattle need to eat too. Winterize your rigs early. Dust off those snow tires. Get in extra supplies of wood and bread flour. This might be the year to order those new mukluks you’ve been eyeing. Lay in some candles and jigsaw puzzles. Winter will be a doozy.
We will make it through. We always do. Spring will follow. Some enterprising soul will sell shirts which proclaim "I survived the winter of ’13-’14". We’ll all buy one and put it on the shelf with the rest of the clothing we seldom wear.
Winter will come soon. I don’t cause it and I can’t control it. I just predict it.
Don’t look behind the curtain. Don’t look behind the curtain. Keep away from that curtain.
Me, I’m heading south with Toto.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 25, 2013
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It is a dire and dirty job but somebody has to do it. Every night for the last week thunder rumbled while lightning forks split the sky and sundered the earth. Every night, during the sky show while rain pelted the town, I paced the floor, single-handedly keeping town and my part of the world safe from fires and mayhem. The responsibility weighs heavily on my sleepy shoulders. I decided to come out of the closet and confess to my prescient gift. I’m a weather witch.
Really. Sure, my joints ache when it rains or snows or the wind blows. That’s normal. I can open the NOAA National Weather Service site and scan the radar. That’s easy. I can stand outside, sniff the wind, feel the raindrops on my skin and tell you it looks like a shower coming. That’s obvious.
No, I’m talking knowing ahead a year or more. I’m not sure when I first noticed I had the gift. It seems it was always there. I remember being with my Dad out in the field irrigating sugar beets and watching him scan the sky for clouds. That was a desperately dry year. Clouds formed on the horizon, moved to the center of the sky, split up and moved around us. Not that it mattered which direction they went. They clouds carried nary a drop of moisture. Nobody lost crops to hail that year. I could have told him.
Worse than the prediction gift, I can call down rain. The first time I recall consciously calling rain was many years ago while visiting friends in Oregon. The man of the family remarked that his newly planted blueberries had to have rain or they would die. We were eating dinner. I looked up at the bare blue sky and said, "Okay." An hour later rain began to fall. All afternoon it rained. It rained only on the eastern ten acres of his little farm, the acres planted with blueberries. True story.
One day this summer I didn’t want to set up the hose to water my lawn and flowers. Without much thinking it through I called down rain. I know that sounds trite. I apologize. I only meant it for that one day.
And I don’t take responsibility for every daily rainfall. Not all of them. Only that once did I lift my face to the empty sky and call in the clouds. Generally, I don’t mess with Mother Nature. Always she sends along unseen consequences.
Farmers tell me this year the windrows of hay roll up so high they choke the balers. The wheat fields ripening in the daily sunshine promise plump kernels big as berries to overflow the bins. Cattle in the field fatten to a fine fettle on the lush grasses. Town-folk mow their lawns twice weekly. Mosquitoes colonies flourish in every puddle, threatening to carry off puppies, cats and small children.
My pay-back from Ma Nature comes every night. She shakes me awake with the first far-off rumble of thunder, stumbles me out of bed to pace from window to window and keep watch over my town. Night after night.
When I gaze into my crystal ball, clouded by fog and murky with condensation, it shows winter blasting across the eastern plains come October. Already I feel winter’s cold breath lurking around the corner. Despite the fact that the hills, which should now be brown, are still green with grass, the grass heads golden ripe, the first of August feels like September.
Our summer rains will soon freeze to snow. Winds not gentle will force snow into every crevasse, will bury grasses beneath heavy crusty blankets of drifts. This will be a winter people talk about. So hold back some of that good hay, tempting as it is to sell every bale at the current top prices. Our cattle need to eat too. Winterize your rigs early. Dust off those snow tires. Get in extra supplies of wood and bread flour. This might be the year to order those new mukluks you’ve been eyeing. Lay in some candles and jigsaw puzzles. Winter will be a doozy.
