News you can use
News you can use
Sorted by date Results 401 - 425 of 644
I’ve lost my robe. I’m beside myself with anxiety. I didn’t realize it was gone. In fact, I have no idea exactly when I misplaced it. Surely, I couldn’t have thrown it away. I depend on that robe. It is a piece of me. My hermit robe. A “security blanket.” I wore it from the day I moved to Mazatlan. Protection in my desert of solitude. It circumscribed my hermitage, defined my retreat. Yesterday, Bonnie said, “Sondra. You look so different.” We met in March, when I bought my ca...
Those dratted leaf-cutter ants are at it again, drilling holes, raising mounds of pebbled dirt around their nests. Their chain-saw jaws can strip my hibiscus, roses, oleander and hydrangea in minutes, leaving bare-naked stalks. Unsated, they turn to the rest of my garden. I gently escort spiders out of my house. But when I see fresh ant hills, I show no mercy. We were driving out the Rancho road to the highway, going to Guadalajara to pick up Pam at the airport, when I saw a...
I like to write letters. I like to receive letters. It’s a lifelong habit for me. While I no longer have a mailbox, I do have an email account and a computer. While the pleasure is not even similar to pulling down the flap of the aluminum container perched on a post at the end of the drive, I have learned to compensate. We live in a wondrous and fearful world. Everything — letters, bills, junkmail, spam, appears on my screen without visible means of support. Just this week, in...
My friends are back home in British Columbia. I signed up for three days of depression, lonely following our whirlwind of explorations and excitement. A vibrantly green lizard perches on my wall, staring down at me, as if to say, “I’m here. Don’t cry.” Each day brought choices, where to go, what to see. We drove to Tonola twice for the tianguis (open-air street market). Twice we plucked fruit and vegetables from huge piles at the Friday tianguis in Etzatlan. Under the guise o...
Today, Kathy and her sister Crin fly into Guadalajara from Victoria, British Columbia. I’ve known Kathy for, I don’t know, maybe 15 years. When two friends recognize they are kindred spirits, who counts years? This is embarrassing, but I can’t remember Crin’s given name. I met Crin a couple years ago in Mazatlan. Crin’s unusual nickname comes from her penchant for crinoline underskirts when she was a little girl, back in the day when we all wore the starched scratchy...
My cousin Nancie will board the plane for her home in Washington today. Three weeks wasn’t enough time for her to finish the long list of tasks she set herself in her new casa. But she painted and made curtains and cleaned and scratched off great chunks of her list. We found time to visit each day, often during work breaks or sharing meals, mugs of coffee, cups of tea. Years ago I had a friend in construction work who, with a wink, said that paint hides a multitude of sins. I...
The workmen are finished. Thanks to daily rain my damaged lawn is repairing itself. No more mud and crud. My house is in order. Trees are planted. I’m weeding the neglected flower beds. Two-or-three-or-several times a week I am rendered speechless with gratitude with a-hit-me-over-the-head-look-at-how-different-my-world-is-than-it-coulda-woulda-been. Whew. Think about it. I grew up in Harlem, Montana, in the 50s and 60s. A trip to Chinook was a big deal. The Harlem News u...
My mind is a mess. Twenty-three days ago the men began work in my backyard, front yard, patio and, yes, even inside my house. Twenty-three days of mud and crud and cement dust, of men and tools and Mexican music, of piles of sand, water barrels, ladders and stacks of brick across my lawn. Did you know fresh cement has a distinctive smell? And handmade sun-baked brick has its own flavor? My wall is complete, my patios are finished. I can sweep, “rearrange the furniture” and “ha...
And “the best things in life are dirty,” the gospel according to Ben Rumson (Lee Marvin) and Pardner (Clint Eastwood), words to live by from “Paint Your Wagon.” Amen. A lot of spiritual truths hide in songs and when I’m up to my knees in mucky ol’ mud, and the song, even a song from a cringe-worthy musical, makes me smile, so be it. Rainy season is here, an undeniable truth. Josue and Abel are building my new wall between my casita and the neighboring property. The man who...
The lyrics, “Ah, ha, oh, no, don’t let the rain come down, my roof’s got a hole in it and I might drown” woke me as once more waters pounded my roof and the lake of run-off lapped against the west side of my casita. The early ’60s voice of Ronnie Hilton crooned into my ear, silly lyrics to a slightly calypso beat. Every night, every single night, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, count on it — the rain falls freely. “So, you who have lived here your whole life, how long will...
“So, Sondra, why aren’t you married?” Bonnie questions my back. There I am, lying unclothed on a bed, needles poking all over me, getting an acupuncture treatment for sciatica and related pains. How can I answer? Her question triggers feelings of discomfort, squirminess. But I don’t dare squirm with needles poking out all over. OK, yes, the squirming came from inside, not outside. Still. I’m asked this question a lot. Almost everyone I meet has asked me why I’m alone. Alon...
Back when people first began using e-books, I guess that is what one calls them, my daughter, Shea, said, “Mom, you are such a voracious reader. You should get one of these. You’d like it.” “And lose the visceral pleasure of a book made from trees? The thickness of the cover, whether hard or soft? The texture of the pages? The smell of ink? The smell of a new book? Or old? The satisfaction of physically turning the pages? Being able to write in the margins should I choose?...
