Don’t Mess With Us!

 

            Don’t Mess With Us! 

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I thought long and hard before taking on the responsibility of adopting a pooch.

Lola has proven to be an asset to my life. If nothing else, she gets me out the door several times a day for short walks, for little chats, for daily interactions. She’s taught me when she wants to be brushed, when she wants a walk-about, when she wants her belly scratched, that sort of thing.

My neighbors, Josue and Erika, have two small poochies, Snowball, aged and toothless, and Princess, who showed up the year I moved here. Both are barkers, with small dog voices, though no less irritating for that. If something seems unusual in their world or a stranger is around, they sound the alarm. We pay attention.

Lola, my new companion, has a loud harsh voice, in comparison to her buddies next door. Really loud. As soon as the intruder is gone, the dogs settle down to silence. We know that when the dogs bark, something or someone is afoot. The dogs do not bark without reason. They do not yammer on just to hear the sound of their own voices, unlike  . . . never mind.

Last night Snowball and Princess began the bark concert. Whatever was going on seemed to be on the other side of us. Until Lola joined the chorus with an explosion of louder-than-normal-loud, aggressive and if I were to give human interpretation, the only kind I know, fearful barking that did not let up in either volume or intensity after several minutes.

Me? I was snuggled in bed under my down comforter. I was not about to get up and go outside. My theory was another possum. Or perhaps the same possum returned with vengeance in mind. An attack possum? Anything is possumable.

Josue and Erika had other ideas. They came over with flashlights in hand, “Sondra, are you okay?” I opened a window so we could see one another and we agreed, “Somebody must be snooping around. This is too unusual. Unless it is a possum. Might be a possum.”

They checked the bodega, the tool tunnel between the bodega and the walls, the back yard. Nothing seemed amiss. Erika went back home for a baseball bat. Josue checked all the other properties.

He also decided to turn on the water for Kathy’s lawn, to let it water overnight. While bent over the spigot, a light flashed on in Kathy’s house. Kathy and Richard are in Victoria at present. Nobody is home.

Very carefully, Josue slid up the wall and peeked into the window. A man was standing in the kitchen. Josue squatted down so his cell phone would not illuminate his face, and called Erika to phone the police. He continued to stay on guard, a dumb thing to do, but would any of us have done differently?

The intruder nonchalantly went from room to room, turning on lights, obviously not understanding how nosey we neighbors can be, though the way the houses are situated, nobody has direct sight into any other’s homes.

Within minutes, which surely seemed long minutes to Josue, body plastered against the outside wall, but peeking through the window to keep track of the man’s proceedings, the police showed up. Josue explained the situation. The police went inside and took the man into custody, and hauled him away to the hoosegow, but not before giving Josue a stern lecture for taking such dangerous chances.

Everybody is safe. Nothing was taken or damaged except the jimmied lock. The only thing we lost was sleep.

What we gained, is knowledge of Lola’s barking intensity. We know the usual, somebody walking the lane, neighborhood dogs cruising through, that sort of thing. Now we know how to interpret “Danger”.

Josue and Erika have my greatest appreciation. They always have looked after me. They keep a watchful eye out for all of us, for any activity that shouldn’t be, especially at night.

And Lola gets an extra big bone from the butcher today. Along with other assets, she is a lovable, huggable early-warning system of danger.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 24, 2022

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Famous, Notorious, Adequate, Anonymous

 

            Famous, Notorious, Adequate, Anonymous 

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My friend Cheryl, a former high school classmate, was talking with our ‘girl-group’ this week. She expressed how all her life, when among certain gifted, professional, highly recognized and extremely wealthy people, she has felt inadequate.

Haven’t we all felt that way? Isn’t that a universal feeling, to feel like whoever we are, whatever the circumstances, we are not enough?

Is it just me, or have we all at times felt like frauds and if people find out, oh, my, what shall we do! It is a very real fear.

