Looking out my Backdoor: Grumbles in a Bucket

After all my bragging about all the lovely rain we’ve been having, day after day after day, this past week we’ve been dry as a desiccated bone in the desert.

I’ve been floored with a couple wet exceptions.

Saturday morning I woke up with puddles on my bathroom floor, around the toilet. Easy to figure out where that water was dripping, from tank to tile.

Josue, our resident plumber, electrician, fix-all man, is still in California. Leo looked at the tank and, wisely, said he thought I should call a plumber. “I should” translates to “he calls.”

This part of my story might be hard for you to swallow, but half an hour later Angel showed up, tool bucket in hand. Yup. Half an hour. He sent Leo to the hardware store for tank innards and in short time, the problem was fixed. Cost 200 pesos. Plus parts which was close to the same amount. Translate to a total of around $21 USD. Believe it. True story.

This morning I woke to a heavy overcast sky. I looked up and said, defiantly, “Ha! Rains are done. I’m washing clothes no matter what you threaten, dumb sky.”

As I hung a towel, I thought I might rue my defiance. The sky lowered. Darkened. Glowered in earnest.

Oh, well, it would serve me right, I heard in a voice in my head from my childhood.

By this time I had ramped up my grumbles to full steam. As I took the second batch of laundry out of the machine, I noticed water on the bodega floor. Leak must be coming from hoses or the connections or the bowl of the machine itself.

Leo came. Took inventory of options. Called the washing machine repair man. Leo knows his limitations.

By this time, the sky lifted. Sun came out. Perversely, I’d have been happy if my clothes on the line were drenched.

I stomped around harvesting oregano, thyme and basil to dry. I don’t know why I dry my herbs. Three months later, I’ll dry another batch and throw out the old. I pretty much only use fresh herbs in my cooking these days. My mouth kept up a rumbling grumble while I continued my ingrained northern activities, plucking leaves.

Leo was running hose, watering all the gasping thirsty plants that haven’t needed to see the hose water for the past two and a half months. Can you hear my ire?

“Sondrita, you sound angry. Why you angry?”

“The rains are over. I don’t want rain to be over. I want rain through August and into September. I’m not ready for the dry.” I glared.

We each observed a moment of silence. Then both Leo and I burst out laughing at my ridiculous behavior.

The washing machine man is coming this afternoon. Maybe he can fix it. Maybe not.

My laundry is dry and off the line, towels folded, items to be ironed in a pile on a chair, to be done tomorrow. There is not a rain cloud in sight.

Meanwhile I’m living in a slice of Paradise. I’m not suffering 113 degree heat. I’m not coughing up my lungs from forest fire smoke. Pictures of the aftermath of the quake in Haiti make my stomach hurt. I’m aware how fortunate I am to be able to grumble.

I’m one lucky lady. I laugh. I grumble. I laugh. I’m angry the rains have quit. I didn’t say my anger is logical. I have limes on my trees. Picked the last four mangoes. Leo thinks it is safe to plant tomatoes again. Zucchini too.

Yup. One lucky lady living in my own slice of paradise, grumbling and laughing, wet or dry. If I must find a new-used washing machine, I’ll grumble some more, dragging my grumbles along with me, in a big bucket with holes in the bottom.

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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].