Looking out my Backdoor: How I got to be the BVM at 73 and then I died

For me, it was a fortuitous choice. I don’t sing in public. We were gathered on the festively decorated patio out by the pool. Yes, there is a pool on the Rancho. I don’t talk about it because I don’t get in water lower than my body temperature.

We owners, gringos, workers, everybody who had anything to do with the Rancho, sat around the long string of table, practicing the tune with lyrics in Spanish, to celebrate the Posada. Bonnie might have heard me mutter to Carol, next to me, that I don’t sing in company.

I love music, don’t get me wrong. I sing in private, the only ears to offend my own. Back in sixth grade, when we were forced to sing for daily Mass, Sister Mary Frances took me aside and said, “Just mouth the words, honey.”

Then we moved to Montana where everything in my life was different but I hung on to Sister MF’s sound advice.

At any rate, I was chosen to be Mary. Alexandro became Joseph. Bonnie and Samantha accompanied us on our trek to find lodging. The remainder of the group rudely turned us away. When we stood up to begin our rounds, I grabbed my cardigan sweater from my chair, rolled it into a bundle and tucked it under my pullover. It made a perfect bump. I draped my neck scarf over my head and I was in costume, green with brown, but it worked.

It occurred to me during the trek, what a rough journey it would have been for Mary, pregnant, over hill and dale on the back of a sweaty donkey. I glared at Joseph and muttered under my breath.

Once we found room in the stable, I pulled my cardigan out and deftly created a babe in swaddling clothes. Joseph touched the baby’s face and said, “He looks just like me.” We were great.

We ate tamales and drank atole, traditional Posada food, along with assorted pot luck dishes. Bonnie led games. We had a piñata but wisely saved that for another time since darkness had come upon us. A good time was had by all and I don’t say that lightly.

This was a big deal for me. Back in the day, when we had enactments in church or school, I never had a chance to be Mary, draped in blue robes, holding the porcelain doll in my arms. Mary was invariably petite, blonde, blue-eyed, with long curly hair. I was even taller than the boys, fence-post thin, with straight-as-stick brown hair. I was a sheepherder.

The second part of my story came about as a direct result of memorial tributes to President George Bush. Leo was saying to me that he thought it sad that we didn’t say the good things about a person when he was alive but waited until he was dead.

Next thing you know, that simple thought evolved into a memorial service for all of us here on the Rancho. I said I would host the party, a celebration of our lives.

The idea grew, took on a life of its own and next thing you know, we moved the event to Oconahua Pizza, in a village of about 250 people, some 10 kilometers or so from here. I brought a lovely cut flower arrangement, for every memorial should have flowers. We left the bouquet for Ana and Michelle, the owners of the pizza place, to take home and enjoy.

We each wrote and read our own obituaries. Every one of the nine of us had a different take on how we presented our lives, how we wanted to be remembered. After each reading, we got to say how much that person who’d momentarily “gone beyond” had meant to us. The hardest part was keeping our eulogies in past tense, as if our subject were not sitting across the table.

Laughter and tears, we had a bit of each. We created a very simple and touching ceremony, bringing us closer to one another, increasing insight and understanding from hearing each participant’s story.

I ended my obituary reading with these, my final words: “At last I got to fulfill my lifelong dream and desire. I got to be the BVM* at the Christmas pageant.”

*Blessed Virgin Mary, respectfully

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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].