Looking out my Backdoor: Dining in the exclusive restaurant

Some days when I look out my door, there just doesn’t seem to be much happening.

I remember wishing, when my children were young, just wishing for one boring day. Just one day of absolute boredom, please, Dear God.

That wish-prayer was never answered. I’m the kind of person who simply does not get bored.

However, back in the day, I also remember when good friends sat me down and suggested that I was a bit of an adrenalin junkie, just a tad addicted to drama. I listened. It’s hard to ignore when four friends surround you, tell you what they observe, and don’t leave you an escape hatch.

With my friends’ help, with hard work and a good counselor, I’ve pretty much overcome that compulsion.

But boredom? I don’t get it. I mean, I’m just not subject to boredom.

However, to tell you about what’s happening in my life right now, I know that what I say could bore you to tears if not leave you in Zombieland.

I stand in my door and look out. Yep, not much going on. Oh, the gardenia I planted for Kristen when she died is in full glory of white flowers, scent to fill the entire garden. And the kiskadees are having feast day in the lantana bushes. But those are just everyday type things. You’ve already heard me blather on about such.

I’m surrounded with beauty. Some days clouds scuttle overhead and obscure the sun. Some days the sun is ever-shining.

My son-in-law has COVID, first time. My oldest granddaughter has the plague, second time. Her baby boy is sick and the girls will follow, all in a row. But none of us want to hear that. We are tired of it. The phrase “sick and tired” never had more heart-rending meaning.

So what’s going on in my world is mostly house-wifery sort of things. Cooking and cleaning and sewing and gardening. These things don’t bore me but I could bore you if I went into detail.

My secret weapon is that I’ve learned to enjoy these mundane tasks. Uh. Except for swabbing the toilet. No enjoyment. But it beats the outhouse.

After two weeks of self-imposed jail behind the brick walls and wrought iron gates of my casita, I’m happy to report that Josue and his family are all testing negative again. Life is back to normal for them and for me.

Lola The Dog and I have resumed our daily walks along the lanes. This morning, the thick fog muted our world, damp and silent. We returned with wet hair.

I talk with my neighbors for short stints of time, over the gates or on the patios, those four neighbors who are here. Everybody else has skedaddled, either north to home or over to a coastal beach.

I like to think of each day as a restaurant experience. A really posh, high class restaurant. So exclusive, there is no menu. I walk in, sit down, and wait for the feast of the day.

Maybe yesterday I was served lobster, drenched in butter, so sweet and tender. I say, “Thank you!”

Perhaps today I am served lumpy oatmeal. I ask for brown sugar. “Today there is no sugar.” Oh. I’ve learned to eat my oatmeal, smile weakly, and say, “Thank you.” Sometimes I mean it.

Tomorrow I might find a tiny green worm slithering along a lettuce leaf in my salad.

This actually happened to my son, Ben. We were dining in the poshest restaurant on Bainbridge Island which is a very posh island in Puget Sound.

“Mom, there is a worm in my salad.” We all laughed. “Mom, I’m serious. Look.” There really was a worm in his salad. He picked the worm out, gave it to the waiter, who rushed back with a fresh salad. That experience put the rest of us off the salad.

But, hey, tomorrow, our Waiter in this Restaurant of Life ust might serve up a thick, juicy, tender slab of beef. Just say, “Thank you.” No matter what I’m served, I do my best to make it a feast. Some days that works a charm!

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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.