Leaping Lizards! A Lynch Mob Levels Their Sites at Council Meeting
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Holy Baloney! I’ve been on Harlem City Council the entire seven years I’ve been back in this little town of my youth. We’ve begged and pleaded for people to please show up, please. One is a usual number, six cause for celebration and anything more is indicative of a raise in rates.
If the language in the three-hundred fifty little yellow flyers which had been distributed over the weekend asking for answers and accountability from the City’s Mayor, Council and Employees was designed to drag folks out of the woodwork to a meeting, it worked. At one point I counted nearly seventy good citizens of Harlem crowded into our little Council Chambers, holding up the walls, and spilling out into the foyer.
The flyer was emphatic in spirit yet no specific complaints were listed nor did anyone put their name to it. At the bottom of the inside page were the initials GFU, “Getting Fed Up Citizenry”. I updated my will, donned my Kevlar underwear and showed up at City Hall like a target, with no idea what to expect.
Personally, I get excited when a mob of people fill the room. No matter what they come for, they will leave with expanded understanding and answered questions. Mayor William Taylor opened the public forum part of the meeting by saying he’d like to see this turn out at all our meetings. Nevertheless, we sitting behind the bull’s eye were a bit apprehensive.
Dave Boisvert and Don Richman stood to share positions as spokesmen for the group. Let’s digress: Imagine that CFU is a metaphor for the 8th grade class bully. Imagine that you are at a class function that features 45’s of Pat Boone and Rickey Nelson on the turntable and pink punch with cookies. The Bully stomps across the room, shuffles his feet, and asks, “May I have this dance.” Wowzers!
Boisvert spoke first. He requested an open forum where citizens can express views and problems and bring suggestions. He urged that citizens express constructive opinions. As a former councilperson and mayor during troublesome times, Boisvert said that he understands public responsibility and the concept of service. He said that the group wants to seek ways to improve Harlem and urged forward movement.
Richman, also a former public servant in Harlem, requested that the group conduct themselves in a constructive manner. He stated that the “roomful of people here have the responsibility to step forward and ask, ‘What can I do to help?’” He further declared “there is no blame (for problems) to be placed unless it is on all of us. We have let the city go downhill. We can work through this.” Richman then asked, “Can we work with you to make Harlem better?”
Several individual issues were brought to the floor such as summer water quality, the state of the streets and alleys as the result of fiber optics work, a clogged drainage ditch, the difficult to enforce decay ordinance, the stream of water which flows down the streets from Albertson’s coolers causing pits, the lack of trailer court ordinances and the ever-buckling surface of 4th Street.
Then Boisvert suggested that “working together, we take one issue at a time”. He requested that since “everyone has one or two pet issues”, tablets be sent around the room to gather suggestions and concerns. Mayor Taylor called for tablets to be distributed. Richman agreed to tally suggestions and help prioritize topics.
Harlem, like every shrinking small town on the High Line, will never look the same as it looked fifty years ago. Yet, as one citizen said “We are responsible for the way our town looks today but we need help from the City to enforce ordinances.” Richman agreed, saying, “We need to take responsibility to make our town pretty. It needs to be a cooperative effort.”
No matter how long the citizens’ list of concerns, Council is familiar with every issue. We share the frustrations of trying to create the best possible City structure in which we can live and grow. I’m excited. People are talking, are motivated to help, to pull in tandem.
After public forum, I sat in tears as City Clerk Rebecca Skoyen read my letter of resignation from Council. The people I have worked with in City government have become my best friends in Harlem. Mayor Taylor took the opportunity to suggest to the crowd that now is a good time for someone to step forward to finish the remaining two years of my term. I’m excited to know that Harlem will continue to grow and improve. Hugs, anyone?
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
September 12, 2013
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Sunday, September 15, 2013
Woman on the Move in Full-Blown Panic Attack
Woman on the Move in Full-Blown Panic Attack
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Storm alert: All points bulletin. High anxiety winds precipitate storm of indeterminate velocity and duration. Woman in full state of panic attack. Coordinates unknown. Situation critical. Last seen headed toward the deep end. Take cover.
For no identifiable reason. At least, none I can put my finger on.
Early morning. The phone rang. One of my readers called to wish me well; she showered me with words of encouragement, praised my courage, asked me questions. I bluffed my way through the conversation, especially the one itty bitty question for which I had no real knowledge to answer. At the end of the conversation I felt quite smug.
