Looking Out My BackDoor: Unconnected observations, no commentary included

I grew up, my early childhood, in southern Indiana, on a farm. I spent my free time outdoors, in the yard, the barnyard, the woods. I could name by sight or sound more birds than I can today. I had a cinematic butterfly collection in my mind. Summer nights my cousins and I caught fireflies. We called them lightning bugs, made a Mason jar lantern, made sparkly rings on our fingers with some of the fire, then let them go.

A lot of years passed. In the late ’70s, I returned, back home in Indiana, for a visit with my huge family. I mark this visit as the first time I paid serious attention to my environment.

Sitting on the porch with Uncle George in the evening, I asked, “Where are the cardinals? I’ve not seen one. I’ve not heard a Bob White call from the fields. There are no butterflies. What happened to the fireflies? The yard should be full of fireflies in the dark. There are none.”

“We-ee-ell,” Uncle George spoke with a country drawl that dragged that “well” into several syllables. Maybe he was thinking how to say what he said. “Well, this whole part of the country took up a new way of farming. They call it ‘no till’ farming. Instead of plowing the fields, we spray liquid chemicals to kill the weeds and spray again to feed the crops.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t help but think of the “rain follows the plow” theory of farming that ultimately landed us in the “dirty thirties.”

I warned you in the header. Don’t expect one observation to be connected to another.

Leo helps with yard care for most of us in here in our tiny Gringolandia. For me, he also is my main source of transportation, translation, shopping. He mothers me. This morning Leo said, “Come with me. I need to show a builder a piece of land for my cousin. Get you out of the house.”

We drove out to the edge of town, turned right at the sewage treatment plant and dog rescue huts, then left onto a pitted, rutted gravel lane, up, up, up a slanted hillside and parked in the weeds. There we met Antonio, the builder.

Leo’s cousin bought this postage-stamp lot, about 15 by 25 meters, situated on a steep slope, for $260,000 pesos. Cousin wants to build a two bedroom house. The view is spectacular, overlooking a vast laguna, filled with water-life, alive with herons, bitterns, ibis and ducks.

I did what I do best. I began to envision a terraced lawn, stepped toward a tidy casita at the back of the lot, mind-pictured mornings and evenings and in-betweenings, watching the passage of the sun, the flights of the water birds, shadows on the mountains opposite.

Antonio estimated the house will cost around $250,000,000 pesos. At today’s exchange rate, that ain’t USD chickenfeed. Dreams come, dreams go.

One of my classmates sends me money every year to buy foods and supplies for the old people’s home in town. Saying “old people’ might be frowned upon but I don’t know how else to say it. These residents are the few in town with no family who are able to care for them.

Leo went shopping in our small tiendas and filled his pickup and his jeep with cleaning and personal supplies, all kinds of foodstuffs. When the vendors heard where the purchases were going, they sold them at wholesale, more expensive items like adult diapers, plus ½-1 peso.

The residents and caretakers formed a ‘pass it on’ line to move the bounty through the gates. Everyone laughed or cried, tears and smiles of heartfelt appreciation. Everybody involved, me included, felt like Christmas came early.

My yard flutters and hums with birds, butterflies, and bees. No cardinals. No fireflies, sorry.

Birds are in layers: those low, in the grass and bushes, those in the tree branches, those above, then higher above in the blue, blue sky.

“We need more rain,” Leo said, “I’m scared.” “Me too, Leo, me too.”

My daughter, Dee Dee, has surgery scheduled the 28th. Prayers and warm wishes all welcome. She is facing this with confidence. Me, I’m a basket case.

If this were a novel, I’d wrap everything together and tie it with a bow. But this is life.

——

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].