Looking out my Backdoor: Ring my bell!

I’d been out of bed five minutes when I heard the clang-rang of my gate bell.

We respect each other’s boundaries. When neighbors visited, they stood out by the gate and yelled, “Sondra, are you home?”

I’d lived here a year when I figured there must be a better early-warning system. At the tianguis in town I bought a goat bell. I had a welder make an arch and attach it to the gate so the bell would hang free.

When I hear the bell, I go out to the gate and open it for my guests.

But this morning I’m not dressed. It’s too early for visitors. I hope nobody is in trouble. Needs help? I throw open the bathroom window and look out. The bell is swinging but there’s not a soul in sight.

However, standing on the metal arch from which the bell tolls, is a rain bird. I’ve no idea what the bird’s real name is. Might be Homer, or Tilda, or Mergatroid, for all I know. I’ve trawled through my “Birds of Mexico” bird book and found four or six kinds my flighty friend might be.

Normally, the rain bird shows up about a month prior to the rainy season, like the cicadas, the annual kind we have every spring. Hence, I call them rain birds, perhaps driven down to Mexico early by northern winds.

I hope Bell Bird doesn’t make this a habit. As it is, I awake to bird song every morning. After the donkey’s bray, that is. The donkey lives across the canal. He might as well be tethered in my yard; he is that loud, and with a voice like he’s had too much whiskey and smoked too many cigars.

Donkey. Then the birds. Then the sun. A progression.

Man does not live by bird alone. I use the word “man” in the old-fashioned, all-inclusive way. At my age I can’t be bothered with PC that changes daily. Man, woman and chittlin’s.

As much enjoyment as I get from my bird-brained friends, I need people.

Ana and Michelle have been regaling me, long distance, with tales of their building/renovation projects that have spanned the entire past year. On the outer edge of Oconahua, they have an incredible stone house they designed, along with land for chickens, sheep, rescued dogs, garden, a soon--to-be-planted orchard, plus a casita for Michelle’s mom, Jane, and another for their friend, Rick.

When they invited me to lunch and a visit, without hesitation, I accepted. It was my first social outing since mid-March, one year past. I was hungry for more than a 15 minute chat. I was ready, willing and eager for a couple hours of sit-down stories and lies and laughter.

I know these women to be as diligent about safety as myself. We are in agreement that the days of large patio gatherings are past, at least for the next two or three years. So, masked, distanced, in open air on their newly fitted out patio, complete with outdoor kitchen and lots of comfortable seating, we did have ourselves a rattling good time!

While Ana and Michelle rescue abandoned dogs, I seem to have acquired a, er, larger animal.

Two nights ago a loose horse wandered into my yard. I mean, a horse that had gotten loose. I have grass and a lot of flowering bushes. The horse is beautiful, though ultra slim, is shod and obviously has had good care. We put the word around town, hoping the owner comes soon, before I get too attached. Maybe he rang my bell? He left horse apples.

Four-ish in the afternoon, my bell clanged. John and Carol came for a patio visit.

When “my” horse and his owner re-united, I felt sad to see him go, glad he left with a full belly. Perhaps he will visit again.

The final person to ring my bell this day is Damian, my washing machine repair-person. (I can be PC when warranted.) An hour and a new part later, my machine is fixed and works better than ever. I suspect the poor beast’s veins were calcified somewhere along the line and Damian reamed it out.

Sheets are drying on the line. I love my dryer which seldom goes on the blink and is self-repairing. I’ll crawl into bed that smells like sunshine tonight.

Ring my bell, but not at sun-up, please.

——

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].