I enjoyed a normal morning, puttered around my boxes, straightened this, tossed that. Tried on all four bathing suits to see if they still fit. I don’t even swim. I had purchased three of the suits on different trips over the years when I forgot to pack one. I know. Nobody flies to coastal Mexico without a bathing suit. Shrugged and decided to take all of them.
Ate breakfast. Phoned the phone company about my defective service. Read four newspapers. Scanned my three-page list of last minute things to do before I move.
Something nagged at me—some little detail. Some question plagued me. I had talked with ex-pats, explored online, official and unofficial websites, read books, out-of-date and recent.
Without conscious thought I found myself in front of my computer, reading and re-reading, searching articles about immigration. I cannot say I found anything new. If anything, I found an updated report on new immigration laws to be encouraging. Yet, everything I read, I read with dark glasses. What yesterday made me feel jubilant, today skidded me into the slough of despond.
Okay, so maybe that is not totally truthful. It might have been such a silly thing that threw me into a tailspin. You know the herbs I had so carefully cultivated in my backyard bird-sanctuary herb garden, the ones I dried myself and stored in colorful and whimsical glass jars. The ones I had packed and then re-packed. I can’t take them. Nothing that comes from seeds or nuts can cross the border.
This paragraph followed the paragraph about no guns in the “what not to take” section with a neat reminder that a bullet could land one’s jolly bottom on a jail cot for an indeterminate stay. I actually giggled. I own neither gun nor bullet. I do have a genuine faux antique vase made from a brass shell casing, cannon sized, I bought outside a lovely old cathedral in the mountains. It stays.
So I cannot take my herbs or spices. Big deal. But why does my head feel like a ping-pong table with six simultaneous games? Could it possibly be the fine print about a complete inventory of each packed box, in triplicate? Could it be the realization that I have to open, scrutinize, itemize and repack every single box? Itemized in both English and Spanish. I swear, I never read that fine, fine, fine print previously. The good news is that I’ll know the Spanish name for everything I own.
Ah, well. Better here than at the border crossing, out on the asphalt, under 118 degrees of unclouded sunshine, scrutinized by unsmiling armed guards who don’t see any humor in the situation.
I’ll do it, of course. I will. I’ll open each box, discard anything I think might be the slightest bit questionable, seedy or nutty. I’ll be the only thing both seedy and nutty. I will create an itemized inventory to be the envy of any bean counter. If I wear to shreds both my English-to-Spanish dictionaries, small price to pay. And if I spite myself, well, I’ve done that before.
Meanwhile, I’m going to bed, pull the covers over my head and have a pity party for one. I don’t care if it is mid-afternoon. Don’t wake me. I’m not getting up until I weather this storm. Don’t bother to call. Don’t bring chicken soup. There is no comfort, hot or cold. Oh, I’ll get over it.
Or maybe I’ll just move to Jordan. You know, between Mosby and Brockway. There are similarities to Mexico. It is almost a foreign country. Cultural differences are huge. I don’t speak the language. I’ll be as much a gringo in one place as another. But I won’t have to repack my boxes.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
September 5, 2013
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Storm alert: All points bulletin. High anxiety winds precipitate storm of indeterminate velocity and duration. Woman in full state of panic attack. Coordinates unknown. Situation critical. Last seen headed toward the deep end. Take cover.
For no identifiable reason. At least, none I can put my finger on.
Early morning. The phone rang. One of my readers called to wish me well; she showered me with words of encouragement, praised my courage, asked me questions. I bluffed my way through the conversation, especially the one itty bitty question for which I had no real knowledge to answer. At the end of the conversation I felt quite smug.
I enjoyed a normal morning, puttered around my boxes, straightened this, tossed that. Tried on all four bathing suits to see if they still fit. I don’t even swim. I had purchased three of the suits on different trips over the years when I forgot to pack one. I know. Nobody flies to coastal Mexico without a bathing suit. Shrugged and decided to take all of them.
Ate breakfast. Phoned the phone company about my defective service. Read four newspapers. Scanned my three-page list of last minute things to do before I move.
Something nagged at me—some little detail. Some question plagued me. I had talked with ex-pats, explored online, official and unofficial websites, read books, out-of-date and recent.
