Looking out my Backdoor: Along for the ride

Now and then, I am reminded how utterly unimportant I am. Sometimes a nudge from memory. Or a “knowing” I’d forgotten.

Being alone as much as I am with only a couple flesh-and-blood people to talk with, face-to-face with appropriate two meter social distance, I have a tendency to be inward.

Self-centered is the better term. I begin to think my thoughts are important, that they matter. When people are around, I voice my thoughts and friends laugh at me, put me in my place. They save me from my own misdirection. That is a good thing.

Even though scattered throughout North America, these friends still stop me from getting too serious.

John called. I told him that my mind rips off on a tear and thinks it knows everything. It knows. The topic doesn’t matter. It knows. He laughed. He and I are similar that way, share the trait. We agreed that knowing all is soothing to the ego but not realistic. All points of view have validity, if only to the pointer.

Richard wrote, “You are living in a small Spanish-speaking town in central Mexico. For many Americans that is nuts.” See what I mean? My friends are great to put me in my place. I love them for that. Nuts. Of course. I am nuts.

My mind keeps me entertained with no outside intervention. Is that insanity? Billy Collins, poet, wrote, “Jumping through the hoop of myself.” I understand those words with various hoopy-loopy implications.

My friend Karen from Floweree wrote, “I think we are just along for the ride.”

That is surely true for me. Today’s ride is my garden. Every day I learn something. Several weeks ago I emptied flower pots and bought five-gallon buckets. Crin gave me seed. I planted corn. Perhaps Canadian sweet corn doesn’t like Mexican conditions. Perhaps I planted during the wrong moon phase, day of week, or juxtaposition of planets.

At any rate, the corn refused to mature. Remember, we are not talking a “real” garden here, but experimental pots and buckets. Corn grew tall stalks, puny ears. Finally I twisted off a few ears with dark brown dry silk, a sure sign of ready-to-eat. What I uncovered were skinny, baby-teeth kernels, wormy throughout.

Leo hucked out all the corn and hauled it over to Samantha for horse fodder. That meant disturbing the beans planted in the same pots. I planted bush beans. Three kinds. The only beans that are acting normal are the lima beans. The pinto beans and white beans, prevalent in Jalisco; both threw out yards of runner, marrying anything within reach.

Unraveling the bean runners was like un-tangling yarn. I thought I might have to rip out the beans too and start over but after a sprinkle of rain and a night of rest, I think they will revive and survive.

Leo rearranged a strip of flower garden and planted more corn, this time in the good earth, no pots or buckets involved. We’ll wait and see.

My other buckets are thriving. I’m eating zucchini, cucumbers and chard along with mangoes from my own tree. Even the root vegetables I eyeballed with despair a couple weeks ago look strong and healthy. It is all I can do to keep my fingers out of the dirt. Like a child, I want to dig down and see if there really is a turnip or parsnip or beet beneath all that greenery.

My cousin Nancie from Sedro Woolley, Washington, phoned Leo, who is well after his attack of stones. After checking Leo’s welfare, she asked, “How is Sondra? Is she happy?” Leo told her that I am just fine. “But is she happy?”

What is happy? I am surrounded by colorful beauty. Lettuce-loving iguanas, with whom I’ve sorta-kinda made peace, have retreated from my garden now that rains are here. Hibiscus is blooming unmolested. Everything possible is in flower. I enjoy the challenge of my bucket garden, even the failures.

Across the highway and up the street toward town a couple blocks is an auto-parts store. When the old man who owns it is around, he starts the day playing the world’s most beautiful Latino music. At full volume. I love those days. I’m grateful for every small event. More often his son runs the store, and like me, has not a musical bone in his body.

As Karen said, I am along for the ride. As self-centered as I might get, I know I am not in the driver’s seat. Some of the road is bumpy. Every day is different. Every day is new. And I’m nuts anyway, so, yeah, Nancie, call me “happy.”

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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].