'Make love to me …'

“Ba ba ba ba boom. Take me in your lovin’ arms and never let me go. Whisper to me softly while the moon is low.”

I woke in the night with the inimitable voice of Jo Stafford as she swayed in her chiffon dress, singing at the mike, complete with the “Ba ba ba ba booms,” the band members behind her, all in handsome suits, well, handsome for that nugget in time.

“Hold me close and tell me what I wanna know; Say it to me gently, let the sweet talk flow.”

Remember when all the band members wore suits? I remember, perhaps a memory loop from “The Ed Sullivan Show?” I could hear individual trumpets, the drummer whishing brushes against the cymbals, could hear the entire music in my mind. Don’t forget the “Ba ba ba ba booms.”

“Come a little closer, make love to me.”

And I lay in there in bed, in the dark night, feeling totally and completely loved, listening to the rain patter on the roof, on the palm tree outside my window, smelling the wet mist.

This morning my daily Rumi poem, to paraphrase loosely, said, “The sky poured out love and the earth opened to receive it.” Amen, I thought, amen.

Yesterday, Leo mowed my lawn and trimmed the edges. After letting my backyard orchard go brown over the dry, dusty winter and searing hot spring, a couple rainfalls and it looks like a park. Tomorrow, after another 48 hours of rain, the same lawn will look like a shaggy dog.

The gray-brown foliage on the mountains looming just across the highway, seemingly overnight mirror a vista of the hills of Ireland. Some of my plants have burst into flower like songs in the night. Some are waterlogged, blooms drooping to the ground.

Memories are strange. Now that I’m older with time on my hands, the time in my mind dredges up memories long forgotten. What I find strange, is that I have a clearer view of events in my life now than I had back when a lot of the memories were freshly implanted.

I think I’m fortunate that some of my memories did not transform into cast iron monuments that then ruled my life. I had good teachers along the way.

People tell me things. One of my early customers had me transfixed by her tragic story of how her husband abused and left her. I couldn’t imagine how she could begin to want me here with her, contemplating a job. Innocently, I asked her when this happened; her story was so fresh. I couldn’t understand how she could function. “It was 23 years ago next month,” she replied through clenched teeth.

“Oh.” Oh was all I could respond. That poor woman had lost 23 years of her life. She chose to stay in that moment. Realization hit me like a hammer. I never wanted to do what she did, to plant myself immovable in a past pain. I had not done so but it was still a good lesson to hang onto. I made my excuses and left.

I suppose some people don’t have ugly memories. I have plenty. And the uglies visit from time to time. Yes, I did that. I’ve sabotaged myself. I’ve made choices I knew would end in disaster to myself. Yes, that happened. Fortunately, today I can see details that I chose to ignore at the time. Those outer details make a difference.

As the more clear and complete picture emerges, I can see how to change my perspective. Painful memories aren’t as hurtful. The bad wasn’t all bad. Pieces of denial float away. The good wasn’t all good. “Ba ba ba ba boom.”

A lot, if not most, of my most cringe-worthy memories were made while looking for love (in all the wrong places). Like there was the time, ooh, naw, let’s leave that story on the shelf in storage for now.

Ironic that I live in semi-isolation, alone, among people with whom I have little in common, and frequently have these strange experiences of feeling utterly and completely loved.

“Ba ba ba ba boom.”

——

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].