Looking out my Backdoor: Yesterday

We Human Beans are strange creatures, are we not? Oh, maybe not you, but me, my hand is raised. My mind works in strange ways. Take yesterday.

Yesterday, I seemed determined to feel sorry for myself. Temperatures were flirting with 100 degrees, a mere kiss away, lips smooched into a pucker. It is our hot season. Not unusual for here. April, May, mid-June. Then the blessed, glorious rains and cool perfection at 85.

Big deal, right? In July and August in North-central Montana, you will be telling me, big deal, 110 being not unusual and at least it cools off at night. Right?

Then I figured to whine about the mosquitoes which were doing a fine job of whining around my ears without my help. I dress in skin-covering clothing, hoping to escape dengue fever. However, never have I seen a swarm of mosquitoes, each the size of replicas of the Kitty Hawk, each swarm numbering uncountable thousands, anywhere but the Milk River Valley.

All mosquitoes carry diseases, all dangerous. Hard to really get down and dirty into self-pity when my mosquitoes number a few.

Then I thought to try if dust might garner sympathy. You know, the dry powdery stuff that gets into every crevice of the house, mixed with dry skin flakes caused by high temps leaching every hint of moisture out of your skin? No takers, huh?

Fires? Smoke gets in your eyes? We had a fire, yesterday, at the bridge over the arroyo behind my house, a mere 150 yards away. Quickly staunched. Not much angst with which to garner sympathy there. I was having a difficult time dredging up compassion for my own self.

Leo popped in to tell me the latest version of COVID is now in Etzatlan; several families are sick and have been diagnosed. COVID? Who cares? Am I the last woman standing with a mask?

Nobody ever tells us that it is hard work to put together a decent pity party or that it takes extreme effort to keep the party going.

Eventually I thought to ask, "What is really going on here, O Minor Master of Middling Magical Thinking?"

"Well, they all left me, didn't they?" whispered in indoor voice.

Ah, yes. Abandoned. One by one and two by two. Abandoned again. Happens every year. Neighbors leave for northern climes, or to visit family long term, or to hie off to France for a few months, as is the destination of one couple.

Always, I feel sad when my friends wave good-by. Feelings hang around to entertain me two or three days and then I settle into my comfortable solitude. Happens every year. I even tried to sing it. "Yesterday, there's a shadow hanging over me. Why they had to go, I don't know, they wouldn't say, now I need a place to hide away, now I long for yesterday."

And that about took care of all my futile efforts to throw a blue-funk pity party. I roused myself. Walked Lola. Cut the rest of my lavender back. Laid bunches on trays to dry for sachets. Harvested my sage to dry for seasoning. Admired my one and only holly hock, white with tinges of pink.

Sat in my back yard under the jacaranda tree. This is what I discovered.

There is a pair of birds that come every year to raise their babies before the rains. They build a nest which dangles from a low twig of the jacaranda. The birds weave a conical shape with an opening on a side. They tie it together with fronds, always leaving some to dangle from the bottom like ribbons and waft in the wind. This year they tied an entire bunch of the purple/blue jacaranda flowers onto and into the top of the nest. It is the most delightful, amazing nest. That nest is a celebration of color and beauty and movement.

These birds, they, too, friends, come and they, too, go. Every year.

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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].