Looking out my Backdoor: And the rains, they came.

To the tune of “Just Another Manic Monday,” the rains, they came, “just another rainy Monday,” Tuesday, Wednesday. Every day, the rains, they came. I’ve no idea why that old tune came to me. There certainly is nothing manic about my life. I am the definition of life-in-the-slow-lane.

Sunday, for the first time in a year and a half, I went out to lunch at a restaurant, the Etza Grill in town. Ate a meal I didn’t prepare myself. Sat with friends at a table and added laughter to cement our friendships.

After we’d ordered, Michelle asked me, “What have you been doing these last few days?”

“Not a blessed nor a blasted thing. Housework, making meals, puttering in my garden when it’s dry enough. Jigsaw puzzle. Solitaire. Reading. The epitome of an exciting life well-lived, hmmm?” That was a conversation stopper.

My Oconahua friends had the grace to laugh. Then admitted it was much the same at their place, though they also had planted trees in their reclaimed “new” back yard.

As we finished our hamburguesas and ensaladas, the sky, that lowering gray ceiling, turned upside down and became a river. Even after three weeks of rain, we still feel an excitement, an appreciation that this is good.

Needless to say, in the dash from the restaurant to the car, we got drenched to the skin.

We, in this dry country, are grateful. The earth soaks moisture like a sponge. Trees and bushes and all manner of growing stuff lift their heads and open their mouths and drink. Dead grass revives and in days is a tangled foot high and bushy tailed. It is good.

It’s not all good, of course. The rains brought all manner of bugs, especially the beetles. Brown beetles and black beetles and green beetles. Bugs. Black beetles have decimated my hibiscus blossoms. Green beetles prefer the creamy magnolia. Brown beetles simply are everywhere.

Bugs seek to share my domicile, especially the earwigs which are creepy. Flies, mosquitoes, centipedes and millipedes, all want to live with me. “Off with your heads,” I say. Sorry, if you love bugs. Creepy crawlers don’t pay rent. They bite. They refuse to listen to reason. Just say no does not work.

My son called. He’s working two jobs at present. Said he had to look at his life, make a list of all his activities and cut back some of his commitments for the present if he valued sleep and sanity.

My daughter called. She lost her secretary. A client called late in the night with an emergency situation. Dee Dee got up at midnight and took her to a safe house. Her oldest granddaughter, visiting her father in Washington, was bit in the face by a large dog. Everybody around her seemed to be in crisis. To top it off, the fox got in the hen house.

It’s situational. These things will pass and their lives will smooth out again.

But I’m reminded of a time when I ran my own life on the crisis-of-the-minute plan, fueled by adrenaline.

Fortunately I had a friend strong enough and sassy enough to call me on my choices. “You must like to feel miserable,” she said. “You keep doing things to hurt yourself.”

Whew, did I ever get angry. I hated her. But she had cut through my defenses. I saw that she was right. I went back for more good council when I cooled off.

Thinking about my kids’ problems of the moment and certain friends on rocky roads, I could put my mundane, boring, tedious, flat, dull, prosaic life in perspective.

Hey, I’ve got a good life. It’s a good week. Leo replaced two spigots and the float valve to repair the leaks in my tinaco (water reservoir on my roof).

The black-bellied whistling ducks returned. They come every year and nest in the trees. Yes, in the trees, where they lay eggs and hatch their babies. My closest pair nests in a long-ago storm-blasted Guamuchil tree within a hollow they find perfect for their summer home.

This handsome couple waddles like ducks but they don’t quack like ducks; when they fly over my head, their call is an unmistakable whistle. Amazing. Ducks in trees? Who’d a thunk it?

I watch zucchinis grow, faster than grass, faster than paint dries.

I made a squash-blossom quesadilla for breakfast.

It is raining.

Doesn’t get much better than this.

——

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].