Looking out my Backdoor: Saying the long good bye

I am packing the long packing. I am saying the long good bye. I am readying myself for the big move, the great distance of ten kilometers, all the way to far off, exotic Oconahua, a move which is months away.

I love where I am living now, this place, this small house, all my plants. Nobody would ever question my love for this place. And this place has loved me back, big loves.

Everybody’s financial and personal situations are different. We who live on the rancho are a varied group indeed, varied in background, varied in life experiences. My friends here are appalled. “How can you even think of moving?” “You have made your home so beautiful.” “What will you do about shopping? Medical care? If you need help?” “You will be alone.” And, “How can you leave us?”

You’d think I’m moving to the moon at people’s responses.

Alone. To the moon. I find it interesting that I am the only person living here without a partner. Interesting, that. And most of my friends are here only two to six months at the most. Hmmm.

My reality is that it gets harder every year for me to keep this place up, financially and because of my own physical creakiness, age, past surgeries, arthritis, the usual suspects.

We live on private land. We “buy” the house, lease the land on which it sits. Any improvements I’ve made are for my own comfort and pleasure. Except for what is actually attached to the house, many of these lovelies will move with me.

To Oconahua. Ten kilometers. The house I will rent is being built on a corner of property owned by my Oconahua friends.

Hence, the packing.

Ah, yes, the long packing. I don’t have a lot. Some days I pack a box. Some days none. Pack and purge and clean, all at once. Thoughtfully. Hence the purging.

I have come to the realization that I could get by with one plate, one bowl, one cup, and one set of eating tools. I could. But I’m not ready to live that simply yet. I am very aware that these simple tools could be reduced to a begging bowl and a spoon. I’m not there yet either.

Since my moving date is undecided, I make decisions based on season and time. I ask myself, will I need this or can I do without this for the next three months? Winter bedding is lodged in big black garbage bags. Should I need them, I know where they are.

Other decisions are more problematic. Already, I’ve unpacked and repacked a basket of cups and drinking glasses. At the time I packed the basket, I knew I should give that particular set of cups to Crinny, who likes them and will use them. To me, they are pretty but I never use them, preferring my rustic Mexican clay cups.

Some items, like towels, get used to shredded uselessness, rags. Cups breed. I’ve reduced my paltry supply of cups to less than one half of what I had before packing. They breed. I don’t know how. In the sink. In the cupboard. In the night. I shall never run out of cups.

Everything comes under my critical decision-making eyeballs. Throw away. Give away. Pack now. Pack later. A box yesterday. None today. Two tomorrow, maybe. And so it goes. When moving time arrives, I intend to put my bowl and spoon in a basket and wave good bye.

Which brings me to the long good bye. Good byes are harder. Not to people. I’ll still see my friends. Ten kilometers, remember.

How does one say good bye to that beautiful double ruffled red hibiscus at the corner by the clothesline? Or the mango tree? Or the giant philodendron-like plant that often stops me in my tracks, it is so breath-taking? Or the way the morning sun filters golden through the Fresno trees on the campground next door? My list of good byes is long.

Ten kilometers. I’m going to meet a long list of new “hellos”. New plants. New trees. New beauties. New people. Old friends. It’s all good.

Did I say the heat dome lifted? One day the high is 98. The next day, just like a snap, the high is 71 with rain. Every day is delicious, tidbits of delight, tasty morsels of perfection, yummy bites of cool pleasure.

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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].