Comings and Goings

Comings and Goings

            They flapped a clamor like rain drumming on my roof. The day is sunny and bright. Overhead, a gigantic thundercloud of blackbirds shadowed the sky in annual migration.

I like to imagine these are the same blackbirds I see gathering in the wheat fields around Havre in September, eating grain, preparing for the 2,500 mile flight south. I will see these flocks daily until spring, moving between feeding grounds in the valley and night perches in the hills.

Jim was here with his 95-year old mother, Juanita, for a week. He wanted her to see this part of the country he loves. We all fell in love with this delightful woman.

One day, while she and I sat in the Plaza, another wrinkled woman, one I see frequently in town, a woman near the same age as Juanita, walked over and lay her hand on Juanita’s shoulder. The two women, mirror images, leaned, round heads face to face and congratulated one another on such a long life, gabling back and forth, each in her own language, no barrier to understanding.

Juanita said she knew she would never have another chance for such a trip. She tires easily but she is sharp as a tack and loves to tell her stories. She paused in the middle of one such story, obviously frustrated. “Oh,” she shook her head. “Sometimes words forget me.”

She is back in St. Louis. We told Jim he could go home and leave his mother here. But, I know we wore her out and she is glad to be home, in her own bed. Jim plans to return in January, depending on his mother’s health, of course.

The same day Jim and Juanita boarded an outbound plane, Pat and Nancie arrived from Sedro Woolley, Washington and Julie flew in from the Twin Cities. We are wearing paths through the grass between casitas, visiting, welcoming. 

Crin has been here three weeks. She leaves in a few days. Single women, living across the road from one another, we often share a meal. Crin will return in February for a longer stay, perhaps a couple months. I will miss her. Everyone else here is partnered up.

If I could, I would send you my crop of avocados and iguanas.  My tree is large and loaded. I began eating from it in August and it still drops several a day. By the end of its crop, I do not care if I ever see another avocado. I pick dropped avocados off the ground in the morning and hike them over to the neighbors in rotation, every other day keeping one for myself.

Iguanas? They love avocados and chomp all but the seed. Often I see or hear a fat iguana, belly full, slip and fall from the tree, mouth full of pulp. My flowers are safe from foraging, for now.

 Today my great-granddaughter, Kyla, the baby, is in the hospital in Billings for a bone-marrow test. If I could, I would take unto myself the entire family pain. Instead I have my own helplessness, my confusion, my questions, my anger.

If I could I would flap wings like a blackbird, fly against the cold and snow and bitter winter winds, and like a fairy godmother or a witch, who cares which, wave my magic wand and make life sparkle.

Which one of us would not do likewise for those we love? But that is fantasy. 

Why does it take pain to motivate me to do something I know is good? I get lazy, break the good habit. Last week I began anew, beginning anew, dedicating the first hour of morning to meditation. The first hour. If I set any different time, I set up myself to fail.

The first hour, as the sun is rising, is for me, for you, for all my children. Maybe I cannot make anything different or better. But I can find ease for my own heart. Who knows? Life is a Great Mystery.

After meditation, I drink my morning coffee, pick avocados, dead-head geraniums, mop my floor, watch blackbirds, walk across the little dirt road and visit a neighbor. Some days I go to the Plaza.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 1, 2018

A Normal/Not So Normal Day ...... Or Why I Live in Mexico

A Normal/Not So Normal Day

                                                    Or Why I Live in Mexico

            I woke up grumpy. Not normal.

            Beautiful sunrise. Normal.

            After coffee and Qi Gong with Jim, I still felt out of sorts, no energy. I sat; he gonged. Decided to go to the doctor. Definitely not normal.

            Leo, who came to see if I needed anything from town, offered to take me and be my interpreter.  “Do you want to see the cheap doctor or the good doctor?”

            “I don’t care. I just want to make sure I don’t have pneumonia.” The “cheap” doctors are those who are working off government loans for education. I have been to them more than once.  I got excellent care and diagnosis for thirty pesos.  That is about $1.58.

            Leo said, “I think you are depressed and worried.” What I heard was, “It’s all in your head.” Silently, I replied, “You can keep your think to yourself.”

            Leo parked in front of the Paris Hospital. Doctor Fermin owns the small, private hospital. Leo made the choice for me.

