Looking out my back door: Envy me - I live a full life without logic

Envy me if you wish. My living room ceiling leaks drops the size of tadpoles. The wind stirred by Hurricane/Tropical Storm Blanca, like an angry sieve, filtered a heavy layer of grit over everything in my casa. The entire week has been muggy with temps in the nineties and air as heavy as water.  

Mama dove has taken her pair of baby doves, scruffy creatures, through basic flight instruction. The first day, as mama dove called encouragement, orders, from the top of a palm in the opposite corner of the courtyard, the babies perched on the edge of the flower pot nest and flapped their wings.

The next day they flapped, lifted off the runway, and flew away into the mango trees. I witnessed it. What is this world coming to? The children are not old enough to have a license.

Every morning I hobble out into the courtyard to harvest mangoes which have dropped in the night. I eat mango: plain mango, mango with yoghurt, mango with every fruit, mango in salad, mango sauce on mahi-mahi. I mince mango and store it in my refrigerator freezer. I give away great bags of fresh mangoes. The second tree is a different variety of mango which hasn’t ripened yet. I fear I may begin to disdain my favorite fruit.

In my explorations of local eating establishments, I have never found mango pie on a menu. So I created mango pie in my kitchen. I cannot eat a whole pie, so I shared my pie with Carlos when he came to take me to the market, with Marie, Sylvia and Reuben at the corner Luncheria, with Johnny at the tienda across from the resort, Pueblo Bonito. With strangers. Wonder if I could create a cake.

When I walked out my door I could hear the surf over the sounds of traffic on the main street. This is unusual, another by-product of Hurricane Blanca. I walked down by Pueblo Bonito and cut behind to the beach. The surf was high, waves shooshing one on top of another. I walked the beach down to Tony’s by the Bay where I stopped for breakfast. When I left my house, I had not intended to eat out. But I decided to sit and watch the water. For the price of breakfast, I stuffed myself like a pig, took home enough food for a second meal, and “rented” a table for an hour and a half of mesmerizing wave watching; a bargain.

Carlos stopped by to ask if I had another piece of mango pie. So I took advantage of opportunity and had him drive me along the malecon during the height of the dancing waves, wind whipping the spume up the seawall and across four lanes of traffic. Carlos said this week the fishing will be spectacular. Storm water moves the fish inland. Ordinary moments sublime

A wise man once told me that we are incapable of seeing ourselves. That’s one reason why we need people in our lives. Others act as mirrors, teachers, truth-tellers, thorns. I remembered those valued words from Bob when I read Evelyn’s message: “How wonderful, Sondra, you took the plunge and re-invented yourself in another place.

And after a serious operation you are out laughing at the grim reaper, laughing and running to the nearest beach to walk, swim and sit in shade. You have a full life, well lived and enjoyed. How I envy you.”

Ah, Evelyn, with your three-story brownstone filled with art and books on a cobbled street in New York City. Maybe we are not aware of it, but we all are to be envied.  

Bless you, Evelyn. Before I could get the big head over all the positive praise, I recalled a number of equally close and wonderful friends, true friends, who think I am crazy as a coot. And, of course, other friends will fill in the blanks between the two extremes. Know what? All are absolutely correct in their assessments. We sift our observations and opinions through our own filters — can’t help it.

Now and then I shift and shake and scrub my “filter.” I owe it to myself to see my friends clearly, with grace and gratitude.

(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 Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].)