Looking out my Backdoor: Phase of moon, juxtaposition of planets?

Ever have a day when everything you touch turns to mud?

For one thing, it is raining. Tropical Storm Priscilla hovers off the coast in a direct line up and over the mountains to the west. Not far in a straight line but not even airplanes fly ruler straight; certainly not proverbial crows.

Nevertheless, storms bring clouds bring rain. Rain is a good thing. Rain is precious. I like rain. It’s just that I’d made outdoor garden plans for today. Be flexible, right?

Shifted gears. Now I’m dying.

I wear cotton clothing. Capris non-descript “natural.” A rainbow of traditional-style blouses. Problem is, that pesky ol’ sun bleaches everything white while it hangs on the line to dry. Periodically, I mix vats of dye and revive my blouses. Coffee or tea work well to restore tint to pants.

I fill a small pot with a little water, plunk in the dry cube of pressed dye, turquoise blue, which I bought in a farmacia in San Marcos, and set the pan over the burner to simmer.

Carol (from Minnesota) filled my mind with distraction. She arrived at the Rancho the first week of October, ill. She had attached herself to a virus while visiting relatives in Tuscon. Carol has breathing problems on an ordinary day. Despite being sick, she flew here to stay in her casita while her partner John flew to Nepal to climb a mountain.

Ill. Such a little word. Carol couldn’t breathe, couldn’t eat, couldn’t move, go away, I just need to sleep. Everybody hovered around her, being nurse, doctor, advisor, pest. Everybody but me; I have no nursing skills. Ask my children who spend thousands in therapy.

We were worried. We didn’t want Carol to die. She is our friend. We didn’t want Carol to die on our watch. Self-preservation. Hey, we’re human.

Distracted, I left my casa to go see Carol, left the pot with dye beginning to burble happily toward a simmer, propane merrily flaming.

When I returned home, more than a few minutes later, my pot had runneth over, runneth dry, filling the air with a stench of over-heated metal.

My first thoughts were neither kind nor gentle. You dummy. How could you walk off … Oh, no . .. It’s the beginning of the end, senility has set in. This is the first sign. You are doomed, woman. This week a cooking pot. Next week you’ll need a minder. Oh, no, what to do!

While scrubbing a tumorous blue mess that somewhat resembled a blob of dried goo from one of those aliens-are-landing movies of the ’50s, I remembered that in 1987 I melted down two tea kettles. Same thing. Distractions. Forgive yourself, sweet woman, just distraction. Not senility. And I refuse to investigate this any further.

Many hours later, I pulled my pale blouse from its bath of turquoise, a splotchy mess. Today I failed to dye. Some days dye works a charm. Other times, not so. Maybe I should only dye beneath the light of a full moon. Will dye work better if I add eye of newt?

Clouds hover low to the ground, spitting a drizzle, gray as the day.

For my own edification, I compiled a list of my disasters of the day. I burned my cooking pot. Ruined a batch of dye. Ruined a blouse. Got bopped in the head by an avocado from my own tree. Watched Machete Jaws, my favorite resident iguana, chomp an entire pot of nasturtiums, leaves and flowers, payment for my sins. I chipped a molar eating shrimp. And fought off a case of pre-senility jitters.

Seeking solace, I ate my last bite of chocolate-caramel popcorn.

On a perkier note, I hear a whoosh. The yellow-head blackbirds have returned, rustling overhead like a whirlwind, making me smile.

Undeterred by a few rain showers, the Festival is in full swing. Today is the Blessing of the Corn. One street is blocked off for food vendors, all kinds of foods, traditional as well as pizza and burgers, but featuring dishes made with corn.

Carnival rides and games for children line the street another direction. Another street is blocked with vendors selling every possible item, from toys to furniture, clothing, traditional and modern, a 10-day street fair.

Church bells and fireworks punctuate the silence, reminding me that tomorrow I go to town to participate in the celebrations.

If moon and planets hold us in their sway, doubtful as that seems to me, so be it. Some days, however, the best thing for me to do is hole up in the corner chair with a good book and a steaming cup of tea. Maybe that is what the moon had in mind.

——

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 http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].