Maybe not. Maybe it is just me. Back in Jr. High I remember first reading Emily’s “I’m nobody. Who are you?” What a relief. Someone who understands how I feel!

If you are one of us, as a result of my vast age and multi-colored range of experiences, have I ever got good news for you!

But let me give you the bad news first. Any time I want to compare my insides with your outsides, I come out ‘less than’. It’s just one of those rules. No matter what I can do well, somebody else, probably you, can do better. Accept it and don’t give it another thought.

Let me give you some examples and I’ll grab them out of my own life since it’s the only life of which I know well enough to speak.

I’m an adequate cook, farm style, with variations. My friend Kathy is a gourmet cook and everything from her kitchen looks like art on the table. Better or different? Does it matter? We each serve delicious food prepared from our hearts and from our experiences and knowledge.

I know another woman, Deb, who can quiet any baby simply by lifting the child into her arms. She is gifted. But she’ll never be able to package that gift to make her rich and famous.

What I’ve come to believe, and I could be wrong, is that Life is for us to experience. Furthermore, I think we are here to express those experiences. Kathy expresses excellence in the kitchen. Deb has a gift for making everyone around her, not only babies, feel comfortable and relaxed. 

Which brings me to my next point. Life is mean, ugly mean. This is the good news. It won’t seem to be but it is. As soon as I get to feeling I’m pretty good at a task, Life throws a wrench in the works and gives me a job at which to fail, often spectacularly. I confess each wrench to hit the works makes me grind my teeth. Takes a long time for me to learn.

Balance. Life likes balance. If we are really lucky, life throws a lot of mean wrenches into our works, giving us lots of chances to fail and lots of chances to become adequate at this or that.

I’ll never be rich or famous or lauded for expertise. But I’ve been given opportunities to become adequate at a lot of things.

My first year teaching, I was dreadful. I had the chance later to repair the damage. I got to try my hand at sales work among a lot of successful men. In one I was adequate. The other? I’d rather clean toilets. In another job, I learned how much I enjoyed listening to life stories of the elderly. Now I get to be one.

I got to develop elemental life skills into a way to make a living for my family while giving items long past their use-by date new beauty.

Life dumped me into a theater group for which I was not at all prepared. Passion and hard work are great teachers. I became more than adequate.

My life passion, writing, doesn’t bring me a dime, I’ve not published a book, but writing sustains me in uncountable ways. I made a choice years ago at a writing conference. I chose to continue to write for self-satisfaction, unhampered by any need to learn the business.    

My friend Cheryl, who began this conversation, is an admirable woman, had a successful career, a lovely family, has traveled extensively, is active in her community and has strong friendships with people from all walks of life. She’s a success. Best of all, she’s a friend.

We can’t all be a famous “Somebody” but we all can be an adequate “Nobody”.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 17, 2022

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Life Before the Wood Pulp Industry

 

             Life Before the Wood Pulp Industry 

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I’m not the least bit enamored with “the good ol’ days” which to my mind were rather rugged. Hard, one might say. I suppose every age is hard in its own way.

You might think I’m crazy and perhaps you are right.

A few months ago I was standing over the ironing board, dealing with the aftermath of cotton clothing sun-dried on the clothesline, letting all kinds of thoughts ramble through my mind when it seemed as if some of my notions coalesced into a decision without consulting me.

The consultation part of my decision came along gradually, a bit at a time, another aftermath.

I thought about how much stuff we surround ourselves with, how much we throw away, don’t fix, buy new, don’t need but buy on whims. I thought about how much cost of everything is going up and if one has a limited income, one must consciously pare down wants and even needs. And since I had an iron in my hand, I thought about when I was a child, learning to iron handkerchiefs. Which thought led to the wood pulp industry.

In another lifetime, in the ‘70s, and believe me, the ‘70s were another lifetime, I worked for the Kimberly Clark Company. The Kleenex people, among other various paper products. I got to tour the plants in Neenah, Wisconsin. I saw the vats of fuming wood pulp churning away at one end and rolling out paper at the other.

