Looking out my Backdoor: When does a cucumber become a pickle?

Despite the fact that we here in Jalisco, Mexico, are still sizzling in a seemingly never-ending, garden killing, daily breaking records heatwave, I promised myself not to write about weather today.

What else is there to write about? Ah, ha! Friendship.

Michelle’s sister Susan is here visiting for a few days, so the women asked if I’d like to go to breakfast with them the other morning. We decided to go to our favorite coffee shop, Molletes.

When they came to pick me up, Michelle and Susan bailed out of their car, and both came through my gate laden with bundles. Michelle was worried about me melting down to nothing in the daily afternoon sweat bath (no worries there) so she made me one of her now-famous swamp coolers.

They came with the whole megillah, Styrofoam cooler from Oxxo, cut for the fan and outlet tubes, bottles of frozen water, a small table fan. That, my friends, is friendship.

At Molletes we fixed the world over a meal, at least, our small worlds. We gals are pretty much open and trusting with our truths with one another, know we can spit it all out, get outraged, let it all hang out. Yet we had a gentle time, laughs and tears and goodness. We each have hurts, fears and difficulties and our being together was good medicine.

I took a deep breath and shared my travel plans, no date, for my next trip: bus five or six hours, each time to a destination I’ve not seen, a couple days in each city until I reach the border. Then the train to San Diego, train north to Seattle and my son, again, with stops to explore along the way. Finally train to Wolf Point and my daughter.

I took a deep breath because not everyone would see this as a good way to go. I’m more interested in the trip than controlling the itinerary. My friends got all excited. They became part of my adventure.

Michelle jumped in to describe the posh bus to Susan. Posh, not the chicken and goat bus. I’ve done that kind of bus once and once was enough. I’ll go with the luxury cruise.

Susan said, “You will meet so many great people along the way, because only great people travel that way.”

Then I admitted I am the only person in the known world without a smart phone. That threw a wrench into the works until I said, “Remember, only 20 years ago, this is how we all traveled.” Perspective. Ahhh. With that, my friends were again on board with me.

When I got home, I filled my Styrofoam container with bottles of frozen water, placed the fan face down to blow across the bottles and plugged in my new genius cooler, sat in front of it, and let the winds of fan-dom waft over me. While this invention will not cool the house, it is good for a couple hours of cooler time in the hot-hot-hot dog of the afternoon, feet up, book in hand.

See, I can do it. I can write without complaining about the heat and dying geraniums and loss of my magnolia tree. I can. I can.

What? Oh, that. Yeah, the title. When does a cucumber become a pickle? I had to call the article something. Let’s simply let that be our thought for the day.

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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].