            After a thorough exam, Dr. Fermin said, interpreted loosely by me, “Yes, you had very bad head cold. You are clear now. Heart, blood pressure, temperature, oxygen level, lungs, eyes, ears, nose and throat, all normal.”

            Immediately I felt better. He followed up with a prescription. When my children were small, one favorite Little Golden Book was When I grow up, what will I be? The nurse exclaims, “Here’s a little pill for you. This will make you good as new.”

            That’s modern medicine for you. I don’t care. Three prescriptions plus the exam cost me 450 pesos or $23.70 USD. I will take the pills. Not normal. I will rest, drink juices and teas all the long day. Normal.

            I asked Leo to stop by my favorite panaderia for a chocolate croissant, my version of a lollipop for being a big girl at the doctor. Eight pesos. My other favorite treat is an ice-cream cone. It was a difficult choice.

            Leo then went to a neighborhood tienda to pick up fruit to welcome John and Carol when they arrive tomorrow. Leo is thoughtful that way.

I needed a few items. I bought a large carton of yoghurt, a round of Oaxaca cheese, a pineapple, rack of bananas, apples, a cantaloupe, a papaya, 3 cups raisins, 2 cups peanuts, a hefty stalk of broccoli, head of garlic, squash, carrots, a green pepper; this munificent bounty for the paltry sum of 219 pesos, or approximately eleven and a half dollars. Not normal.  I bought more than I usually do. My eyes outflanked my stomach.

We stopped by Leo’s sister Amparo’s house so I could meet her brand new baby girl, not a week in our lives. Marifer is beautiful. She will break hearts just like her three-year-old sister, Isabella, who calls me her Tia Lola. Who knows where she came up with that, but to Isabella, I am Aunt Lola. She came to me, lifted her foot for me to tie her shoelace. That small act made me feel better than any medicine.

The remainder of my day was normal. I rested. I drank teas. Neighbors stopped by to check on me. Are you okay? Do you need anything? Is there something I can do for you? Crin came to ask if I were up to a lounge by the pool. Bonnie chewed my ears off for not letting her know I had been sick. Josue came twice. Leo came and changed my water jug. A normal day.

P.S. Hurricane Willa must cross two mountain ranges to reach us. We get slop-over. Wind and rains but we are safe.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 25, 2018

Ripa Van Wrinkle Rides Again

Ripa Van Wrinkle Rides Again

            I should have a good ten years of health ahead of me, since the last time I was this sick with a head cold was a good ten years ago.

The prevailing wisdom is, if you don’t medicate a cold, it will wear itself out in two weeks. If you do medicate a cold, it will hang on fourteen days. In these two miserable weeks, I’ve hardly left my bed.  

            Medical advice from the young men on the Rancho; Tequila. Medical advice from my cousin Jim; Whiskey. My Medicine Cabinet is empty.

            My friend Lani, she and I are the only gringas here at present, housebound with different maladies. I said, “Can’t you just see us two old fools, setting out to seriously drink?”

            First, we would have to locate the right place. We would not want to get tipsy where people know us, assuming a drink or two would render us wibble-wobbly. Which is probable. That rules out favorite places like the Restaurante Don Luis, up on the mountainside. Maybe that little corner bar in town, the one with blue walls, the one with the beautiful carved-wooden barstools, the one that always has loud music blaring out onto the street?

            Then we would need to decide what to drink. Neither of us are drinkers—see Medicine Cabinet above. This is a serious quandary. Since we would surely get sick, umbrella drinks are ruled out. If we upchucked a drink that tasted good, we would never be able to drink it again.  

            If we go to the loud-music bar, we couldn’t stay long, so we’d better order doubles. Think about it. A double shot of Medicine would probably do us in. Two doubles would kill us.

            This is all in the interest of getting well. Seriously. Once we downed the drinks, some kind souls would pour us into a taxi and send us home where we would puke and then we could get up and go.

            This is pseudo-scientific information. Like attracts like. Did I learn that in school? We have poison in our bodies making us sick, so, add more poison. The poisons stick together like iron filings to a magnet. We disgorge the whole mess, and voila, two healthy old fools. What do you think?

            That imaginative outing gave us a good laugh and the next day we did indeed feel better. Laughter is the best medicine. It chased out the poison. The following day we ventured out for lunch at Rolando’s Acapulco Tacos. No outside stimulation needed.