Without conscious thought I found myself in front of my computer, reading and re-reading, searching articles about immigration. I cannot say I found anything new. If anything, I found an updated report on new immigration laws to be encouraging. Yet, everything I read, I read with dark glasses. What yesterday made me feel jubilant, today skidded me into the slough of despond.
Okay, so maybe that is not totally truthful. It might have been such a silly thing that threw me into a tailspin. You know the herbs I had so carefully cultivated in my backyard bird-sanctuary herb garden, the ones I dried myself and stored in colorful and whimsical glass jars. The ones I had packed and then re-packed. I can’t take them. Nothing that comes from seeds or nuts can cross the border.
This paragraph followed the paragraph about no guns in the “what not to take” section with a neat reminder that a bullet could land one’s jolly bottom on a jail cot for an indeterminate stay. I actually giggled. I own neither gun nor bullet. I do have a genuine faux antique vase made from a brass shell casing, cannon sized, I bought outside a lovely old cathedral in the mountains. It stays.
So I cannot take my herbs or spices. Big deal. But why does my head feel like a ping-pong table with six simultaneous games? Could it possibly be the fine print about a complete inventory of each packed box, in triplicate? Could it be the realization that I have to open, scrutinize, itemize and repack every single box? Itemized in both English and Spanish. I swear, I never read that fine, fine, fine print previously. The good news is that I’ll know the Spanish name for everything I own.
Ah, well. Better here than at the border crossing, out on the asphalt, under 118 degrees of unclouded sunshine, scrutinized by unsmiling armed guards who don’t see any humor in the situation.
I’ll do it, of course. I will. I’ll open each box, discard anything I think might be the slightest bit questionable, seedy or nutty. I’ll be the only thing both seedy and nutty. I will create an itemized inventory to be the envy of any bean counter. If I wear to shreds both my English-to-Spanish dictionaries, small price to pay. And if I spite myself, well, I’ve done that before.
Meanwhile, I’m going to bed, pull the covers over my head and have a pity party for one. I don’t care if it is mid-afternoon. Don’t wake me. I’m not getting up until I weather this storm. Don’t bother to call. Don’t bring chicken soup. There is no comfort, hot or cold. Oh, I’ll get over it.
Or maybe I’ll just move to Jordan. You know, between Mosby and Brockway. There are similarities to Mexico. It is almost a foreign country. Cultural differences are huge. I don’t speak the language. I’ll be as much a gringo in one place as another. But I won’t have to repack my boxes.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
September 5, 2013
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Thirty Four Wooden Spoons and Other Objets d’art
Thirty Four Wooden Spoons and Other Objets d’art
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My house sold. My business is officially closed. My belongings are going on the auction block.
About the time of first snow, I’ll head south of the border, down Mexico way.
I am currently filling the gap between leaving my house and the first frozen flakes of impending winter with sorting and packing. If I didn’t have scads of business materials and tools and equipment and if I didn’t have 4,500 books and if every wall in my house were not a gallery, the job would be simple.
Bob, my auctioneer, strongly suggested that I leave for a week, hand over the keys to the house, and when I returned, everything would be boxed and ready to go. He assured me I would never miss a thing. He is probably right.
Part of my problem is that I plan to drive my van, my only vehicle. That means I can take whatever I can make fit. In the beginning, I blithely sailed through my house marking this and that to make the trip with me—a microcosm of my present life, totally disregarding volume and weight. Each day, my van, she shrinks.
When I moved from Seattle to Harlem, from a metropolitan area to a third world country, eastern Montana, I made several trips to Costco and other Big Boxes and loaded up with everything I could imagine I might possibly need and be unable to buy within a hundred mile radius of my new home. Plus I brought most of my possessions, a process of several tedious trips.
What I seem to forget is that I am moving to Mazatlan, an international port for centuries before American and Canadian tourists ‘discovered’ it. A real city, with both modern stores and traditional markets.
While Bob’s suggestion sounds better each day, I’m stubborn. I have pared down to a few kitchen tools, some bathroom supplies, bedding and personal items. That sounds perfect. Or, it would be if I could remember when I pack a box that I won’t need forty-two towels. Just pack six towels, something to get started. Right?
