Birdsong, toe trucks, garden buckets and other lore

You know how I love the rains, right? As with grandchildren, I love them more when they behave. You know. Sunshine days and rain in the early evenings. Another morning listening to rain pound down while the stupid birds are singing at the top of their lungs, “Here comes the sun.” Stupid birds. There is a lesson in here somewhere.

After a leisurely trip visiting relatives along the route from Mexico to Minnesota, John and Carol wrote that they are home, having been towed the final 125 miles of their trip, when their elderly VW camper, Vincent Van Go, gave up the power steering and sulked to the side of the highway.

Tow trucks bring me mixed memories. The iconic bubblegum pink Toe Truck in Seattle, with the likeness of a huge human foot atop the cab, advertising towing and recovery services, now resides at the Museum of History and Industry. I loved driving past the Toe Truck when I lived in Washington, although it grabbed one’s attention so strongly it might have been considered by the glum and grumpy to be a road hazard.

Riding in a tow truck is a unique experience. My own earlier, memorable and equally iconic tow truck ride happened in the fall of the year during hunting season. Iconic, I say, because I’m sure nothing much has changed.

Even then, when I was still young and not yet crippled, climbing up into the high cab was a stretch. We were returning from a week-long hunting trip in the mountains, and in retrospect, we might have been every bit as “ripe” as the driver, who reeked of cigarette smoke, stale beer, grease and slopped gasoline. Please forgive me, Mister Driver, if you are the exception.

The floor of the cab was ankle deep in clumps of mud, iconic Montana gumbo, of course. The dash cluttered with invoices, candy wrappers, empty cigarette packs, tattered maps (no GPS in those days), crushed aluminum drink cans, wrenches, and other everyday detritus.

The driver cheerfully delivered our ancient pickup truck to the repair shop and us to the bus depot where we sat on the curb, waiting for the Trailways arrival. Memories are made of such as this.

Also heard from my longtime friend Jerry from Washington, who lives on a high bluff overlooking the Hood Canal. He and a buddy went clam digging. When they’d filled their bucket, they walked back to thank the landowner, sitting in a wheelchair on his deck, who’d given them beach access. Jerry noticed tomato plants in nursery pots.

“May we plant those for you?” he asked. The gentleman graciously accepted their help and directed them to the greenhouse-garden shed and for the white five-gallon industrial buckets. Jerry immediately thought of me with my own Bucket Garden tomato crop.

I told Jerry that when I next travel to Washington, he will have to introduce me to my Bucket Garden soulmate so we can hash over our gardening successes and failures.

While friends in Washington and Montana are sweltering, it’s hard to believe, but in this cool, damp weather, mid-afternoon when the wind brings rain, I want my lambs-wool slippers, which are showing signs of falling apart. I was muttering to myself about things not being made to last when I had a vivid memory flash of the day I bought the slippers.

While on a road trip from Harlem back to my home in Washington, I stopped in a favorite restaurant/tourist haunt in Hungry Horse for huckleberry ice-cream. This place, like the Toe Truck, is long gone.

I remember picking up the slippers, sinking my nose into the wooly softness because I like the scents of wool and leather. I put them back with a sigh because of the price tag, wandered around the store, dashed back and bought the shoes before I could change my mind. That was at least 20 years ago.

I feel chagrinned. Poor slippers, much stepped into and upon, should be falling apart. Much like John’s ancient Van Go and the Seattle Toe Truck, we all have a limited life span.

Thinking of my own limited life span, I have determined that perhaps, in my solo life, I’m getting to be too selfish. (Does selfish have a scale for measurement?) After consulting with my Oconahua friends who rescue abandoned street dogs, I’ve arranged to take Lola for a test drive. I’ve not yet met her, but she sounds like we might be a good match. She’s a black-haired mutt with a nice smile and an overall disreputable look about her. You know what they say about dogs and their humans!

What does this have to do with selfishness? I have heard that what Lola wants, Lola gets.

Here comes the sun and the whistling ducks just flew overhead.

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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 sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.