Looking out my Backdoor: The constancy of change

It’s a paradox. Constancy — firm, steadfast, permanent, consistent, un-changing. We can count on something with the property or nature of constancy. One thing we can count on is change.

Saturday I double-masked my face, and with my bottle of sanitizer in hand, went to town, for the second time in a year. The first time was three weeks ago for vaccination.

While this later trip was not of ultimate necessity, I let impatience rule and set off for my favorite furniture store with a purpose. My bodega remodel is done. Josue made and delivered the new base for a bed. Everything is in place for a guest room except for a mattress.

On the principle of “build it and they will come,” I bought the best mattress in the store.

What made my eyes bug out were all the visible changes in town, even during this pandemic of woe. I’m not the only one spiffying my domain.

David at Vivero Centro had completely shifted plants and pots and nursery items. He stood in the middle of an emptied space directing a man on an earth mover.

Half a block beyond the vivero is a new outdoor restaurant. Imagine living where most of the eateries are outdoor or open-air.

I courted whiplash trying to see both sides of the street as Leo drove me into the center of town. That corner restaurant is gone. Is it become a clothing store? And so it went. New storefronts. New paint, new plantings, walls knocked down, walls built.

When we parked across from the Muebleria, a new Copel was being built behind a block of city government offices. Copel is a department store, like a Sears. We now have three “big box” stores in town.

Outside money coming in. It is a fearsome thing to one fond of the old ways.

Our little village is changing. Growth? Progress?

Part of me shouts “No!” That part stomps her foot and cries, “I don’t want to lose our little village.” I enjoy stopping in 14 stores to do a week’s grocery shopping; buying bacon at the Mercado, butter at a Cremeria, eggs three blocks down and around the corner, fruits and veggies next to Romero’s, herbs and beans and such at that new place across from … well, you get the idea.

And then a memory blasted through to knock me sideways. When I grew up in Harlem, the streets were mud. I mean dirt. But the day of the particular vivid memory was about this time of year, after a sudden spring thaw. Mud. Gumbo mud.

Crossing the street to the grade school, my right foot sucked down into the deep gumbo and stuck. In trying to jerk loose, I lifted my foot out of shoe and boot. There I am, in the middle of the street, balanced on one foot, white anklet hovering above my mud-bound footwear. Inevitably, gravity won.

Fast forward from that memory to years later when my daughter was a baby and we lived on a ranch south of Dodson. The city of Harlem paved the streets. I don’t know how the city fathers ever did it. We heard the uproar of protest at the money spent on “unnecessary nonsense, paved streets, indeed,” all the way to Dodson.

Forty-some years later when I moved back to Harlem I still heard rumblings of discontent at the money the city wasted on paving the streets. Aren’t we people strange?

I doubt Etzatlan will lose its small-town flavor overnight. Vaqueros will still herd brindled horned cattle from the mountains to the valleys, through town. The herd of goats across the highway will be there in years to come. Tiendas will close and others open.

I’d rather see growth, change and progress than boarded-up storefronts on Main.

Hopefully, in a month or two, I’ll be double-vaccinated and able to go back to my pre-pandemic shopping routine in person. I look forward to exploring all the changes at the vivero, to indulging my best big weakness. I’ll window shop Copel. I’ll continue to buy backyard eggs. I want to drive up and down every street, just to gawk at the changes.

I hope for small changes, for improvements of the familiar old places. No Starbucks. No McDonald’s. No Costco. For those dubious pleasures, it is a short drive to Guadalajara.

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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].