Looking out my Backdoor: Miles to go before we plant

It is interesting to contemplate that a mere 2-month-old baby has accumulated more frequent flier miles than I have in the past five years. The comparison is easy. My mileage is zero.

More astounding is that little Marley’s flights cost more than the sum total of all my flights, domestic and foreign, inclusive of but not exclusively: multiple domestic flights, Hawaii, Alaska, Mexico, China, Japan and India. Who could have imagined this farm girl could have visited so many far places!

Marley spent last week in the all-inclusive exotic resort, Hospital St. Vincent’s in Billings, via her second life-flight, treating for a return of pneumonia. I was too upset to even talk about it.

I learned something. When a person we love is dangerously ill, we, not just me, tend to distance ourselves from the pain by referring to them as she or he, the baby, her mother or his son. When I realized that, I changed my language to Marley this and Marley that, keeping her close in my heart.

Marley is back home again today. Our little Marley has officially spent exactly one-half of her life in St. Vincent’s NICU. My little great grand-daughter has accumulated a whole world of people who “own” her, as my friend Kathy said.

That is the update on my Montana life, which I live vicariously, via telephone.

Since I write about whatever is happening in my life, and I don’t pretty it up, I’m going to tell you what “almost” happened today. I “almost” got in a snit with a friend. It was my snit. Not hers.

Yesterday I sent out a photo of my azalea, planted in a garbage can, to my high-school girlfriend-group. It is spectacular, more flowers than foliage, perfumes my entire front garden.

My friend Karen replied that she wanted an azalea but thought it might not grow in her new home in Nevada. I wrote back, why not, the winters are milder than in Floweree.

Ellie wrote. Azaleas need acidic soil. Nevada soil is alkaline. Don’t plant it. Won’t grow. Those are not her exact words. It is how I heard the words. Like a slap. I felt dismissed.

I removed myself from the keyboard before I plink-plink-plinked-send. Got a glass of water, took a hike, calmed down.

Ellie is a serious gardener. She researches every flower and bush and tree she plants. Karen is a Master Gardener. Both women are much more knowledgeable than me. I’m simply lucky to live in Jalisco, the Garden State of Mexico where if you spit, something will grow, because you probably had a tomato-guava-jalapeno-some-kind-of-seed stuck in your teeth. Ask the birds. They know.

My friend Ellie researches her soil, how much water the plant will take, how much debris the plant will make, how long it will flower, shade or sun needs, what the plant wants to eat and when to burp it. She is thorough. Proof is manifest in her beautiful low-water-needs garden in Central (dry) California.

When I finally sat back at my computer to respond, I thanked Ellie for the information. But, I couldn’t help myself. My ego reared her ugly head and I went on to say I have no idea whether our soil here is alkaline or acidic. It is volcanic. Everything seems to want to grow, whether or not I want it to grow. However, my beautiful azalea sits regally in a large trash can filled with planting soil from David’s Vivero Centro. (So there!)

My gardening style is hit or miss. “Oh, I like you. I’ll plant you here. If you grow, good. If you don’t, off with your head.” Having admitted to my ignorance, I do tend to stick with plants that are easy, plants that I see thriving in gardens all around me.

I don’t know why I got in a snit, short lived, but it was definitely there. There had been no real provocation.

I have a colander full of tomatoes that want to become soup base, so I’d best get on with making soup happen.

I wonder, do tomatoes want acidic soil or alkaline soil?

I’ll keep that wonder to myself.

——

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].