But I have to do it the hard way. For example, one day I packed a large tote with spices. Well, I grew and dried most of them myself—except for those things which do not grow here and probably originated from Mexico in the first place. Most of my spices inhabit delightful glass containers. And I must take this spice which I use for pickles is impossible to find on the grocery shelf in Harlem. That spice I bought in India; I haven’t used it yet, but I will. Pack. Re-think. Re-pack.
The following day I tackled my collection of teas. Teas from China, some from India, others from Britain by way of India, Malaysia and China; exotic and special teas. I filled another sizable box.
That night I lay awake, thinking. Why, Sweetheart, are you taking stuff you can buy fresh at the market in Mazatlan, silly woman? And let’s talk about your teas. You packed teas you don’t ever drink. Why not take only what you use, only what you envision using in your new life? Sometimes I hate that night voice.
Why not indeed! So this morning I opened the spice tote and condensed it by half. Then I tackled the teas. I have three, maybe four, favorites. They easily fit into the spice tote. Along with dish towels and miscellaneous kitchen items. Do you know anyone else who owns thirty-four wooden spoons? Do you realize how hard it is to pick four favorite most useful spoons and shove the other thirty into a drawer, out of mind.
I love my iron pelican. How can I leave her behind? My collection of Japanese green glass fishing floats? Every piece of art, painting or pottery, has a story. I feel as if I am abandoning children. Ah, books. My 4,500 beloved books. Rocks. Teapots. Ceramic fish.
Every day, as I wander from room to room, my eye alights on treasure. Oh, I must take that. I look at the stack I’ve already boxed, harden my heart, and let it go.
I’m an artist. When I find my new home, I’ll fill it with delight, with beauty, with love, with stuff. I always do. In my new country, I won’t want just another version of my life and surroundings here. And isn’t there a law about nature and a vacuum? So I remind myself each day, let it go.
In my new home, I’ll take my time, create a new me in my new surroundings. And possibly I’ll buy a new wooden spoon. Or two. Hand carved by a local artisan.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
August 22, 2013
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My house sold. My business is officially closed. My belongings are going on the auction block.
About the time of first snow, I’ll head south of the border, down Mexico way.
I am currently filling the gap between leaving my house and the first frozen flakes of impending winter with sorting and packing. If I didn’t have scads of business materials and tools and equipment and if I didn’t have 4,500 books and if every wall in my house were not a gallery, the job would be simple.
Bob, my auctioneer, strongly suggested that I leave for a week, hand over the keys to the house, and when I returned, everything would be boxed and ready to go. He assured me I would never miss a thing. He is probably right.
Part of my problem is that I plan to drive my van, my only vehicle. That means I can take whatever I can make fit. In the beginning, I blithely sailed through my house marking this and that to make the trip with me—a microcosm of my present life, totally disregarding volume and weight. Each day, my van, she shrinks.
When I moved from Seattle to Harlem, from a metropolitan area to a third world country, eastern Montana, I made several trips to Costco and other Big Boxes and loaded up with everything I could imagine I might possibly need and be unable to buy within a hundred mile radius of my new home. Plus I brought most of my possessions, a process of several tedious trips.
What I seem to forget is that I am moving to Mazatlan, an international port for centuries before American and Canadian tourists ‘discovered’ it. A real city, with both modern stores and traditional markets.
While Bob’s suggestion sounds better each day, I’m stubborn. I have pared down to a few kitchen tools, some bathroom supplies, bedding and personal items. That sounds perfect. Or, it would be if I could remember when I pack a box that I won’t need forty-two towels. Just pack six towels, something to get started. Right?
But I have to do it the hard way. For example, one day I packed a large tote with spices. Well, I grew and dried most of them myself—except for those things which do not grow here and probably originated from Mexico in the first place. Most of my spices inhabit delightful glass containers. And I must take this spice which I use for pickles is impossible to find on the grocery shelf in Harlem. That spice I bought in India; I haven’t used it yet, but I will. Pack. Re-think. Re-pack.
The following day I tackled my collection of teas. Teas from China, some from India, others from Britain by way of India, Malaysia and China; exotic and special teas. I filled another sizable box.
That night I lay awake, thinking. Why, Sweetheart, are you taking stuff you can buy fresh at the market in Mazatlan, silly woman? And let’s talk about your teas. You packed teas you don’t ever drink. Why not take only what you use, only what you envision using in your new life? Sometimes I hate that night voice.
