Looking out my Backdoor: Never a dullish moment

In quiet desperation, this morning I joined the ranks of those who cut their own hair. Using nail scissors. I do not recommend it.

If anyone should ask, I’ll say my favorite hairdresser trimmed it — she’s blind and used a machete.

Wind sifts a daily cup of dust through the screens into my casita during these dry days. I scan the sky for clouds, an exercise in futility, while grabbing the mop for the frequent cleanup. I vigorously shake the mop before I take it inside the house. Mop shaking is also known as Scorpion Patrol. Today’s wildlife, a tiny black lizard. One of thousands scittering around my patio.

Sugar cane farmers frantically harvest the late ripening crop. I sympathize. They pile high, overload, double-trailer trucks to carry the cane to the factory in Tala. They want the dry days to continue.

I want rain. Every day, the sky looms, a blue bowl upside down. Though a rousing storm the other night had me, in an uncontrollable startle reflex, hiding my head under covers. No rain.

Ana’s mom, almost 90, not well and barely eating, said, it will rain the 14th. Sure enough, in the afternoon, clouds gathered like a flash mob and by 5:00, rain pelted down. Ahh, beginning.

This week, in honor of an Oregonian friend going through hard times, I immersed myself in the old-time and new-time music of Linda Ronstadt. Her golden voice sooths my soul.

I hurt my back. It is futile to figure out how. I excused myself from morning exercises for two days, a slippery slope, I know all too well. Today, just for today, I forced myself back at it. I give myself permission to skip tomorrow, should I still be breathing. Tomorrow always turns into today, that’s the trickery.

Every morning my gardener Leo comes to my patio to check on me, “Senora Ashton, are you still alive?” I grin. It’s a comfort. Today he brought me the sweetest pineapple I’ve ever tasted, picked ripe from a field outside Puerto Vallarta.

Friends, Kathy and Richard, are waiting out the pandemic in sister, Crin’s, Victorian house in, where else, Victoria. They live in a couple rooms with kitchen privileges, a shelf in the fridge, a portion of cupboard. They use the backyard at different times. Living separately together.

Kathy wondered, “Is this what it is like living in a nursing home? I’m not ready.” She pines for her own space, her own dishes and routine in her home around the corner and across the lane from me.

My friend Carol writes from Duluth that John is staying with her, helping her. They’ve been together for years, but each with their own house, living together only when in Etzatlan. She said, “It’s nice to have a man in the house to fix things, help with gardening. He cooks meals and brings me morning coffee while I’m still in bed.”

However, she said, her nose is often out of joint. She is territorial. Dislikes when he rearranges her possessions.

Julie, who married Francisco in September concurred; said they’d found layers of things they’d never faced before marriage. Humor helps.

Their words swung me back to January when I needed full-time nursing. My home was invaded by friends the first week and then my son lived here three more weeks. I was helpless. Moody. Frustrated. Nothing was in its “right” place. Quickly realized it didn’t matter and accepted it.

Julie and Carol are right. It was especially lovely having Ben bring me coffee in bed and cook my meals, sweep my floor. Full time? I cannot imagine — I’ve been alone too many years, though at times I yearn for that elusive connectedness.

I comfort myself with my bucket garden and sewing projects.

Corn and beans and squash and tomatoes are flourishing. I eat my own lettuce and use fresh herbs in all my cooking. Three buckets produced weeds. Others are still a mystery since I never marked what I planted. My garden shows great promise as long as the iguanas, squirrels, rats, ’possums, leaf-cutter ants, and assorted bugs, worms and viruses leave my crop alone.

Over the last few weeks I sewed a dress and six blouses, all different styles, all without patterns but with much measuring and planning. Challenging and fun. I like my new wardrobe. I’m all dressed up with no place to go.

And I’ve used all my dressmaker fabric. I find myself eyeballing my sheets. One only needs one pair, right? Wash, line dry, make bed, repeat.

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