Looking out my Backdoor: The shifting sands of what matters

This morning after I got dressed, I did something outside of my routine. I looked in the mirror. Hmmm, said I, to myself. Not bad. The layers match this morning. The socks don’t match the tops. Oh, well. They match each other. Mates. A pair. But if they didn’t, oh, well. No matter.

Socks matter on these old feet. Warm matters, especially in the cool morning.

I walked into the kitchen to fill the kettle with water for coffee. That bag of flour is still sitting on the island. What? Three days now. No matter. I’ll bake today. Maybe. The kitchen is clean. Clean matters. A bag of flour not put in its place, no matter.

My son’s birthday is today. He’s 45. He doesn’t want to be reminded. My daughter, now 56, well, she and I share aging complaints. Now you know where that puts me.

When I walk, I walk slowly, placing each foot with deliberation, mindful of artificialities — knee on one side, hip on the other, to be precise. Not exactly a match. Not like my socks today.

I remember walking with a spring in my step. I’m not dead yet. But I’m rather amazed at myself, at how little I care. I’m walking. There are other things more important. Like savoring that steaming cup of morning coffee.

I walk with Lola, my street dog rescued by my friends, who after much deliberation, allowed me to adopt her. We match more than I care to admit. Mostly in attitude. Lola stops to sniff pathways others trod. I stop to admire the blossoms and the first white puffs on the cotton tree. Lola rolls, ecstatic, in the essence of dead frog. I cross over to admire the cow and calf in the area beyond our walls, next to the arroyo. I call to Pretty Boy, hello to the mule and exchange glances with the stud in the far pen. Lola gathers every history written in the dirt and grasses.

Everyone is younger. Of course. That’s been happening for a long while. Young men and women barely out of puberty run the world. I don’t mean with the reins of power. I mean making sure the machinery of life keeps chugging along. I wish they held the reins of power. Maybe . . . oh, well, useless speculation.

That’s the other thing. My mind loves wandering, wandering much like Lola, in the unmarked paths of useless speculation. Oh, what fun we have.

Language is lost. My language, I mean. I’m talking about simple things, like trying to explain “dial the phone” to my grandchild, who has no idea what that might mean. Phone sitting on a desk? Or hanging on the wall? Cords? You mean, like to charge the phone? You couldn’t carry it out of the house? What did you do if you were in a restaurant and got an important call?

I wonder how many calls are important. To my grandchildren, all calls are equal.

The street of language foreign runs both directions. A good deal of the time I’ve no idea what they say. I ask. They explain. I nod. Grands and Greats are so much older than I was at that age. So much more knowledgeable. I hope that is a good thing.

I put away the fruits and vegetables, the groceries Leo brought for me this morning. I tuck that errant bag of flour into the cupboard. I won’t bake today.

Today is for the garden. I’m fortunate. Most days I do what I want when I want. The giant marigolds are done flowering. I cut the last blossoms and put them in a vase on the patio table. I chop the 4-feet long stalks for compost.

The tomatoes are beginning to ripen. Beans are in blossom. One bucket of spinach is done. The other bucket is ready to eat. Lettuce is perfect. I plant more lettuce in the empty marigold buckets. I plant peas and tomatillos in other empty buckets. These things matter.

That old woman going into the house for her book, that’s me. I’m ready to sit on the patio and read. Done for the day. Like I said, I pretty much do what I want.

——

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.