Looking out my Backdoor: The Rain in Spain - go away!

I’m a Sun Bunny. Sun worshipper. Sun seeker.

For the past week if or when a tiny patch of sun parts the clouds, I rush out to sit, face raised toward the bounteous warmth, contented.

Don’t for a minute think I’m “sun-bathing.” I’m basking in full winter gear, head and hands the only uncovered parts of me. This is winter, even here. It is cold. I live in a house with no heat source.

I suspect it is difficult to grow up on a Montana farm and think baring one’s slathered body to the full sun is anything other than insanity.

It is hard to believe that I seek out, search out rain during the rainy season. Of course, the days during that time also include hours of sunshine. This past summer, the rain was elusive, many days non-existent.

But rain arrived this week, like an unwanted relative you have no choice but to take into your home and tolerate, teeth gritted.

It is difficult for me to stay long under the shadow of doom and gloom, so I’ve turned some of these extra in-the-house hours with my little ceramic heater into accelerated study. Of Spanish.

I’ve lived in Mexico a few years. I get by. I make myself understood in most situations. I know a lot of words. My trouble comes with putting those words together. I don’t have a quick ear. The words in my head often don’t come out my mouth with the right inflection.

In conversation, by the time I get your words translated, the moment for my reply has passed onto somewhere else and left me in the mud, or in the dust, depending on the season.

The real reason I am not fluent in Spanish is fear. This goes back to childhood when my perception was that I was expected to listen to instructions and follow flawlessly. I grew up afraid of making a stupid mistake.

Today I know that mistakes are essential, are my best teachers. I plunge into all manner of things knowing I will have failures along the way. Flubbing up is easy.

Except language. My stumbling block. I am aided and abetted in my hesitation because I am surrounded by people who speak English. They enable me to speak lazy Spanish or Spanglish.

I speak basic needs quite well. I speak excellent food. Money, fairly well. If I get really stuck, I hold out a handful of money and let the seller pick through to take what he needs. I’ve never been stiffed.

Guilt can be my best friend. So a couple months ago, Guilt spoke to me, rather harshly, enough lazing around. You are being ridiculous. You have time galore. Back to the blackboard, so to speak.

My online class, abandoned long ago, had not kicked me out, refused admittance, given me an “F” for Failure. It took me right back under wing.

For the last couple months I’ve whizzed along, learning new words, common idioms, verb forms. Ugh. Verb forms. Pronunciation. Knowing some words may never blithely trip off my tongue.

But I’m doing it. Slowly, what stumped me begins to make sense. My ear is getting better at hearing. I translate more quickly. Some things I answer without thought. I’ve even picked up a couple swear words from the guys.

However, the other day between rain showers, when Leo was pruning my Plumbago, I donned my mask and went out to ask him about a particular verb infinitive that had me pulling out my gray hairs.

Remember, Leo is young enough to be my grandson. But I’m brave. I ask. It has something to do with addressing people in formal and informal manner and I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the why and how.

And Leo gives me The Look. You know, The Look. His eyes get big and round. His eyebrows raise. His lips twitch. But Leo is a kind man. He is a good teacher. Leo explains in baby steps, answers my question. Of course it is simple. Then we both laugh.

Making mistakes, not understanding, is a good thing. Knocks me down a peg or two when I get too full of myself.

The rain will stop. Won’t it? I’ll be back outside, chasing the winter sun, pulling my chair along behind me, basking with my book. Won’t I?

Meanwhile, back to studying Spanish with verve if not with verbs.

——

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.