We will make it through. We always do. Spring will follow. Some enterprising soul will sell shirts which proclaim "I survived the winter of ’13-’14". We’ll all buy one and put it on the shelf with the rest of the clothing we seldom wear.
Winter will come soon. I don’t cause it and I can’t control it. I just predict it.
Don’t look behind the curtain. Don’t look behind the curtain. Keep away from that curtain.
Me, I’m heading south with Toto.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 25, 2013
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Harlem Class of ’63—Go, Pork Chop, Go!
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Our class was small (graduating only twenty-three) but we were tight. Whatever we set our collective mind to do, we did it up right. Year after year we had the best float in the Home-Coming Parade, the best skit at the Carnival, the most innovative dance theme. Best of all, we were pals. Then we graduated and scattered to the winds.
Back in ’05 while we were lined up for a class photo at the All-School Reunion, an every five-year event, Karen and Jesse suggested, "Why don’t we get together every year." Collective mind went into action and within a few minutes, the gang of us had determined to explore Montana while renewing friendships. We’ve gathered in such far-flung places as Virginia City, Ennis, Lincoln, Fort Peck and around the fire-pit in Sondra’s back yard in Harlem.
This year, destination Red Lodge. Thirteen classmates (along with family) arrived from California, Washington, Idaho, Utah and throughout Montana. For us that is a grand turnout. What pulled so many of us together this year? Other than to celebrate our Big 5-0, my theory is that it had to be the Pig Races at Bear Creek Downs.
So Sunday night we met at the Bear Creek Saloon for steak dinner and a hot time in the ol’ town. After our meal, we sauntered out to the deck to look over the prospects, snorting and rooting in the pen below. Then we placed out bets. We didn’t actually bet on our favorite jersey-clad porker. Betting is run more like a football pool with two dollar squares. Five squares are drawn at random, one for each pig in the race. If your number is matched with a pig and if that pig wins, you win twenty-five dollars. The final race pays out a whopping hundred dollars with a five dollar buy-in.
The bugle sounded the Call to the Post, we raced to the rail to support our steed, the gates opened and five pigs flew around the track with the red jersey edging out green across the finish line. We repeated this process several times that night. Most of us went back to our lodge a little lighter in the pockets. We did have at least one big-time winner. Jerry flashed his money in our faces but his wife Lola let slip how much money he spent to acquire his twenty-five dollar purse.
Race proceeds fund scholarships for local students, many of whom once worked Bear Creek Downs as sow-boys or sow-girls. By the way, the Saloon does not serve pork.
We checked in at the Rock Creek Resort Sunday and most of us were there through Wednesday morning. One thing we look for when choosing the gathering place is a common room where the entire group can gather, relax, cook meals, mill around and visit. Monday night the men fixed prime rib and Tuesday night the women hosted a sourdough pancake supper. The rest of the time we played pinochle, explored town and countryside, uninhibited tourists that we are, or hung out and told stories, some larger than life. More than one person said, "No, that’s not the way it happened. I remember it like this." Or, "You’re making that up—that did not even happen."
I have heard several people say they don’t see why we make such a big fuss over our reunion, after all, they’ve never been to one of their reunions and furthermore, don’t intend to go, ‘cause it’s just a bunch of la-de-da about who’s done more, better, best’. I find that sad. Our class is and was a group of diverse individuals who shared a common history through years of grade and high school. Those experiences act like glue; they stick us together on the same page, even if memories shift and get tattered around the edges. Kind of like an old Valentine.
At our 2010 All-School Reunion, a couple, both Harlem grads, from ’61 and ’65, hung out with us all weekend and finally asked if we’d adopt them into our class, saying, "You have more fun." They were probably supposed to be in our class anyway and got mixed up along the way. We don’t have the exact same history, but close enough. And if we need to, we’ll make it up. We have a lot of story-tellers. And they are right. We do have more fun. Who else would make the pig races a destination?
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 18, 2013__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
How I came to Own Half a Car in Mexico
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________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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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, 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___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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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