            Did I mention Lani and I are the only two northerners at the Rancho? We expect Crin and her sister Anne to arrive Monday. Then Jim and his 95 year-old mother are coming in Thursday. John and Carol will show up Sunday. And Nancie and Pat, along with Julie, fly in to Guadalajara the following Wednesday.

            Imagine my surprise when I got up this morning. I had not even made coffee. I had just put a load of laundry in the washing machine, stepped out of my bodega, and saw, coming in my gate, Kathy and Richard, who were not expected to show up until December.

            Double take. I could not believe my eyes. Was I awake? Was I still in bed, asleep, dreaming?  Hallucination? Imagination? I was not drinking, I swear.

Hugs around proved they were my real flesh and blood friends. “We could not stay away.”

            I chopped apples, bananas and papaya and cooked oatmeal for breakfast. We ate. We talked. We hugged some more. I drank my coffee.  

            Within a few short days, we will have a “Full House” on the Rancho. We will get rip-roaring intoxicated, all under the influence of friendship and laughter. Let the good times roll.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 18, 2018

Coming Home

Coming Home

Being sick gives new meaning to the much overworked cliché, “There is no place like home.” Home to warm sunshine. Home to my own bed. Home.

The rainy season is nearing the end. The “boys” tell me that while I was shivering up north, down here, forty days and forty nights, storms of Biblical proportions dumped rain and wreaked havoc. I feel like I have been away a very long time.

All I cared about was my own bed. My house still had a roof. If it floated away with me in it, so be it. Being home this soon had not been my intention.  I had scheduled an interlude on the coast.

From Billings to Salt Lake City to Mexico City to Mazatlan, I fell asleep on each leg of the journey before the planes left the tarmac. I had a head cold when I left Billings. By the time I got to my hotel room in Mazatlan, I was sick.

            The stress of sick grand-babies had done me in. That and living out of my suitcase for forty days. The good news is that baby Kyla is out of the hospital. For that, this family is grateful.

            When I awoke in my Mazatlan hotel room, by now miserably ill, I croaked, “I need to go home.” I called my friend Carlos, “Will you come help me, please.”

Within an hour I was at the bus station, ticket in hand. Next I called Leo, “I am catching the noon bus. Will you pick me up in Zapopan?” By the time I climbed off the bus, clutching my box of tissues, I had completely lost my voice.

Usually, the first thing I do when I return home is tour my yard. Usually I follow that with a cyclone of cleaning, laundering, putting my surroundings back into order. Usually.

For three days I did not walk outdoors, did not leave my house. Slowly, my body is mending. Little by little I venture out. One day I sit a few minutes on my front patio. Another day I walk around the house, look at the flowers, sit in sunshine in a rocking chair in back.

Today I looked around with eyes to see changes. Here are a few “word snapshots” around my home.

My Madre plant, a succulent, shot up a five foot long stalk covered in delicate white flowers. She has a dozen babies around her skirts.

One could strain spaghetti through the Elephant Ears, huge leaves, riddled with holes from the hail.

My Papaya tree, planted only this spring, has four baby fruits. I never knew a fruit tree to grow so quickly, like Jack’s beanstalk.

In August I had planted a row of low greenery which flower in purple clusters and permeate the air with a delightful spicy scent. They all lost their heads and drowned. 

The salad bar plant, the one with trumpet flowers that the bane-of-my-life iguana feasted on regularly, has flourished now that it is unmolested. (I caught him in a sleepy moment and beat him with a broom a few days before I left.)

A new iguana has taken up my enemy’s perch on the corner tile of the bodega roof. I give him the evil eye.

My Cascada de Oro, Golden Chain tree, has doubled in size. How can that be?

The King David Jasmine, after two years of nursing and nudging him along, finally feels strong and established, thick with new branches and buds.

My Gardenia looks dead.

A tree outside my wall which looks like a lipstick plant on steroids is loaded with red lips.

My avocado tree supplies me and my neighbors and their neighbors.

The bedsheet-butterflies have returned. Partridge doves behave shamelessly, acting like it is spring. This morning loud and persistent booms of firecrackers woke me up—the noisy kind, not the flowers-in-the-sky kind.

The two hours of explosions heralded the annual procession of the Statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe from Etzatlan to San Juanito de Escobito. Thousands of people walk the route. I stayed in bed.

