Looking out my backdoor: Topsy and turvy

Last week, Crin wrote that she saw two full moons. I shrugged. That fits. The earth is flat, thank you, Pam. And the sun gallops around the earth at an unprecedented rate. The world and all its people have gone topsy turvy. Karen in England says, “What a bunch of miserable.”

Restless, irritable and discontent. I rarely have these kind of days. Tomorrow will be different. Today is sniffles and sneezes and low-level weariness. A mild summer cold. And sadness. All will be different tomorrow. I think that is a prayer.

Thus September ushers in a change of season. Shade and sun change places. Fires, floods, winds, snows, plagues and people rage. Topsy turvy.

This week was to be our class reunion, a gathering we HHS Class of ’63 look forward to all year long. And for me, reunion meant my annual trip to the States. We canceled months ago, of course. But the dates are marked on my desk calendar, staring me in the face with empty.

All will be different tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll see a full moon every night. Perhaps we’ll plunge off the edge of the world. Already the sun whirling around us at the wrong angle has chopped one third off September’s days.

Now that I’ve established a pseudo-scientific basis for life, let me tell you about the leaf mold. Overnight. My squash, second planting, coming along beautifully one day, the following morning, white with mold.

In a panic I contacted Master Gardener Karen in Floweree. Soapy water and vinegar. I cut off the most affected leaves, watched spores float everywhere, and drenched the remainder. Next morning they were bright and beautiful. But mold covered the itty-bitty cabbage and Brussels sprouts as if each leaf wore gloves. Sprayed everything again. Thank you, Karen, problem gone away.

That made me feel so good I dug all the potatoes from my potato bucket. I harvested enough to feed myself at least half a dozen meals. In fact, I felt so good I simmered a chowder in which all ingredients, all but the sea bass and cream came from my garden.

Hmmm. I wonder if one can grow sea bass in a bucket. In a really, really big bucket?

Several times a day I walk around my casita just to watch plants grow. It calms my mind and spirit. Already I see new potato promise. And peas, which failed me the first planting. Timing? And peppers — third time a charm?

Most days I feel contented, surrounded by grace; I cannot contain myself. Is something wrong with me, that I am satisfied being alone, sitting under my tree, watching clouds and birds while that pesky squirrel cha-cha-chas between my feet?

And why not. Why not feel like I am the center of the universe, just for a few moments, and watch that puffy cloud amble across the sky just for me.

However, days like today, when I feel low, I want touch. I miss skin. A hand shake, a shoulder bump, any touch from another that says I see you, I know you are here. I’ve not known touch from another human since March.

No, I lie. One day, David from Vivero Centro came to deliver a new lime tree and bounded across the yard with a big smile and outstretched hand. I know I stared at his hand with horror for a microsecond, reminded myself I cannot be rude, and let him take my hand. It felt so good. As soon as he drove away, I scrubbed soapily, soapily. With a smile.

Enough! Enough whining. Enough whinging! Enough self-indulgence. It is a new day. The earth is once again roundish, revolves around the sun even if I want yesterday’s angle. The full moon is come and gone, only once. Science is restored. The world and all its people are still topsy turvy. Well, that’s just the way we are.

Here comes Princess for her afternoon petting. That dog patters over with a smile. She doesn’t jump on me or beg. She comes to say, hello, here I am, pet me, and then she leaves, home to Stephany. Every day.

If you think life isn’t full of love, let me assure you. I have carrots growing in a palm pot. I don’t even own carrot seed. I have floral sweet peas in the squash bucket. Didn’t plant those either. Something yet to be determined has emerged in the asparagus fern pot. And a funny-looking orange flower is coming up throughout the yard. All planted by birds. If that isn’t love, what is!

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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].