Looking out my Backdoor: Sometimes a shadow

Up at 6:30 and out the door to walk Lola. The sun is almost up, the sky spread cool with night clouds.

These days, when Lola and I go walk-about, I have an entourage. A few months ago Josue and family adopted a pup, named him Hunter. He is mild-mannered. Most of the time. He thinks I am his. When he hears my belled gate open, Hunter bounds like Tigger, meets me with wet tongue greetings.

Lola takes lead. Hunter races between me and Lola. Hunter does not walk. Pup, remember. A large pup.

Snowball, tiny, ancient and blind, lags behind.

This morning there was something, a shadowy presence at the end of the lane toward the highway. Lola went on point. Hunter hugged my leg. Snowball sensed discomfort and turned tail, home.

Dawn. Light, but the sun is not up. I stopped, on the verge of fear. Last night a bobcat, stinky creature, had announced itself pungently.

The hunched shadow did not move. I continued up the lane. Lola ran home. Hunter sat on his haunches and watched. Somebody had moved a huge stone from the rock wall over to mark or protect the water valve in the line running to the ranch. A menacing rock. It could stand up and launch itself at you, right, Lola? It could have been a large cat hunched over its prey. It could have been.

These days, the hottest of our year, most of us change routines to survive the afternoon heat. The cicadas, an annual variety, sing, sing, sing, songs of coming rains. I survive by working in the morning cool and flopping with a book in the afternoon. I line up my chores, mop, iron, food prep, house-mom stuff.

When the rains begin, the temps drop. Usually, the day starts sunny, storms blow in late afternoon to early evening. Weather doesn’t like routine either though, so there are variations to that theme. From June until December, weather here is pretty much perfection.

Changing my routines reminds me of a couple I once knew, welcoming neighbors when we first moved to Washington. I’ve lost contact but I’ve not forgotten them or their strange ideas. One idea they shared with evangelistic fervor is that one should vary routines. Simple ways. If you always put your right shoe on first, don the left first. Alternate. My friends figured change keeps one’s mind from ossifying.

Silly. Fun. When I think to do it, I like the way varying a routine helps me recognize when I’ve fallen into a rut. Helps me think outside the box. Then I can decide to try a different route. Or not.

I’m not evangelistic. For some people such changes might be dangerous. Nothing’s wrong with the comfort of regular habits. Like two cups of coffee, comfort.

This morning, after my first cup of coffee, I swept the floor, south to north, shelled beans from my three bean buckets, each a different variety. One bean jumped onto the floor, immediately rendered itself invisible. I left it.

I picked squash, spinach and cilantro for an egg scramble. Sat down with a book and my second cup of coffee. Two cups. No variation.

Eventually, the sun angled through my kitchen window in such a way that the runaway bean on the floor puffed up a four-inch shadow. Gotcha, you little bugger.

Mopped my floors, west to east. It’s a good morning. Sure, my day is just begun, but I know it is a good day.

Then like in a cartoon, a huge roiling cloud of black smoke loomed overhead, black blacker than the blackest night. The new recycling center, across the highway, down one block, caught fire. Leo and Josue rushed off to check the danger, warned us to be ready to evacuate if need be.

I barricaded myself indoors with the windows closed against the fumes. Fortunately, for me, not so lucky for those downwind, I was safe while imprisoned. For hours I paced, watching the black clouds puff and roll, at times shading the sun. Tires? Plastics? Batteries?

Bomberos arrived, sirens screaming. From town, from Ahualulco, Magdalena, Tala. I heard occasional pops and booms. Our volunteer firemen are probably unprepared to deal with chemical fires. They kept the blaze under control, away from neighboring properties and the dry, dry grasses. Black dominated the sky until late afternoon. We were told the residue might smolder for days. Prepare to stay indoors.

Shadows come, shadows go. Same with the clouds of smoke although I might have shaved a couple years off my life breathing noxious fumes.

——

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].