It is good to be home.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 11, 2018

Gloomy in Glendive

Gloomy in Glendive

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            I would like to tell you it is all about the weather. I would be lying. Even though it seems like rain has followed me from Washington to Glacier Park to Harlem to Glendive, I am simply not that powerful.

            I do not make the rain. Much as I would like to think it is all about me, it is not. Nor is it all about the weather. Weather is weather. Variable. Today weather is rain. This is Montana. Tomorrow weather might bring a heat wave. Or it might snow.

            This week and a half is for Family. My older daughter and her family, to be explicit.

            The players: My daughter, Dee Dee. Her husband, Chris. Their daugher, Antoinette who is twelve. And their older daughter, Jessica, who has two babies, Harper at three and Kyla, one and a half.

            Jessica graciously gave up her bedroom to me. The bonus, for me, is that I get to know her baby girls.

            When I arrived in Glendive, my Dee Dee was in a tizzy over her own housing. The family has been planning to move—in a year. Suddenly, they were given notice that the owner has other plans that take precedence over their own plans. They have to move. So much for plans.

            Can adult children have meltdowns? Of course. This adult mama almost melted alongside her daughter. It is allowed. Adults have more understanding of where we are when we dissolve into a puddle on the floor than the average two-year-old And we did not stay on the floor and stomp our feet. Scream and cry? Well, a little.

            My daughter has visions of living in cardboard boxes under a railroad overpass. Oh, dear, I am afraid I passed that image down to her through some weird genetic transfer. I wanted to rescue her. I cannot.

            She and Chris will find a house. Their sense of panic will recede. They will not paste newspaper for insulation onto the walls of an abandoned barn. Older and wiser, I know this. (That sounds really good, doesn’t it? The older and wiser part.)

            I have told her for years that they needed to get out of that moldy old house. So, panic or no, moving is a good thing.

            Now, for the bad news. Our baby girl, Kyla, happy and bouncy and full of love and kisses, the little flirt, woke one morning crabby and cranky and warmish. After a round of tests, the doctor put her in ICU. Her white cell count was dangerously high. The doctor quickly ruled out meningitis or cancer. They are shoving antibiotics into her veins, hydrating her, and lots of poking and pinching as well as every kind of test. But they cannot seem to find the cause. Or they are not telling us their suspicions. (Maybe a good thing.)

            We human creatures, helpless most of the time, seem to think if we just know what “it” is, then we can control or fix it or make it go away. When we find out what “it” is, we usually find that we are still helpless.

            Kyla’s illness certainly puts our small woes into perspective. It is difficult to worry over one’s paltry concerns when a baby is suffering. Everyone pitched in to take care of Harper while her Mom is at the hospital with the baby.

            What next? I said it. Snow. Big deal. Snow is simply weather. When September waved good-bye, she went out with an evil cackle of witchery, piling snow over Montana. October stomped in, boots crunching through frost, snow and a glaze of ice. This is Montana.

            I’m headed home to my little casita and what flowers the iguanas have not eaten. I would whine, but nobody would listen.

            Weepy eyes, runny nose, scratchy throat and all, still, I sing, “But I’m on my way, won’t be back for many a day. My heart is down, my head is turning around, I had to leave a little girl in Glendive town.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 4, 2018

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Can't Iron My Birthday Suit

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            Two dozen Harlem High, Class of '63 grads, arrived at the Great Northern Lodge in for our 55th Class Reunion. Hugs, jabber, huge smiles: we provide instant love, just add self.

            I blurted, "We can no longer say, 'My, you have not changed a bit.'" I am not sure anybody appreciated my comment. Truth is, undeniably, we have changed. Life has its way with us. But we are still us. Maybe more us. Pretense and posturing fell away over the years. Better usses. We still say, "You look wonderful." We tell the truth.

            Because we, at an all-school reunion in 2005, committed to meeting annually, our depth of knowledge of each other, our feelings for one another, our acceptance of every wrinkle and wart has increased. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

            Undoubtedly the highlight of this trip has been the Red Bus Tour through the Park. Jesse arranged for us to have our own bus. The day could not have been more perfect. Or was the highlight Jesse and Jim banteering with one another in the way of two (older) men, better than vaudeville.