Why not indeed! So this morning I opened the spice tote and condensed it by half. Then I tackled the teas. I have three, maybe four, favorites. They easily fit into the spice tote. Along with dish towels and miscellaneous kitchen items. Do you know anyone else who owns thirty-four wooden spoons? Do you realize how hard it is to pick four favorite most useful spoons and shove the other thirty into a drawer, out of mind.
I love my iron pelican. How can I leave her behind? My collection of Japanese green glass fishing floats? Every piece of art, painting or pottery, has a story. I feel as if I am abandoning children. Ah, books. My 4,500 beloved books. Rocks. Teapots. Ceramic fish.
Every day, as I wander from room to room, my eye alights on treasure. Oh, I must take that. I look at the stack I’ve already boxed, harden my heart, and let it go.
I’m an artist. When I find my new home, I’ll fill it with delight, with beauty, with love, with stuff. I always do. In my new country, I won’t want just another version of my life and surroundings here. And isn’t there a law about nature and a vacuum? So I remind myself each day, let it go.
In my new home, I’ll take my time, create a new me in my new surroundings. And possibly I’ll buy a new wooden spoon. Or two. Hand carved by a local artisan.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
August 22, 2013
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Saturday, August 17, 2013
When A Manicure is More Than a Manicure
When A Manicure is More Than a Manicure
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It started out as a typical morning at coffee with the "boys". I’ve been having coffee with the guys at City Shop around four years now. We show up any time after 6:00. The boss is there first and the coffee pot is full. "We" means the city employees (minus the clerks), a county commissioner, another councilperson and me. I’m there by invitation—honored to be accepted as "one of the boys". Work starts at 8:00. I usually leave when the boss begins assigning the day’s tasks, around 7:30. It’s a good way to start the day.
We had exhausted the usual run of topics: baseball, (Cardinals versus Cubs), football, which I think is a dumb sport but I do well on the football pool so can’t complain, soccer, which I think is dumb too but am beginning to understand it which worries me, and rugby, with one blood-lusting fan in the group.
Richard’s wife Marcia owns a hair salon. She recently rented space to a manicurist. Richard said, "I can’t believe how many women come in to have their nails fancied up. That woman is busy all the time. I don’t understand how they justify spending the money to have their fingertips colored and sparkled. I could do that for them in five seconds. I’d just dip their fingers in a trough of paint and they’d be done."
You must understand that Richard is fiscally conservative unless he is spending city money for shop equipment, especially things like new tractors, trucks, and sweepers.
Chuck, who is a widower, said, "Sandy used to have her nails done. It’s okay."
Charlie admitted, "Julie does her nails. She likes them that way."
"Renee likes her nails to look nice," said Kim. "Well, they do look nice."
"I think the women go for the gossip," added Richard.
And so around the room. Except for Reese, young and single. Reese looked embarrassed by the whole conversation.
I may be the only woman in town who has never had her nails manicured. It just never seemed practical because my fingers were always either planting in the dirt or tearing down furniture, which does nasty things to one’s nails if they aren’t trimmed tight. But I understand the appeal of color, design, glitter, shaping and polish. However, there is more to a manicure than the cosmetic finish.
"Okay, men. Listen up. Obviously, you don’t understand. If I want gossip, I can get all I want from you guys at morning coffee," I said. "It’s not about gossip. Style is nice but that is not the whole appeal. Think about this for a minute. I know this will be a stretch for you, but try to remember back to when you first began to date the girls. You pick her up in your Dad’s Ford Fairlane. You take her to the Grand Theatre, buy tickets to the John Wayne feature of the week, get a bucket of popcorn, two large cokes, and go sit in the middle of the back row. Remember that? The lights go down. You watch the newsreel, the cartoons, the previews. Finally the movie starts. You wait for just the right moment, after the popcorn is finished, probably when the hero is petting his horse, and you reach over and take her hand in yours. You hold her hand through the rest of the movie. Maybe you even get a goodnight kiss at the door at the end of the date. But the important thing, the thing she remembers for the rest of her life, is that you held her hand.
"No, don’t laugh. What I’m telling you is important. Women love to have their hands held. Men are different. Men are hunters. Once the game is bagged, they ignore it. Once you got married, you never held her hand again, did you? Why would you—now you own her, right? Now you turn your manly attention to other things, like the recliner and the remote. She still remembers when you used to hold her hands.
