Looking out my Backdoor: Rhubarb and other gifts

I just saw the most marvelous little creature clinging to a hand towel out on my clothesline. I’ve no idea what it is, have never seen anything quite like it. Wondering what it could be, I lightly brushed it with my fingertips and it spread out, moved a few steps and settled down again.

The body is much like a walking stick, wings closely tucked. Spread out, the wings appeared silvery gray, a lacy, gossamer delicacy. At the tip of each wing was a more defined, darker, star-like shape. It took my breath away.

When I touched it again, it had determined I was not a threat, that I was unlikely to snack on it, and stubbornly stayed put, holding its wings close to the stick body, stingy with its beauty.

I shall not soon forget this little critter. It made me want to hug myself.

The gift of being able to meet that little creature started the ball rolling to turn my attitude around. I’d had a couple overwhelming weeks. I’d let worries pile to a height that seemed insurmountable. On top of friends with cancer, a loved one losing a job, worry about the mental health of both my overworked son and my daughter, rising prices of food, the on-going pandemic effects, let’s just add war. War is not “someplace over there,” not any longer. War anywhere is war here. To my mind. And to my hurting heart.

So the arrival of a bunch of gifts soothed my soul, changed nothing on the outside, but rearranged my inside.

Jim, recently arrived from Missouri, clanged the bell at my gate. Jim sends me pictures of his huge garden. I send him reports of my bucket successes and failures. Jim brought me two rhubarb crowns. I miss the mouth-watering tang of rhubarb. I planted the crowns immediately. They may be the first rhubarb crowns ever planted in Jalisco. They may not grow in this country. But the farmer part of me, contrariwise, knows they might grow. That’s worth the try.

Then I prepared dirt in two buckets for artichokes, the seeds a gift from Michelle. With all that possibility, it is hard for my inner farmer to stay depressed. I’ve not had an artichoke in years. Oh, the thought of it!

Then Leo came, left leeks and a mamey on my patio table, and with a wave, disappeared. I love leeks for a yummy soup. Leeks are a rare find at the Mercado.

The other rare treat, mamey is a fruit I’ve come to savor. A mamey is shaped like a small tan football, of a size to fit in my cupped palms. The husk is bark-like. When the fruit is soft like an avocado, it is ready to slice, discard the seed, and eat the pulp. I like to scoop out the pulp and whirr it in the blender with milk and make a milkshake. It is equally delicious spooned from its skin to my mouth. Another gift. I only get a couple mamey fruits a year.

Kathy and Richard and Crin also returned this week from Victoria, B.C., by way of Mazatlan. Kathy and Richard are here to finally make this their new home. Kathy brought me coffee beans from Looney Beans, a coffee shop local only to Mazatlan. Just the aroma emanating from the bag put me back in Cerritos, watching the waves roll into the point and crash across the rocks, tasting the brew in the thick white ceramic mug. Ah, heaven.

Crin brought me an owl puzzle she knew to be difficult enough for me to appreciate, a former gift to her that is now a gift to me. She also brought me a whisk broom, which might appear to be coals to Newcastle, in this country with the most variety of cleaning supplies I’ve ever seen anywhere, but there is not a whisk broom to be found.

Ben called and we talked two hours. Ben doesn’t call frequently, but when he calls, we yak in marathon style and laugh a lot. His call is always a gift.

Not to be outdone, Dee calls me almost daily, on her way to work, hands free. Not only do we get a morning chat, but she rolls into Vicky’s coffee kiosk where we both enjoy the special flavor of the day. Dee Dee orders hers cold and I get mine piping hot, steam rolling from Montana to Mexico, in my mind. If Dee forgets to order a virtual drink for me, Vicky asks, “What does Mom want?” I can see that makes you smile, so how can you not call that a gift.

I know we are taught that it is better to give than to receive. But sometimes it is better to receive. Sometimes we need a gift to remind us we are loved, whether the gift is a rare creature who spreads its wings or a promise of rhubarb to come or the elusive scent of long-distance coffee, today’s flavor, mint chocolate chip.

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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.