Looking out my Backdoor: Fifty (and more) shades of gray

I have become adept at simply watching the sky, at comprehending or at thinking I comprehend, the grim and gritty shades of gray, unrelenting gray, and nothing sexy about it, and I confess I never read the above hinted at book but had it been around when I was a teen, I’m sure I would have thought myself quite sophisticated to hide the pages under my bed quilt and greedily turn pages in secret by flashlight.

Today I’d rather read the sky, of which on second thought, I have no more comprehension than those long ago days when I secretly devoured the pages of “Madame Bovary” or “Forever Amber.” Years afterward, reading the same books openly, I was quite surprised at the actual stories.

Last night the sky hosted two sunsets behind blankets of purple gray. I tell you truly what I saw, two areas of equal brightness, one of which must have been the setting sun so why not two?

Or perhaps I was hallucinating. I’d had a strange bout of illness. It’s difficult to get sick when one is bereft of personal contact, when one often sees no humans for two or three days at a time, and then limited to one or two, all faces bound and masked as if one feared an unsolicited attack of kissing, and at no less than six arm-lengths separation.

Thirsty for tea, an innocent, or not-so-innocent cup of tea. I noticed that the tea leaves didn’t have the vibrant scent they used to have, but the tin is getting old and I’ve no way to replenish it, so scooped out a measure, poured on boiled water, let the leaves steep.

I took a sip and waited for the “Ahh” of pleasure which did not come. I don’t know. It tasted “off.” I tend to have a stubborn disposition plus I was distracted by reading a book at the time, so continued to sip through a portion of my brew. “This is nasty,” I finally admitted, and tossed the dregs down the sink.

Re-opening the tin of tea, I sniffed, then rolled some leaves between my fingers. Ugh. Mold? I dumped the remainder into the kitchen garbage.

One thing that occurs naturally after four months of rain, daily rain, is mold in many forms. The air, even when blessed with sunny interludes, smells of rot and ruin. Entire patches of concrete sidewalk and patio, any area where water sits while waiting to run off or dry up, turn a dark greenish gray, black in places.

It occurred to me I might best take a close inventory of my food items. First I checked my various tins of teas and dumped the contents of four tins, leaving me two tins of hopefully viable black teas. I won’t know until I drink them, will I?

Next to hit the bin were a couple packets of herbal teas along with a nearly solid block of what used to be delicate chamomile; disgusting, that.

In my spices drawer I found an ugly mess of ground sage along with what looked to be bug-infested paprika, odd as that sounds.

And, one moldy apple.

After I’d drunk the short cup of tea, my stomach had rebelled, raged and roiled long into the night. Of course I’m aware there are many varieties of mold, as many as shades of gray, but know what worried me the most? I’m allergic to penicillin. You know. Penicillin, made from mold. I lay awake making sure I still breathed.

Obviously I lived.

After days, weeks, months, with no more than muted, filtered, peek-a-boo, more boo than peek, sunlight, I tell you, I have seen green-gray, blue-gray, pink-gray, purple-gray, black-gray, yellow-gray, orange-gray, white-gray and every permutation thereof, some light, some violent and beautiful, shifting, merging, fading, all in the same sky.

There are no sexy grays.

——

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].