Out my Backdoor: Strange days and strange ways

Do you ever wonder if the big ol’ sun up there looks down and thinks, “Those are some mighty strange beings down on that little ball of mud, especially that one there, standing by the mango tree, looking up in the sky and trying to puzzle out the unfigurable”?

(Not only can I anthropomorphize with the best, I’m good at making up words.)

I can smell the moisture in the air. Morning is heavy with fog. The afternoon hot and sticky. The clouds split and gallop along the mountains on either side of our valley.

Sultry and humid it is, but a gal has got to eat. As long a chicken breast is simmering in the oven, I’ll whip up a mango cheesecake, modifying a favorite recipe from a hippie cookbook, published back when the glaciers were receding — that is, the time before this time.

This entertaining book is chock-full of good recipes along with sensible ideas on how to live on little. I make a few substitutions and leave out such disgusting items as brewer’s yeast. Oh, I tried it. I’d rather eat fried worms.

Speaking of worms, what if we have it all backward? What if those which we call the lower life forms are, in reality, the higher life forms? Think about it. They came first. What gives me a right to think that a being with which I am incapable of communication is a lower life form?

Communication? Heck, we are incapable of communication with one another.

What if Fido, the family pet, voluntarily sacrificed his true heart’s desire to hike the Appalachian Trail in an attempt to prevent his “Master” from undertaking too many utter stupidities?

What if one loving service of the Jacaranda in my back yard is simply to try to keep me, his own human, on an even keel?

What if, since we seem to have evolved last in a long line, we are the lower life form and those which evolved first have continued to evolve into highest intelligence?

I’ve spent the week hovering over ironing board and sewing machine, creating garments to protect me from extreme ultraviolet rays and other indignities. Meanwhile, on beaches the world over, other creatures of my ilk strip their clothing and sacrifice skin layers to the sun rays.

The iguanas on top of my brick wall, all in some phase of slithering out of old skin into new, neither reap nor sow. Which of us is more intelligent? Who is to say?

Speaking of ranking intelligence, I notice things. My iguanas — I say “my” as if I own them because they are in my yard — lounge on the wall yomping hibiscus flowers at will. Drives me nuts. I stomp around, shoo, fie, off with your heads. Iguanas do not bat an eyelid, but gaze at me with utter disdain. Continue yomping. Which of us is smarter?

Here’s another thought. (I’m full of them but I promise to stop before I blather out my take on lower intelligence, shopping malls and shooting galleries.) What if the only differences among me and my iguana and an amoeba are the containers which define our edges? I have questions. No answers.

Does a rock have imagination? Does a leaf-cutter ant have philosophy? Is the ground squirrel biased? Is the moon in love with the Pacific Ocean? Who knows what the creatures get up to when nobody is looking.

But, what do I know?

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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 montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].