Looking out my Backdoor: The uneventful life

“Have an exciting evening,” my daughter wished at me after a phone call over the weekend.

“No! No! No!’ I cried vehemently. “Not an exciting evening, Never! Wish me a calm and peaceful and uneventful evening, please.” One never knows what energies one might release with a casual word or two. I’ve had enough excitement in other periods of my life.

Today I sit in front of my blank page with absolutely nothing to say. Life is good. Quiet. No waves. No storm clouds. No drama.

I go out into my yard looking under lettuce leaves for inspiration. Uninspired, I harvest some lettuce seed, harvest the last decent leaves for salad, pulled the stalks for the compost pile. I won’t plant more until the rainy season begins. April and May are much too hot. Lettuce bolts overnight and the leaves are bitter. I’m learning.

With no ideas, I sit myself at the sewing machine to alter a blouse I’d made from beautiful India cotton, pieces of an old sari. I had found myself putting the blouse to the back of the line, too fussy. The colorful pattern is fuss enough. I try on my new-to-me-minus-fussy-details blouse and wear it the rest of the day.

Back out to the garden. I gather tomatoes and limes. No inspiration, no lightbulb moments in the garden.

You might wonder if I feel bored. I am never bored. As far back as I can remember, I’ve never been bored. If I was, it had to have been when I was quite small and my Grandma would have quickly disabused me of that notion with a list of things to do. I used that page from Grandma’s book with my own children, who will affirm, after that one memorable day, they are never bored.

Often, if uninspired, I might poke around my neighbors and see what runs out of the underbrush. One and all, they have housefuls of guests. One and all, they’ve been sight-seeing, to the beaches, living the good life. One and all, neighbors and guests are back in casa, hacking and honking with that awful cough, hoping to recover in time for guests to catch various flights home. I’ll keep my distance.

I take the broom to the floors, examine the sweepings and dust bunnies, same as I would peer at the tea leaves. All they told me is the season for daily sweeping has arrived. I come from a long line of women who were burned at the stake. Don’t examine that statement too closely. I never said it was logical.

The jacaranda tree is losing leaves. The leaves form a beautiful green canopy but the umbrella is made of a million-million-million tiny leaves and this time of year they fall like rain.

Walk out and take the laundry off the line, shaking the jacaranda leaves out of every item, especially pants and shirts. Iron and fold clothes, shaking stray leaves onto the clean floor.

When I get up in the morning, whatever I put on must be shaken again. Those tiny little leaflets are pointy and poky. They cling.

Shaking clothing is a defense mechanism here in Mexico. Especially shoes. I don’t want to poke my foot into a shoe shared with a scorpion.

I shake the mop vigorously, an anti-scorpion shake, before I bring it indoors to mop the floors. All manner of wildlife might fall out. Crickets. Centipedes. Silver fish. The occasional lizard. The critters scurry off, into the grass or the bamboo. I don’t want to be the cause of death by mop bucket.

And so goes my day. Another walk with my dog. I make a lettuce sandwich for dinner. Wonder if I should call my daughter and ask her to reconsider upping the excitement level when she greets me tomorrow with a cheerful, “Good morning, my Mom.”

But, then, all in all, this is a good life. Quiet. Peaceful. Uneventful. I’ll take it as it is, thank you.

——

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].