Looking out my Backdoor: Whims and wing-dings

December comes to a close with Christmas. Whether one believes the Birth of the Christ Child to be myth or metaphor, history or hysteria, is of no matter. My belief makes it neither one nor another. The timeless story is filled with all one could want: drama, animals, mean people, travel, shepherds, kings and a Baby.

In my own personal dictionary, incomplete, abridged, and filled with mis-information, the definition of Baby is hope. After a year such as 2019, who can argue that we need all the hope we can gather around us. Our babies might redeem us, us and all our mistakes.

This past week has been a hum-dinger. Hum-dinger, again from my dictionary, is a bird of extremes. It flies about shedding feathers of red, orange and yellow, seldom nests, can create havoc or gentle excitement, depending on how one welcomes its rackety voice.

Life on the Rancho reached a state of quiet. My heart doc cleared me for surgery. My bone doc was on holiday. My life felt like somebody pushed “hold.”

Pat and Nancie, with Pat’s son Chad, hied off to Puerto Vallarta. Chad invited Leo to go to PV to zoom the zip lines with him; both young men single and of similar age. Leo was sitting on the fence unable to make a decision.

While minding my own business, along galumphed a whim. A whim is sort of like a horse, sort of not. A whim is of many colors and passes by in a flash, and if one is to catch a whim, one must be quick. I grabbed the whim with one hand, the phone with the other and called Lani.

“Lani, let’s you and me and Leo go to Puerto Vallarta, just for three days.” Being one for adventure, Lani said, “Yes.”

So off we went, just like that. We stayed in the first, oldest, original (Love those redundancies!) hotel in Puerto Vallarta, a beautiful hotel, very Spanish in style and color and architecture, our rooms overlooking the beach.

I’d never been there, so for me, this was a marvelous trip through plains, desert, mountains and jungle to the seaside. Lani and Nancie walked the entire malecon, shopping all the way. Pat and Chad and Leo spent the day zip-lining. (Is that a verb?) I lounged around the hotel, enjoying the surf, watching people. I loved every minute — we could have stayed one more day. Or longer.

Sunday, I saw my orthopedic doctor for another couple hours of my questions. He scheduled surgery for the 26th, a slightly belated Christmas gift which left me with jitters and excitement, not necessarily in equal measure.

And now we welcome a New Year, with, of all things, another Baby, as we “out with the old and in with the new!”

Some of us will gather with family and (more) feasting, or football on the tube, or skiing in the mountains. The ball will drop in Times Square, fireworks will flash, lighting skies around the world and some folks will throw a wing-ding.

Back to my dictionary: Wing-ding, a creature of facets difficult to describe, neither fish nor fowl, neither dance nor song, (but generally possesses elements of each), is physically active, a sport of sorts. Reputedly, it is quite fun to throw one.

So, amongst the feasting and football and fireworks, let’s gather our babies, old and new, and give them lots of loving. They are our hope.

——

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 sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.