Looking out my Backdoor: Walking in a winter wonderland

Admittedly, my wonderland is different than your wonderland. My wonderland lacks the beauty of new-fallen snow with crystalline flakes painting the landscape pristine and pure. Neither does mine include snow-shovels, car engine heaters, ice on the roads or frost on the windshields. Not that I have a car, but you know what I mean.

Although cannas and hibiscus continue to bloom and the geraniums look gorgeous as ever, winter snapped us hard and fast a good month ago. Every night my thermometer plunges to 40. Forty is acceptable if one lives in a heated, insulated house. My casita is neither heated nor air-tight. It is downright cold.

I reluctantly crawl out of bed and into long johns, a heavy skirt or jeans, two sweaters and a shirt, sometimes float a zarape over the top. Make boiling hot coffee and go outside and sit in a patch of sun until I warm up.

OK, this is hardly hardship. By 10:30 or 11, I’ve generally peeled off most of the layers or am down to one sweater or have changed into my “normal” clothing, cotton pants and blouse. Around 5, I begin adding layers until time for bed.

This morning I sensed a difference in the air — perhaps a winter reprieve. The local people wear parkas when it gets this cold. I no longer own a winter coat, so I pile on the layers.

When I think I have it hard, I look for the iguanas, sunning on the top of the brick wall. Iguanas, immobile in the cold, only crawl out during the heat of the day. No good-morning greeting from my drain-pipe iguana until May.

Blackbirds by the thousands, including red-wings and yellow-heads, flock across the sky, wings rustling like the noise of a freight train. Dust devils skitter down our dirt driveways.

Farmers have begun the annual burning of the cane fields, preparation for harvest. The night air is smoky, like a campfire with a tinge of burnt sugar smell. Every morning I sweep black curls of ash from my patio. Huge over-laden cane trucks crowd the highway, moving sugar cane from field to the molasses factory in Tala.

It’s now been three weeks that I’ve been without my bankcard to access pesos. My own fault; I didn’t keep track of my expiration date. The good news is that my daughter put my card on a UPS truck for delivery to me — eventually. Montana to Mexico — could be a couple more weeks. Meanwhile, beans and tortillas is no joke.

While my pile of pesos has dwindled to near-nothing, I keep my eyes and my mind on my true riches, the beauty which surrounds me, the peaceful life I’ve created for myself. Nobody is going to let me starve.

Winter or summer, no matter the season, I suspect that without internet, I would have a more difficult time living here. Or I would be writing a lot of letters longhand. Remember those? I keep in touch with close friends, with my kids, almost daily. We laugh together, cry over crises, share everyday news.

Last week I met another couple of English-speaking women, Anna and Michelle, who live in Oconahua, just up the road a piece. They opened a weekend pizza place.

Horst, a snowbird who lives in Washington half the year and San Marcos the other half, has returned. Next week John and Carol will be here. Our circle of friends is constantly expanding and contracting. Real riches.

Sometimes I make it sound like we are one big happy family. Like in any family, we squabble. But we are super-aware of our vulnerability. We depend on one another. So we work out the wrinkles. This week one of us is running all around the mulberry bush trying to gather troops for war instead of going to the source and stating the problem, seeking a solution.

As Jim says, each time somebody stirs up the dust, that person becomes our teacher. I’ve learned (more often) to look at my own reactions, to find my own peace and let the person with a problem work it without my “help.” I don’t need the hassle. Eventually the dust will settle with no dead bodies.

Meanwhile, my laundry on the clothesline makes a pretty picture with pants and shirts dancing in the slight breeze. My plants are watered. My floor is mopped. Beans simmer on the stove. Winter is here. Life is good.

——

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].