This was the ‘70s. I was from Montana. Never gave a thought to the chemical aspect, or any other. I still prefer Kleenex even though I know I’m wiping my nose with wood.

When neighbors go to Guadalajara, they always ask, “Need anything from Costco?” Pretty much the only items I buy from Costco are laundry soap, coffee and paper products, uh huh, Kleenex, paper towels and toilet paper.

It also happened to be trash pick-up day. I saw how much paper, not recyclable paper, but soiled paper, was in my trash.

Like I said, these threads of thought got together, formed a committee, and made a decision. Immediately I began to pare down my use-and-discard paper products. I began this transformation with real handkerchiefs. I wanted it to be a thought provoking process so I hand hemmed several squares of cotton. Voila! Handkerchiefs. Know what the hard part was? Making a habit to grab a hankie instead of plucking a Kleenex from the box.

Next I whipped out a stack of napkins. I’ve always used cloth napkins. When I had guests. Now I am my own guest, a napkin in my lap instead of a section of paper towel. Ha!

Paper towels, amazing how many little chores can be done with a cleaning cloth or paring carrots and onion husks into a washable dish instead of onto a disposable paper towel. 

My favorite new thing is re-usable muslin coffee filters. Work like a dream.

On trash pick-up day, I am amazed and pleased to see how my bag of garbage has dwindled in size.

I laughingly call my little experiment “Saving the planet, one tree at a time.” I’m not a crusader nor an evangelist. Most of my neighbors have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t expect a following. What I do myself is what is important to me.

A friend asked me if it made me feel righteous, this new way of being. “A little,” I replied. “Virtuous.” Said with a grin.

That leaves the other large paper-product purchase. I had to give this one some extra thought. I grew up, not in poverty, but in a cultural situation in which we did not have indoor toilet facilities but walked, marched, trudged, or ran down the path to the out-house, depending on the urgency and climate.

Sometimes we had rolls of toilet paper. Sometimes we didn’t. We always had the Sears catalog. But what did people do before Sears? That was my question.

Those Sears catalogs were pretty wonderful. They provided dreams and inspiration for an entire year. When the next year’s catalog arrived in the mailbox, heavy and colorful, the old book went to the outhouse, still useful, page by page.  

We’ll always have uses, needs, for disposable paper. For me, I intend to follow the rule of less in the trash is one more happy tree growing out there on the edge of the clear cut. And, no, I do not want another trip to the outhouse, ever. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 10, 2022

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We are as sick as our secrets.

 

We are as sick as our secrets.

When I had cataract surgery a few years ago, when the pads were removed from my eyes, I felt like I had been given a new set of eyeballs. Suddenly the world appeared more clearly, more colorful than ever before in my clouded memory. 

Other gifts of new sight have happened more gradually, like this one I want to share with you.

You all know I have quite an extensive array of plants in my garden. To some of the flowers, bushes and trees I’ve given names. I have a couple plants I call “George” simply because I like the name and probably associate it with my Uncle George, who had a terrific dry sense of humor and was a farming genius.

In my main bucket garden area, I have Homer, my taller than me, Day of the Dead garden-guard statue, named after an old friend, writer and wit. In the back corner beneath the Jacaranda, I have The Lady. That’s all I’ve ever called her, The Lady, a beautiful sylph-like being with a bird on her shoulder.

My Mango tree I call La Senora, after Leo’s mother, who has helped me a lot though she died before I moved here. La Senora radiates energy.

Another special named plant is Kristen’s Azalea. I planted a white azalea in memory of my son’s girlfriend who died a year ago. On New Year’s Eve, the first flower opened and today she looks like a princess in a white gown, whose scent permeates the patio area with sweetness.  

And in what used to be my stump garden, until the stump rotted apart and had to be removed, I have Francis. This story is about Frances. Not so much maybe about him but about me from back when I was too young and too naïve to know better.

