Looking out my Backdoor: At the Orderaria

What a week. When my son flew back to Washington, along with a bundle of two-foot long cinnamon sticks for gifts to friends, he took my energy. I wasn’t worried. I knew that the following day my supply would be replenished.

Sure enough, the next day I flew into a cleaning frenzy. Order was soon restored but I have a question. Where does order hide out that it needs to be restored?

At the Orderaria, of course, Spanglish for the Order Store. You know, like “carneceria” (meat), “lavandaria” (laundry) or “tortillaria” (obvious).

OK. So I like jokes an 8 year old would tell.

I’m not sure order is important. What order? Whose order? Order by which definition? My disorder might be your order. I learned to shut the door on my son’s bedroom when he turned teen because it drove me nuts. He explained that he was differently organized. I quit fighting the mess.

Shut the door. Good advice for a lot of situations.

I got busy cleaning and re-arranging shelves and puttering in the yard to keep from so badly missing my son, missing from here but not missing from there. Keeping busy is my therapy, or is it my avoidance?

A strange thing happened last week while shopping. I chose to stay in the car and watch people rather than go into the store and watch stuff.

I believe a limited number of cookie cutters make people. We’ve all had similar experiences.

Unexpectedly, we spot a person we know, or knew, in a place impossible for them to be.

This man, so familiar that I almost called out to him, walked up to the pickup truck in front of me, big as life. He was the lick-spitting image of a man who married one of my friends from high school, a man who has now passed on. I dropped my jaw but was able to pick it up, dust it off, and restore it only slightly bruised, as he drove away.

Do we all have a doppleganger? How scary is that!

As scary as my avocado tree is loaded with fruits half the size of a football? The tree is a local variety, the skin of the fruit thin, not engineered for shipping. I like avocado, sliced for salads or sandwiches or mashed into guacamole. But I don’t eat it every day.

The first green globes I hoard. After a couple weeks feasting, I give away most of the fruit. I hide piles of fruit in Josue’s driveway or sneak them into the back seat of Leo’s unlocked car. Then I run. That’s a metaphorical run.

My daughter suggested I whip up an avocado cheesecake. I haven’t convinced myself it would be good.

However, last week I made a mango cheesecake. Ben took a platter of slices to Erika.

I heard through the grapevine that Erika threatened to return my platter laden with avocado slices. And run.

Reminds me of zucchini. Those are scary. Delicious too.

Today Leo will climb the tree, harvest buckets of the fruits, and give them away in town. I will keep two avocados. A ripe one for tomorrow and a hard green fruit for next week.

When my son left, he took the rainy summer season with him. Which is appropriate, I guess, since September harbors the end of our rains and the beginning of the Olympic Peninsula rains. If only I could have talked him into staying another couple weeks!

However, in a snap, summer twists into autumn.

Most times the change seems gradual, meanders along in such a way one hardly notices. On Aug. 27, temperatures plunged from 84 to 64. The rains stopped two valleys over the hills. Two species of seasonal birds showed up, adding their songs to the stay-at-homes’. And the air smells like fall, like change.

I like change. Order is overrated. I’d gladly send all my newly established order back to the orderaria for another visitor to disrupt routine.

Now that the rains have abated, I shall plant my garden buckets. Gardens like disorder, weeds and bugs, the mystery of seeds sprouting into fullness of beans and peppers and squash and maybe a carrot or twenty.

I don’t mark my buckets so only know what I planted if and when it shoots out of the ground. I did not get that trait from the Orderaria. Probably inherited it from my children.

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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].