Eureka. I’ve just discovered my backyard. That’s not to say I never knew I had a backyard. But I dismissed it. “Dismiss.” Hang onto that word. My first focus, of necessity, centered on my humble casita, on making it fit for human habitation. Next I devoted my time and attention to the front portion of the property, cleaned out the storage bodega, fancied up my patio, built brick bases for potted flowers and herbs. Each evening I surveyed my “kingdom” from one of my rocking cha...
I treasure a postcard from Missoula in the early ’80s. The card pictures an earth-moving business in the background. In the foreground perches a stand from which the proprietor sells croissants. It was pure Missoula. At that time, every convenience-store clerk had a master’s degree and held two or three jobs just to survive. In contrast, a friend forwarded me a look into the future. It sounded like 1984 on steroids. I thought the article painted a bleak picture. Obviously fro...
Last Friday the Casa de Cultura sponsored a Folklorico performance for the Etzatlan community. A stage dominated one corner of the square, with rows of folding chairs for the audience. Dance troups, some local, some from surrounding towns, others who had traveled great distances, performed traditional dances. Ah, the regalia. Miles of calico and satin, skirts and flounces, blouses and scarves. Herds of cowhides stitched into vests and pants and boots. The men handsome in...
At last, I have a working sink in the house. No more carting all food preparation items plus dishes before and after meals out to the outdoor sink on the patio. Josue has finished my kitchen cabinets. I’m no stranger to roughing it. Back in the early '60s, when I was newly married and it seemed romantic, I had no sink. Running water meant I carried buckets from the well out by the stock tank and poured it into the water bucket on the wash stand (cold) and the copper boiler o...
I walked around my coffee bush, checking out the blossoms and emerging beans. Actually, although I lust after it, the bush belongs to the neighboring property, now sitting empty. It doesn’t sooth me that this towering bush is dead ahead in my line of vision when I sit at my keyboard, looking out my window at my lilies and geraniums, my view framed by the bougainvillea on my left and the grapefruit on my right, orange trees in the distance. About three weeks ago when b...
Some days, despite all the good things in my life, I wake up and would rather crawl back into bed and pull the quilt over my head. Pity party is another word for the feeling. Party, well, yes, party. I woke up with an ugly thought, “Today is my birthday.” Seventy-one seems a number without much pizzazz. Seventy or seventy-five or one hundred — now those numbers have class. Milestone numbers. My number seems rather in-betweeny. How old are you? Mumbley mumble. Then Teresa walke...
I’ve always liked the story of the shoemaker and the elves. In the evening, before he retired, the old shoemaker cut the leather and prepared his work bench to stitch the shoes in the morning. In the night the elves came to the shop of the good shoemaker and stitched the shoes, the most beautiful shoes. When I had my shop in Poulsbo, Washington, often I cut fabric for the following day. Each morning I entered with eyes of hope. The elves never came. Here in Etzatlan, Leo is m...
Years ago, a builder said to me, “Paint covers a multitude of sins.” I didn’t need convincing. When I was a senior in high school, mere days before graduation and marriage, I rescued and painted a small wooden dresser. I don’t know how many years it had sat neglected in our farm dump, that place through the woods and near the river where we discarded very little. I think it might have come from the labor house, used only during sugar beet and potato harvest. Nor do I remembe...
“I need a wife,” Ellie wrote. I grinned. I don’t know how many times over the years I’ve been a single Mom and then later on, simply single, that I said those same words. We women keep an ongoing conversation, email obliterating the separation of miles, borders and even an ocean. It means a lot to us that we know one another’s hard times, strengths and weaknesses, joys and sorrows. Sometimes a person simply likes for another to acknowledge that they see you. They know what...
When I first visited Lani in Etzatlan, she made me welcome, but came close to threats, bribery and mayhem to convince me I should move to her town. Well, Heckle and Jeckle, I had been in Mazatlan only three months. I loved Mazatlan. Many trips from coast to mountains later, I caved to wishes, friendships, economics and knavery and bought a beautiful little casita which needs love. No surprise there for what I paid. The house is sound, all the services in good repair. My...
When I was a child growing up in Indiana, I loved Christmas for one reason: The mailman delivered the annual box of clothes sent by Aunt Ann, practically new hand-me-downs from cousin Nancie, a year older. Back then my grandma made most of our clothes. Back then, home sewn dresses were not “cool.” I lived for Nancie’s clothes. Attitudes are vastly different today. There is a world of difference between “homemade” and “Hand Crafted.” Each year Grandma sent me off to school wit...
Silly childhood ditties often carry substantial wisdom. Consider “Row, row, row your boat.” On second thought, I’ll come back to that in a moment. First I announced that I bought a finely maintained old-Mexican style casita in the little village of Etzatlan. Next thing you know, Kathy and Richard from Victoria, British Columbia, made inquiries about a neighboring casita. Then Crin, Kathy’s sister, began asking questions, eliciting more interest in a possible retirem...
Ai-yi-yi, but I had a difficult day. My theory is that misery is contagious. My neighbor Ted from Edmonton was griping about the rock bottom value of the Canadian dollar, which has been on a steady decline for weeks. Frank on the other side of my door kept up a steady whine (steady decline-steady whine —t hat’s called internal rhyme) about the plunging value of his investments. Both of them moaned about the rising cost of living in Mazatlan. I stood in my doorway and lis...