            Driving from the mountains onto the high semi-arid plateau of north-eastern Montana is like entering an alternate universe. I do love the Big Empty. Especially in the fall when the very air reflects golden, when the grains are harvested, when antelope dot the stubble fields.

            Ah, Havre, I see changes. You are a vital community, an anchor for a wide, wide area. I hope the seemingly negative changes, with three important stores closing, will be metamorphosed into new life, Phoenix out of the ashes, so to speak.

            My good friend Jane and I started our morning with breakfast at the 4Bs, for memory's sake. I ordered tomato soup and grilled cheese for breakfast. Used to be, when my Dad picked me up at the train station, that is what we did.

            Popped in for hand shakes and hugs with Tim and Pam at the news office. Walked over to talk with Rick at the Grateful Bread and pick up a couple loaves of the staff of life to take on to my cousin Shirley in Harlem.

            Some years the leaves turn from green to brown, seemingly overnight, no in-between. This year autumn is ablaze with color, the greens turning to shades of red and gold. Harlem, barely a blip on the map, is beautiful.

            I went with Shirley to play pinochle at Kennedy"s where laughter outweighed skill. I had my newly revised "last will" notarized at the library. Small towns do have advantages. One never knows where one might find an essential service.

            Lady Luck was by my side. The home-coming parade rolled and marched and pranced down Main Street while I stood waiting to cross, triggering  memories of past parades. My cousins, second cousins, once removed, Truth and Titan, marched in the band. Go Wildcats.

            Next week I will be in Glendive with my daughter and her family.

            Next year Harlem hosts an all-school reunion celebrating the 100 year anniversary of the school. That is the rumor I hear. Our class is making plans. This year our class celebrated our 55th. We all celebrated, if that is the appropriate word, our 73rd birthday.

            Karen said, "Not me. I turn the numbers around and celebrate my 37th."

            Lola said, "Well, for 37, you sure didn't hold up well."

            So much for fooling mother nature. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 27, 2018

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Blue Haired Lady on the Move

Blue Haired Lady on the Move

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            When this gray-haired Grandma left Mexico for Washington, I filled two suitcases, large and small, with clothing I have yet to wear, with gifts to give, with everything possible I thought I might need, most of which I have not needed. Or wanted.

            At home in Mexico, I live a minimalist life. On the road, I have not learned how to survive with two pair of pants, two shirts and a toothbrush. Sadly, I am constitutionally incapable of traveling lightly.

            Not to mention, my minimal (?) shopping while in Washington. I have picked up a few items. Even though I unloaded gifty things I brought for family and friends, for some reason the ratio of unloaded items to items to reload in inversely proportional. Little things, like canning lids with bands, impossible to find in my small town. Larger things like printer ink cartridges. And sheets, just because. Not to mention a couple other essential unmentionables.

There might be a universal law in effect here. To my consternation, friends told me snow fell in the mountains. Our class reunion is in Glacier National Park this year, so that is my first Montana destination. Conditions are such that one might freeze or fry.

I am not worried about the fires. I feel kinship with Sam McGee. However, I do not “do” cold. In a small panic, I bought waterproof hiking boots, two jackets, gloves, a hat and two sweaters. (Thank you Goodwill.)

Consequently I made a dry run with my suitcases and was forced to come up with a Plan B. I filled a box, hiked it to the post office and mailed it to my daughter where we will meet up later.

Once I give my daughter and family the remainder of my gifts, I am certain to have room to stuff everything back into my suitcases in October. Between now and then, I cannot allow myself to buy or accept one more item. None. Nada. Zero. That’s all folks.

Maybe one more pair of jeans. But that is all. Really.

So where does the blue hair enter the picture? I have never been one to fuss with my looks, have never dyed my hair. So my natural me is gray/brown. Five years ago, I might have said brown/gray. Such is progress. Or is that regress?

Bright blue is the result of a granddaughter-grandmother bonding experience, instigated by Kristen, my son’s girlfriend. One afternoon she painted portions of our hair blue. I rather like it, despite a few startled glances from strangers, offset by gracious comments. Both Lexi and I have a few striking blue strands on the right sides of our heads. It is fun. And in a couple weeks, it will wash out. Fun with an end-by date.

When I get off the plane in Great Falls, you will recognize me. I am the blue-haired lady in the parka and mukluks, lugging entirely too much stuff behind me.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 20, 2018

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