The real Francis back when we all were young and foolish was a handsome dude. He had a great nickname which I won’t mention. He damaged me. Then I did a horrible thing. I disappeared him. I attempted to erase every aspect of him from my mind and memory. It never hurt him. But it hurt me, festering away in the attic of my mind all those years.

Twenty-some years later, I was talking and laughing with a group of friends when in walked Francis. I did not recognize this shell of a man, but knew him when he said his name. I got quiet, became wallpaper. I don’t know if he recognized me or not. I never saw him again.

But that afternoon, what I knew was that he was a very sick man, torn apart by the ravages of alcohol. I was able to have enough compassion to know he had been sick even back when he was young. This was “head” knowledge. I never breathed one word to anybody of the past. That was my hidden secret. And like I said, I never saw Francis again.

Then one morning after the stump had been gouged out of my stump garden and we’d begun to rearrange the rockery and plants, Leo showed up clutching the ugliest mal-formed elephant foot plant I’d ever seen. It looked like a last-gasper, with a wizened foot and crooked trunk. Somebody had chopped off the pony-tail like fronds from the top.

Leo said, “This was dying but I think it will come back to life in your stump garden.”

Without conscious thought, I said, “That is Francis.” And so the stump garden became the Francis garden, and eventually, as Francis the elephant foot plant gained in strength and even in beauty, became the St. Francis garden.

In the beginning, I was uncomfortable with Francis, but gradually, with time and with the need to take care of him, to nurture him, as Francis the Elephant Foot took root in my stump garden, my memories of the original Francis seeped out of my head and took root in my heart, fed with a new compassion and understanding. As this new Francis healed, so healed my memories.

You must please know this was nothing special in me. I was content to keep that ugliness buried inside forever. It took a poor spindly plant to root it out into the sunshine.

Today Francis stands tall. His twisted trunk has straightened and his pony-tail topknot has grown out gracefully. I hope that somehow, somewhere, that young, handsome, also damaged, dude of my past lives and prospers.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 3, 2022

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Dining in the Exclusive Restaurant

 

                                    Dining in the Exclusive Restaurant 

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Some days when I look out my door, there just doesn’t seem to be much happening.

I remember wishing, when my children were young, just wishing for one boring day. Just one day of absolute boredom, please, Dear God.

That wish-prayer was never answered. I’m the kind of person who simply does not get bored.

However, back in the day, I also remember when good friends sat me down and suggested that I was a bit of an adrenalin junkie, just a tad addicted to drama. I listened. It’s hard to ignore when four friends surround you, tell you what they observe, and don’t leave you an escape hatch.

With my friends’ help, with hard work and a good counselor, I’ve pretty much overcome that compulsion.

But boredom? I don’t get it. I mean, I’m just not subject to boredom.

However, to tell you about what’s happening in my life right now, know that what I say could bore you to tears if not leave you in Zombieland.

I stand in my door and look out. Yep, not much going on. Oh, the gardenia I planted for Kristen when she died is in full glory of white flowers, scent to fill the entire garden. And the Kiskadees are having feast day in the Lantana bushes. But those are just everyday type things. You’ve already heard me blather on about such.

I’m surrounded with beauty. Some days clouds scuttle overhead and obscure the sun. Some days the sun is ever-shining.

My son-in-law has Covid, first time. My oldest granddaughter has the plague, second time. Her baby boy is sick and the girls will follow, all in a row. But none of us want to hear that. We are tired of it. The phrase “sick and tired” never had more heart-rending meaning.

So what’s going on in my world is mostly house-wifery sort of things. Cooking and cleaning and sewing and gardening. These things don’t bore me but I could bore you if I went into detail.

My secret weapon is that I’ve learned to enjoy these mundane tasks. Uh. Except for swabbing the toilet. No enjoyment. But it beats the outhouse.

After two weeks of self-imposed jail behind the brick walls and wrought iron gates of my casita, I’m happy to report that Josue and his family are all testing negative again. Life is back to normal for them and for me.

