Looking out my Backdoor: Like falling in first love

Out of nowhere, no foretaste, foretelling, forewarning, it dropped from the sky, swooning, gobsmacked us in the best way. Rain, glorious, wondrous, wet, rain. Before the sun settled, the rain swung low like a sweet chariot, and dropped love from the sky.

The trees, the grasses, the flowers, the chili peppers, the weeds, me; we all lifted our arms in glad welcome. Lola The Dog scurried into her wee casita and hovered against the back wall.

Lola is not a water dog. She cools herself by digging down into the dirt shaded by a lime tree or the giant philodendron leaves, with her feet makes the dirt fly up into her fur, much in the same manner as a chicken. Makes me wonder, who was this child’s mother?

The rest of us, all our little world, gloried in the welcome first rain. One hour, one solid hour of solid straight-down good hard rain. When the sun set, the huge fireball of scarlet-red sun, it seemed to sail beyond the horizon like a ship upon the sea.

All night the air smelled like wet dirt instead of our usual smoky dust alternating with dusty smoke. This morning the air is soft, gentle with flowery scents.

Now I ask you, doesn’t that just sound like somebody who has lost her mind in the infatuation of first love, first rain?

In the same way that the wild crocus popping through the melting snow doesn’t mean winter is over, this first rain doesn’t mean our hot season is done. One rain does not a drought transform. But it is a start, a welcome start. I’ll dub it our crocus rain.

The biggest difference to me is a shift in my attitude. Suddenly the world is fresher. I have regained lost energy. Before the rain, despair. After the rain, hope. That is big.

I left my casa with gusto this morning for Leo to take me shopping. I didn’t need much. I had made arrangements with Leo on Saturday to take me for a haircut. Like a weather change, I made a decision to buy bacon instead of get a haircut. Inflation hits us all. My stomach won this round over my head.

At the fruteria, I bought strawberries, among other things. I had three choices of how to buy my berries. I could get a hard-shelled pack of berries just like in US stores. K aching! I could pick handfuls from an open crate. Ching, ching. Or I could buy a large container of culls for a mere few pesos.

I bought the leavings. I end with the same amount of discards and the berries are sweeter, smell like strawberries. Last week, my container, a good mounded quart, cost 10 pesos. This week the same container was 30 pesos. The young man filling the container, which I have him pour into a bag, topped it high and threw in a half-dozen extra handfuls of berries. Inflation which came with kindness.

At the checkout, Pepe, the owner rattled on to Leo in rapid Spanish for five minutes. As we turned to go, Leo told me, “He said, the prices go higher each week.”

At the cremeria, where I bought a half kilo of bacon, my treat for not cutting my shaggy hair, the price of crema media had gone up 5 pesos. Crèma media is a heavy cream, a treat with strawberries, not a necessity.

On the way out of town to the rancho, I asked Leo to stop at the hat stand along the highway. I wanted a new straw hat. This man sets up daily with a wide array of hats, mostly hats for field workers. That’s what I wanted, a hat with a wide brim which hung downward to shield my eyes.

I have a small head so the man had to dig to find a hat that didn’t rock and roll around my head and slide down over my eyes. Finally, the perfect hat. Paid 270 pesos, for a hat to sit happy on my shaggy head.

As we left the hats, back onto the highway home, “Remember when this hat cost 25 pesos?” “Yep, seven, eight and nine years ago. Inflation!”

With the heat dome slightly tilted, not lifted, we are not yet into rainy days. The forecast ahead shows afternoons in the higher 90s, nothing triple digit; small relief and I’ll take it. The rains will come. My new hat will keep off rain as well as sun, the hat man assured me. Meanwhile, I have strawberries and cream. It’s a pretty fine world when one is in love.

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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].