Looking out my Backdoor: Katie, bar the door!

Nobody could have been more surprised than myself at my reaction when, seemingly overnight, 10 snowbird residents from northern climes descended upon us, wings flapping, eager for discourse. During the past two years, our small community, which had become a hermitage in all but name, suddenly reverted to the Rancho with residents in every casa.

Me, I was saucer-eyed and hyperventilating, making comfort food (for myself) and hoping everybody would stay away until I had adjusted. Of course, I recognized how self-centered a reaction that was. But I still felt it and could not wish the feeling gone, try as I might.

Nobody stayed away. One by one, they clanged the goat bell on my gate and asked if I was ready for a visit. I lied. We visited.

I had created a sitting area outside my gate in a grassy and treed area, between bougainvillea and a plumbago hedge. We sat and talked, after I discretely had moved the chairs even further apart. Everyone masks, at least, when they visit me, for which I am grateful.

I explained I would like to see a period of time pass before I felt comfortable to invite my friends onto my patio, which is much like a living room with one wall knocked out. Some friends had returned from long automobile travel visiting friends and family along the route. Others flew. And some arrived after a month lolling on beaches at coastal resorts.

At night I crawled into bed, exhausted, at 7, not even dark yet. I recognized the signs of stress and sensory overload. As one of my friends said to me, “You have been living in a state of COVID suspended animation.”

For close onto two years, I’ve been alone. I’d adjusted to solitude and learned to like it, to find the benefits.

The following day, more truthfully, I said, “Go away. Not today. Don’t want to play. I’m not receiving guests today.”

I felt like I’d donned a skin-tight porcupine suit, prickles at full ready.

You know what the worst part was? I felt guilty telling my friends that I can’t play today. I don’t want to say “No.” I want to visit. I’m wrung out.

I knew that in a few days I’d be back to myself, thoroughly enjoying having my friends back in my life.

Interestingly, as I shared how I was feeling with Leo and Josue, the two young men who’d been my main contacts throughout this pandemic, they said they felt the same stress. Leo said he even had physical pains as the result of his stress. Josue said he felt crazy and wanted to run away. Josue’s wife Erika said every 10 minutes, somebody else was knocking on the door.

For the guys, it was much more difficult. All the returnees needed things done, help with this and that. You don’t leave a house alone for two years and return expecting it to be fully functioning.

As for my dog Lola, she had an entirely different story. This sweet canine, half companion, half hearth rug, turned into a prima donna.

“What excitement. Ooh, ooh, ooh! All these new friends. Oh, yes, scratch me there. More.” Waggle. Wiggle. Jump in circles. “Let’s go walk again.”

Yesterday I discussed with Janet possible solutions to prevent Lola from jumping over that small open area in her “border wall.” Janet has six cats. Lola wants to get to know them. Or something.

Today I cut the dill from one of my garden buckets and took the stalks to Nancie, who likes to make pickles. I sat with John and Carol for an hour in their backyard. I rounded up a bowl of wooden clothes pins and left them on Julie’s brick wall.

Tomorrow Kathy is coming for a long awaited visit. The following day Crin and I will get together.

I presume I’ll quit feeling guilty about being so prickly. We are all tired of the COVID precautions but I have vaccinated friends who let down, got the bugger and it was not a walk in the park.

Soon we’ll be traipsing back and forth at the Rancho with ease. Any of us can say, “Hey, no visitors today.” We are friends.

——

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].