Lola The Dog and I have resumed our daily walks along the lanes. This morning the thick fog muted our world, damp and silent. We returned with wet hair.

I talk with my neighbors for short stints of time, over the gates or on the patios, those four neighbors who are here. Everybody else has skedaddled, either north to home or over to a coastal beach.  

I like to think of each day as a restaurant experience. A really posh, high class restaurant. So exclusive, there is no menu. I walk in, sit down, and wait for the feast of the day.

Maybe yesterday I was served lobster, drenched in butter, so sweet and tender. I say, “Thank you!”

Perhaps today I am served lumpy oatmeal. I ask for brown sugar. “Today there is no sugar.” Oh. I’ve learned to eat my oatmeal, smile weakly, and say, “Thank you.” Sometimes I mean it.

Tomorrow I might find a tiny green worm slithering along a lettuce leaf in my salad.

This actually happened to my son, Ben. We were dining in the poshest restaurant on Bainbridge Island which is a very posh island in Puget Sound.

“Mom, there is a worm in my salad.” We all laughed. “Mom, I’m serious. Look.” There really was a worm in his salad. He picked the worm out, gave it to the waiter, who rushed back with a fresh salad. That experience put the rest of us off the salad.

But, hey, tomorrow our Waiter in this Restaurant of Life, just might serve up a thick, juicy, tender slab of beef. Just say, “Thank you.”  No matter what I’m served, I do my best to make it a feast. Some days that works a charm!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 27, 2022

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The World Turned Downside Upside

 

The World Turned Downside Upside 

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I’m not saying winter is over and done. I’m not that presumptuous.

However, it surely does feel like spring has bumped winter off the edge.

Why, when we’ve only sailed through mid-January, am I waking up to mornings fifteen and twenty degrees warmer than at Christmas?

Why are some of the Jacaranda trees beginning to flower? Those trees bloom in April and May   through June. Purple flowers pop out like moles in a newly laid lawn. This tree, then that tree, then the one over yonder. But never in January. Any leaflets still clinging are falling fast.

Why is my Avocado tree, the newly planted Haas, in full flower?

Why is my Mango tree strutting in all itsl blooming glory? I tried to tell it, “Not now, you silly fool. Frost may still attack.” I swear, the Mango tree yawned and another cluster of flowers fanned out.  

I’ve lived in this lush garden country long enough to know to plant my garden buckets in February. I’m harvesting lettuce, zucchini and, of course, the perpetual tomatoes daily. Would anybody like some fresh tomatoes? We’ve planted a third of my buckets and are readying the soil for the remainder. 

And the flowers? Flowers are always. I mean, they do rest. They alternate blooming and resting all year long.

Did you know that the mother-in-law’s tongue plant sends up a tall spike with a cluster of flowers at the end? Did you know that all the houseplants that we Montanans struggle to keep alive and green, in moderate pots on a coffee table, down here in this garden, grow hugely, in the open, often planted by birds and flower unashamedly?

I have to hack back my herbs frequently, with gusto, and throw away the cuttings. I had to quit drying them. After using only fresh plants these several years, the dried herbs remind me of floor sweepings, just as tasty.

Are you bragging or complaining, you might ask. I’m not sure. I’m still learning this country and the country keeps changing. I’ll answer your question when I know the answer. Meanwhile, can you see me looking baffled and shrugging my shoulders?

Know what scares me though? Remember how when I first moved here, there were a dozen or so potted plants around the house? I began visiting Vivero Centro with great frequency, returning home with more pots and more plants. One day I counted and I had well over one hundred different plants in lovely clay pots. I think I was the vivero’s best customer. I had to make myself stop cold turkey, you know, white knuckle it.

It’s like a disease, right? When I began my bucket garden, it was with the thought of growing lettuce and tomatoes, maybe peppers and zucchini. Four buckets, or, maybe six, or even eight.