"So your women go have their nails done because for a half hour somebody is holding their hands and giving them undivided attention. Think about it."
"If I went home tonight and held Kim’s hand," said Dale, "She’d be suspicious I’d done something wrong, stopped at the casino or something."
"My wife would just say ‘I have a headache,’" offered another guy.
Poor Reese, he blushed. But he’d just as well know the real facts of life.
Coffee with the boys is okay. I learn valuable football skills. But tomorrow I’m going for a girly-girl manicure.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
August 15, 2013_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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It started out as a typical morning at coffee with the "boys". I’ve been having coffee with the guys at City Shop around four years now. We show up any time after 6:00. The boss is there first and the coffee pot is full. "We" means the city employees (minus the clerks), a county commissioner, another councilperson and me. I’m there by invitation—honored to be accepted as "one of the boys". Work starts at 8:00. I usually leave when the boss begins assigning the day’s tasks, around 7:30. It’s a good way to start the day.
We had exhausted the usual run of topics: baseball, (Cardinals versus Cubs), football, which I think is a dumb sport but I do well on the football pool so can’t complain, soccer, which I think is dumb too but am beginning to understand it which worries me, and rugby, with one blood-lusting fan in the group.
Richard’s wife Marcia owns a hair salon. She recently rented space to a manicurist. Richard said, "I can’t believe how many women come in to have their nails fancied up. That woman is busy all the time. I don’t understand how they justify spending the money to have their fingertips colored and sparkled. I could do that for them in five seconds. I’d just dip their fingers in a trough of paint and they’d be done."
You must understand that Richard is fiscally conservative unless he is spending city money for shop equipment, especially things like new tractors, trucks, and sweepers.
Chuck, who is a widower, said, "Sandy used to have her nails done. It’s okay."
Charlie admitted, "Julie does her nails. She likes them that way."
"Renee likes her nails to look nice," said Kim. "Well, they do look nice."
"I think the women go for the gossip," added Richard.
And so around the room. Except for Reese, young and single. Reese looked embarrassed by the whole conversation.
I may be the only woman in town who has never had her nails manicured. It just never seemed practical because my fingers were always either planting in the dirt or tearing down furniture, which does nasty things to one’s nails if they aren’t trimmed tight. But I understand the appeal of color, design, glitter, shaping and polish. However, there is more to a manicure than the cosmetic finish.
"Okay, men. Listen up. Obviously, you don’t understand. If I want gossip, I can get all I want from you guys at morning coffee," I said. "It’s not about gossip. Style is nice but that is not the whole appeal. Think about this for a minute. I know this will be a stretch for you, but try to remember back to when you first began to date the girls. You pick her up in your Dad’s Ford Fairlane. You take her to the Grand Theatre, buy tickets to the John Wayne feature of the week, get a bucket of popcorn, two large cokes, and go sit in the middle of the back row. Remember that? The lights go down. You watch the newsreel, the cartoons, the previews. Finally the movie starts. You wait for just the right moment, after the popcorn is finished, probably when the hero is petting his horse, and you reach over and take her hand in yours. You hold her hand through the rest of the movie. Maybe you even get a goodnight kiss at the door at the end of the date. But the important thing, the thing she remembers for the rest of her life, is that you held her hand.
"No, don’t laugh. What I’m telling you is important. Women love to have their hands held. Men are different. Men are hunters. Once the game is bagged, they ignore it. Once you got married, you never held her hand again, did you? Why would you—now you own her, right? Now you turn your manly attention to other things, like the recliner and the remote. She still remembers when you used to hold her hands.
"So your women go have their nails done because for a half hour somebody is holding their hands and giving them undivided attention. Think about it."
"If I went home tonight and held Kim’s hand," said Dale, "She’d be suspicious I’d done something wrong, stopped at the casino or something."
"My wife would just say ‘I have a headache,’" offered another guy.
Poor Reese, he blushed. But he’d just as well know the real facts of life.
Coffee with the boys is okay. I learn valuable football skills. But tomorrow I’m going for a girly-girl manicure.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
August 15, 2013_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Not in My Back Yard
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___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Mystical Weather Psychic Foretells Winter
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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