Looking out my Backdoor: Here a little, there a little

Why do the little changes take up so much space? I should qualify that with an addition, “in my head?”

Really, most changes hardly make a dent in my consciousness. Change is constant. My favorite bowl slips from my fingers and shatters on the tile floor. Blip — gone. The rubber tip on my cane wears out. I replace it. Lola The Dog celebrates her birthday (OK, I celebrate her birthday). I notice she has quite a few more white hairs. Change, like a river, always moving.

Other changes. I give them big space, make them important.

Over the years while Julie lived next door, we’ve slowly come to know each other. Julie is married to Francisco, whose family home is a 30-minute drive northwest of here, where they will make their new home. “We will visit often,” she assures me. I nod and smile, knowing that her life will zoom a different direction. New home, new neighbors. Yes, we will visit, but with decreasing frequency. It’s the way of life. It will not be the same as chatting over the gate, in the backyard or on the patio three or four times a week. Change. Neither good nor bad. Simply change.

Then there is the weather. Just when I’ve gotten used to the patterns I’ve observed the years I’ve lived in Etzatlan, it goes slop-sided on me, big time.

As expected in February, days began warming. I took one of the covers off my bed yesterday morning. I’d been tossing it off at night for a couple weeks. I’ve been using my heater only sporadically, an hour or two if I felt chilled.

As usual, I walked my dog at noon. Sat in the shade a while. Chatted with a neighbor. Warm and comfortable.

Lola The Dog got antsy around 3 p.m., insisted we walk again. OK, I grumbled under my breath. The wind had come up, stolen all the heat in those couple hours. I put the quilt back on my bed, turned on the heater in my suddenly cold house, made a cup of steaming tea to heat body and soul. Watched the clouds threaten rain, a few drops here but real rain in towns around us. It “never” rains in February. A rare shower in March, my neighbor assured me, never in February.

Just for giggles I checked the forecast a week ahead. Colder. Rain every day. “What do you mean, turning colder? Rain?” Lower numbers 20 to 25 degrees, sun-up and sun-down, which may not be cold in Montana but it means cold where I live. What’s with the rain? Welcome rain! Go away, cold!

You’d think by my reaction that I had been personally affronted. I turned up my heater, resigned to another big power bill. Lola and I walked again around 6 p.m., bundled in my winter-wear. Should I make Lola a doggy coat?

While walking, my thoughts turned to physics. Not the high school physics of 1963. Or maybe it was. I had pretty much day-dreamed through physics, slouched in my seat, “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” tucked into the pages of my text book.

I wondered if air hurts. This was not a new wondering. I remember racing Sputnik the length of the hay field after the hay had been stacked, huge billowing storm clouds behind us, crackle of electricity in the air, feeling the air part around us. That was long ago, still in the ’60s, when I first wondered if air hurt or noticed or cared.

I’d think about that airy notion, time to time, on the open Montana highway, parting the air at 80 mph. Or on the airplane over the Pacific, on the way to China, or on I-5, Seattle to LA, maneuvering through more vehicles than surely should exist. Or the water, while on the ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island. Does water hurt? Does it make a difference, what we do without thought, at such speeds?

Without doubt, it makes a difference to bugs and fishies. If air or water are contaminated, we hurt. But what does it mean to continually stir the air? Nothing? Anything?

I certainly do not advocate we return to horse and buggy days. That would be a change too far. I like cars. I’d quite happily own a gas guzzler if it were not cheaper and easier for me to pay someone else for transportation.

Julie will move. It will rain in February. I’ll part the air carefully while walking the lane. I think I’ll read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” again.

——

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].