Looking out my Backdoor: Some things stay the same

Back when I was young and filled with angst and drama, certain my life would end if I didn’t get what I wanted or if the heartache of the day didn’t cease or if I thought you looked at me critically, I had a good friend who didn’t mince words.

Gino laughed at me, a lot. He often said, “Don’t worry. Tomorrow will be different. It may not be better but it will be different.” Generally he told me this over gallons of coffee, sitting around a table in a restaurant that didn’t serve good food but was open late, surrounded by friends who all laughed. I often mulled over the meaning with a frown or worse yet, tears.

He was right. Usually the “tomorrow” was different or my feelings were different. And different seldom meant “better.” But somehow I could carry on another day.

I think of Gino and those other friends often. I moved away and lost touch years ago. I seldom visit that kind of angst today. I’m more apt to entertain nostalgia.

Some things stay the same, even when they are different. Don’t try to figure out what I mean. It will only confuse you.

Here in Jalisco the clock fell back an hour over the last weekend. I grind my teeth twice a year over this senseless (to me) messing with my body clock. I have no particular schedule running my life. What should the clock matter? And it doesn’t, really.

Falling back is not the only sure sign of autumn. I cannot walk out my door without sweeping cobwebs from my face. Every kind of spider is spinning miles of webbing, crocheting the end of one season onto the beginning of the next.

The most important festival of the year in Etzatlan, a combination of religious observances and celebrations of harvest, is held for 10 days toward the end of October. People who have moved away return. The streets blossom with colorful decorations, banners and flowers decorate streets, homes and municipal buildings.

This year the women of our town crocheted doilies of every color and connected them into a gigantic spider’s web which spans, overhead, the entire main intersection at the plaza and runs up the long block to the bank.

My cousin Nancie and I went to the Farmer’s Parade, honoring our farmer roots. Men and women from Etzatlan as well as outlying villages, marched. Each person carried 9 and 10 feet long stalks of corn, most decorated with ribbons and flowers. Marching bands, singers and dancers dotted the parade like beads on a necklace. Eight men carrying the crucifix from the cathedral on a platform on their shoulders formed the pendant on center of the chain. Leo told me this parade is the only time the crucifix is removed from above the altar. Tractors, spit-shined and decorated, follow the farmers. Last and no less beautiful are the horses, among them a few mules, donkeys and burros. The parade (all parades) ends at the cathedral where the bishop blessed the crops, and the people and prayed for continued bounty.

My favorite event this past week had nothing to do with festival but with “family.” In Teuchitlan Carlos has an artisan shop where he sells replicas of archeological artifacts and traditional art from several Mexican states. Carlos makes indigenous musical instruments of all kinds. His drums are incredible. Carlos and Brenda have become our friends.

Brenda’s brothers, traditional dancers, are visiting. The whole family came to the rancho and, on Lani’s patio, performed traditional Indio dance from the state of Chiapas. These young men began with a blessing and cleansing ceremony during which copal, like our sage, was burned. They honored the four directions, the earth and the sky as well as the drum, the grandfather, using the copal, the conch shell and a clay birdsong instrument. Then the young men smudged those of us who wished this blessing.

The regalia was fascinating to me, all made with feathers, shells, gourds, seeds, animal skins and even turtle shells. The beat of the drum, many of the steps were familiar to me. For a moment I was in two places, in Chiapas and in Montana. Imagine the traditions passing from tribe to tribe over the centuries. Different yet similar to our powwow dancing. They danced for us for an hour. It was a holy time. Then, in traditional fashion, we feasted.

Some things stay the same, even when they are different.

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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].