And just like the clay pots, buckets seemed to breed and proliferate. Next thing you know, I couldn’t remember what I’d planted in this or that bucket? Beets? Carrots? I had to wait for the little bitty shoots to give me a clue. Oh, yes, that which looks like grass. It’s baby spinach. Ah, isn’t it cute? See, what I mean?

Then I bought three baby baths for those plants that didn’t like hanging over the edge of a tall bucket. They wanted to sprawl horizontally, so what was I to do?

Then I bought a few medium trash cans and some oil barrels cut in half, for those which want just a bit more depth.

And just like that, my bucket garden grew out of hand. I’ll try to keep it tamed this year. Otherwise, I might as well plow up the rest of the yard and have a real garden.

A real garden is a lot of work. Real gardens are sweat and heartache. Buckets are fun. I don’t want a working garden. I want fun.

Is winter really over? The next few days will tell that story. Nothing in my garden seems to be behaving. 

What’s that you ask? How many buckets and designated vegetable containers do I have? I don’t know. I’m afraid to count them.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 20, 2022

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On the Merry-go-round

 

On the Merry-go-round 

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Here we go again, ‘round and ‘round the merry-go-round, twirling so fast we dare not jump off.

Leo was just here with the daily death report from town.

Last night the Governor of Jalisco spoke to the people. He basically locked us down again. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t congregate in bunches. Wear masks. No travel unless absolutely necessary.

Now that the holidays have passed, tourists and Mexican-Americans here to visit family have gone back home, the latest Covid variant is on the rampage. Leo said, once again, the streets are empty, stores locked, and people who are out are masked.

Heck ‘n’ dang, when I walk my Lola The Dog in the morning, I mask up, knowing I’ll not likely see a soul on my stroll. Does that make me feel righteous? No. I’ve simply developed the habit. I grab a mask automatically when I leave the house. Do you have any idea how long it took to get that habit?

It’s not an imposition. Took me longer to automatically buckle my seat belt. There is another sure way to die if you are of a mind. And if you don’t die, you can have the gift of long term pain and/or disabilities. I’m living proof of the seat belt law gone unfastened.

Last week we oldies in Etzatlan finally got to line up for our booster shots. I was beginning to despair that we’d ever get the booster. The nurse, as I was getting my paperwork stamped upon leaving the courtyard of the hospital, told me I was lucky to get there the first day. The government was not able to send enough vaccine.

That’s the difference between here and there. We have people who cannot get vaccinated simply for lack of supplies. How would you feel standing in line, to be told, sorry, we just plunged the last shot?

Sure, some people are superstitious. But too many people have died in our little community for the majority to ignore the gift of vaccine.

The morning I was in town for my booster, the blocked off street quickly filled with we elders and with great numbers of young people. It was also the week for those ages fifteen through nineteen to get their first shots. A lot of youngsters accompanied their grandparents, helping them in line before stepping across the way for their own jabs. It was heartening to watch those dynamics.

Personally, too many people whom I know have died, both here and in the States. Yesterday I got word of another friend who died two days ago. Covid with pneumonia.

We rode the school bus together for all those school years. He was younger than me but was one of those rare persons who saw no barriers. He would sit with anyone, with everyone, and talk and laugh and just be the friendly person whom he was.

For some reason, word of his death took me out at my emotional knees. Why him, I’ve no idea. I’d only seen him once since I graduated High School. In 1974 I was working in Salt Lake City, walking through one of the big malls, and heard my name. I turned to look and was so surprised to see it really was someone I knew. We talked a while but I never saw him again.

One of my other friends said to me, “Now that you are boosted, you can go anywhere and do anything.”

I had no words to reply. She may be invincible but I am not.

I don’t want to get sick, even a milder breakthrough case. But more than that, I don’t want you to get sick.

I’ve lived a long and interesting and full life. I’ll go when I go. Please, please, stay well for me. I need you. Even if I haven’t spoken with you since 1974.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 13, 2022\

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