Looking out my Backdoor: The world we thought we knew

Yesterday, an email from Jerry pinged into my inbox. (See, I can talk modern too.)

Jerry is a high school classmate, Harlem, Class of ’63. Back in ’05 I attended my first class reunion, or was it ’06. No matter. Surprisingly, several classmates showed up, we met in clusters, here and there, discovered we wanted more time together. Back in that other world, we had been a tight class, maybe because there were so few of us.

At any rate, we determined to meet annually. And we did. Meet. This is the time of year that we would have already bought tickets, booked rooms, had plans in place for activities and for down time, eating, playing pinochle, talking, laughing together.

Then our world as we thought we knew it turned upside down. The plague came. We got older. Slower. Health problems. Travel became more difficult. The dollar shrunk. Many reasons, many factors have kept us from our annual reunion.

Writing to Jerry reminded me that I do not want to lose all the other classmates I’ve not seen in four or five years. Several of us write regularly. I want to send a letter to all, give them a recap of my year. Call it a reunion-lite.

That same evening, out by my gate, Josue and Leo ganged up on me. Josue told me that I need to get out, see more of the world. Leo jumped into the conversation and said that I need to find me a good man.

I gave them both the evil eye.

They are funny. I told them that I’m just fine the way life is with me today. Simple. Solo. Good.

I’ve not been sick. I keep myself to myself much of the time. I keep busy with things that satisfy and interest me. Garden, sewing, cooking, reading, writing. Life is good. Why would I want to throw a wrench into the works when the works run smoothly.

I live surrounded with beauty. I have lots of opportunities to be creative each day. These things are important to me. I’m not a complete hermit. See below.

Last week I had a yen for doughnuts. But I don’t have a doughnut cutter, do I? Beignets are even better, richer, though they are basically the same thing. These puffy pillows of square dough, just like their round doughnut cousins, need to be eaten same day as fried, right?

I contacted Kathy, Lani, Janet and Nancie, those of us who are here now. Nancie and Kathy will soon be back north. What do you think, group effort and share around? Woo hoo! Everybody jumped on board. I’d make the dough. Nancie would bring her deep fryer. Kathy figured to bring oil and cookie sheets. Janet and Lani both chipped in with powdered sugar and cinnamon sugar. We’d all take a hand in the work, using my outdoor kitchen. The upsurge in energy had us all tingling.

Early morning, while I was setting up the patio to make doughnuts and coffee, Michelle contacted me. She and Ana were both sick with a flu. They had visited both Janet and I a couple days previously.

What to do? I set out extra hand sanitizer and masks. Leo came by. “Cancel it,” said Mother Leo, who mothers all of us more than we mother him. “Divide the dough and let everybody make their own.”

Nancie came by and agreed. Her daughter and grandson were here with her. They had a flight to catch and she was leaving shortly afterward. Decision made and seconded.

As often happens, lines of communication faltered. The other women sent their dough to Nancie, the person with the fryer, without voicing their expectations. Nancie thought they simply didn’t want the dough. She wasn’t about to fry a thousand puffs of dough of any shape on her own, smart woman.

Nancie made monkey bread, or pull-apart bread, with part of the dough and shared it with everyone.

Janet retrieved her dough and made cinnamon bread. Everybody raved about the dough. I fried four puffs and pigged out, put the rest of my dough ball in the freezer for another day.

We creatively redeemed the day, though with disappointment at losing the party, the togetherness.

Togetherness. There is more than one way to be together.

Which brings me back around to my reunion. I’ve a lot to share with Tony and Jim and Donna and Sarah and Bob and Linda and Jesse. Where did I put my list? As I told Jerry, I’m still alive; you’re still alive. I love you with a grateful heart.

——

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].