Looking out my Backdoor: Birthdays and other afflictions

I’ve never made a big deal of my birthdays. In childhood, my birthday presents were always books, which was exactly what I wanted. Coming from family raised during the Great Depression, a gift was a Big Deal. I’m pretty sure my dad never had a birthday present.

For decades, beginning in my forties, I began skipping the “9” years. Instead of forty-nine, I became “almost fifty.” I did not see 49 as a positive gain. Almost sixty. Almost seventy.

This year, a “9” year, I turned almost 80 as the moon crossed over the sun.

I doubt that has any great significance. There are such things as coinky-dinkies, thank you, Jimmy Durante. You have to be old to remember that man. Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are. In my defense, when I watched Jimmy Durante on television, I was really young and he was really old.

My birthday night was also a night of no moon. Make of that what you will.

I appreciate that young people today talk about everything, big and little, stuff my generation was not allowed to even think about — nor did we have the basic information to allow us to think. It might seem the young ones talk too much, but, hey, talking, talking, talking the forbidden is new experience and the new will wear off. Conversations which were taboo to people of my generation will become common.

One of the items on that long, long list of things nobody told us would happen when we got old, one among many of the dreaded, dreadful taboo topics, hold your breath, is hemorrhoids.

Guess what I got for my birthday. Yep, that “H” word as one of my friends calls it. She still cannot let the forbidden word slip past her lips.

I determined years ago that I will talk about whatever crosses my path, painful or not. A little research showed me that hemorrhoids are common in older people, a natural, (painful), progression, so to speak. Cripes.

Since most of the people I’m in touch with are aging and/or aged, when I visit, I announce my new affliction with gusto and a big smile, “Guess what? I’ve got a hemorrhoid.”

After the bug-eyed looks of shock wear off, most of my friends then share their stories of how they dealt with said affliction. Medicine works. I recommend medicine.

On the way to the Farmacia for my medication for hemorrhoids, I noticed every other building in town is plastered with political posters. This is an election year in Mexico.

While not everything in Mexico is wonderful, and I do tend to wax lyrical about what I find wonderful, like any country, Mexico has big faults, some Grand Canyon big.

Let me sing goodness about the election process, at least this part of it. Campaigning is limited to two months. Two months of loud and predictable and tiresome promises and lies. Two months. June 2, people will head for the polls and vote and that is done. Done. For six more years.

Speaking of falsehoods, excuse me a moment to talk with my editor.

Tim, if it is not too shaky or fuzzy, I would like to change my photo from hollyhocks to a birthday photo Crin took of me on my patio. Could you also have your photo person do a little, what do they call it, photo shop? Air brush? Remove glaring defects? Make me beautiful?

Just kidding. I know they can’t do the impossible. However, could they take some of the worry away from my face? Oh, and I had not combed my hair. If it doesn’t work, keep the hollyhocks, please. Thank you.

All in all, I had a good birthday. My daughter called and sang me the birthday song. A friend left me a basket of fruit on my patio table. Others took me out for breakfast. Another friend made me an apple dumpling and gave me a rock. Friends are good. (The rock is a pumice stone for cleaning lime scale, a last-minute, thoughtful, “we gives what we gots.”)

And, true to history, I bought myself a book.

——

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].