Looking out my Backdoor: Tequila lifts her skirts

Sunshine! After a solid week of all-day, all-night rain, the sun shines. Tropical Storm Lidia whooshed unrelenting rainclouds our way before veering off with a huff into the Pacific, energy dissipated.

We nestle in a mountain valley dominated by Volcan de Tequila, or Tequillan, “the place where they cut.” Volcan de Tequila has been inactive for 220,000 years but once spewed obsidian throughout an extensive area. People have mined obsidian here since ancient times.

Since she no longer threatens to erupt in temper, blue agave plants, the main ingredient in the Mexican drink, tequila, cover her magical gentle slopes.

After a week of modestly hiding her feet in thick clouds, today Volcan de Tequila lifts her skirts. She coquettishly hides her face behind a white-cloud fan. We turn our own faces toward her, with ancient veneration.

I take a break from chores to sit on my patio and breathe in the rain-cleaned air. I cannot get complacent about the quality of light. Colors appear deeper. I’m more acquainted with the washed colors of the sun-drenched plains. I marvel at this phenomenon, difficult to describe.

The greens are greener. The red of the red geranium petal is more intensely red. It is as though the light shines onto and through, penetrating every leaf, every petal. The common yellow butterfly is more yellow. Nothing looks drab. Every color is “in-your-face,” shouting for attention. These are not prairie wildflowers, hiding behind gray-green leaves, afraid of sunburn.

I know; I just anthropomorphized plant-life but that comes close to how I feel.

My sheets hang on the line, wafting in the breeze. I keep an eye on the eastern horizon, birthplace of afternoon rain clouds. (There is balance to this strange nature; if I leave my clothing too long on the line, bright blouses will sun-fade to shadows of former color.) I unpin laundry as soon as it is dry. Showers spring overhead in minutes. If clothes get wet, oh well, they’ll dry again.

I’m reminded of a strange practice I grew up thinking important. We used to line-dry the laundry, bring it indoors, sprinkle each item with water, roll it burrito-shaped and place in a basket to await ironing. We ironed the damp clothing dry! Does anyone else remember this quaint practice? Does anyone remember ironing? Why did we do that? Why did we quit?

While I check if my laundry is dry, I see a new iguana has taken residency in my drain pipe by the clothesline. Nobody I ask remembers why the useless drain pipe to nowhere was installed or what purpose it fulfilled. I found last year’s iguana, old and gray, dead behind a brick wall several months ago. This new iguana is darker, younger than the grandfather I first met. The old man tolerated me with a cold eye and turned his head, unmoving. The youngster scurries into the crook of the pipe, unsure of my intentions.

A crop of new-born iguanas scurries among my plants, crosses the patio, suns on the wall, gorges on hibiscus and canna lily flowers. If all lived to maturity, I’d need to declare open season. I’ve not seen proof, but I imagine the young creatures are food for birds, especially the ever-present vultures.

I see another crop of leaf-cutter ants, carrying bits of hibiscus flower to their storage center. No mercy; I add ant poison to my two-page-long garden list.

Just when I think my garden has reached ultimate perfection, I notice that the ice plant flanking my front door needs to be repotted; the lavender has exceeded its use-by date.

I plan to huck out the rock-garden surrounding the stump and roots of a once dangerous pine. I’ll enrich the soil, discard some original plants, especially a creeping vine, too vigorous for the small space. I’ll add moss roses.

My “five-dead-trees” have black leaf. A trip to Centro Vivero to consult with David heads my list. I’ll replace oregano and basil, decimated by the ants. This time I’ll put them in pots, along with the rest of my herbs. That means I’ll buy more pots, though I said I wouldn’t after I shamed myself by counting 97 pots around my patio.

My list is long. But where would I be without the pleasures of my garden, constant attention though it requires. The sun still shines. My sheets are dry. Drain-pipe iguana poked his head out of the pipe and gave me the stink-eye but didn’t scurry back underground. Volcan de Tequila winks shamelessly in the distance. I see a whole world of wonder when I choose to look.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].