Looking out my Backdoor: Summertime, and the living is dusty

That may not be how the song is sung but that is how we sing it in Etzatlan this summer.

We juggle the procession of seasons, winter flips into a few days of spring, which gets dropped on the floor and immediately flames into summer, temps in high 90s up to 100 this week.

Dry and dusty. What little breeze we get brings cane ash and field dirt, right into my casa where I can enjoy it at leisure.

I yearn for what I now think of as normal times, when the rains come in June, bringing two and a half months of spring. Ah, spring. Will we have spring this year?

Meanwhile, we have no water. The entire town of Etzatlan is without water. Just outside city limits, we still benefit, not the word I would always choose, but, benefit from delivery of city water.

Gravity pushes water from ground pipes to the rooftop tinaco. My tinaco is not empty. Yet. I use water judiciously, knowing my tinaco may empty at any time. When I moved here, I bought a small tinaco, perfectly adequate for one person. Today is the first time I’ve revisited that decision. Done is done.

I change my ways. Wear clothes longer, hope they pass the sniff test, yours, not mine. Towels will work a few more showers, sheets soak more dreams. Hand wash laundry as necessary. Few flushes. Hoard every drop of water as best I can.

Leo and I chose which plants to let die but the choice may not be ours.

We are in the middle of the two month campaigning for government of country, states and municipalities. Rumors abound that the sudden water shut-off has political implications. I hear things. I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who works for the water department. I know too much.

Well. Or should I say wells. Strange that a city using several wells suddenly runs dry, all on the same day. But, what do I know? Nothing. I know nothing. See above.

Jane, my friend Michelle’s 96-year-old mother, has passed on. This is one of those days which bring on a soup of emotions, relief that she is out of pain, sadness that she is gone, a soup seasoned with anger, grief, emptiness, stories outrageous.

It has not been an easy three weeks. Jane was delirious most of the time, refused to eat, refused to move, needed basic care, needed her surgical dressings changed daily. Fortunately, Ana had taken an intensive nursing class a year ago and stepped in to handle that part of the burden. Medications eased the pain and delusions. Jane died at home, in her own bed, surrounded by family, peaceful in her final hours.

Early the following day Ana arranged for the medical sign-off for natural death and registered the appropriate paperwork with the government. The tasks of finality move quickly here in Mexico. Leo and I drove over to say our own good-byes and to be with Ana and Michelle while they awaited the hearse to pick up Jane’s body for cremation.

Several of Ana’s family were there, people who had gotten to know Jane and appreciate her wit. It was a sweet time and I’m glad I got be a part of it. Most of the time we sat or stood or moved about under the trees around Jane’s wee casita, talking quietly, or quietly contemplative. Ana and Michelle let us love on them without any need to play hosts.

When the hearse backed down the drive, we said our final goodbyes, then stood in respectful silence while the two men went about their work. When the hearse left, heartfelt hugs all around, and we each dispersed to our various homes.

One of the stories Michelle told us was that when Jane lived on the coast above Puerto Vallarta, every Friday night she went to a particular bar for karaoke. Two songs, she sang, without fail, “Summertime” and “Danny Boy”.

This morning, the lazy summery tune meandering among my thoughts, I sat beneath my mango tree, pondering the vagaries of life, remembering Jane, unable to ignore three large green mango fruits hanging in front of my face, green but will be ripe to pick next week. April.

Yes, our summertime. However, the fruit of this particular mango tree, branches already laden with hundreds of babies, ripens in July. July! We live in a topsy-turvy world and must stand in awe.

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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].