Looking out my backdoor: An out-of-mind experience

Because of the pandemic, health cautions and precautions, these past several days, I’ve found myself to be the only gringo in town, or to be precise, on the ranch.

Tom and Janet drove their big yellow cargo van to Arizona for medical appointments and to bring back another load of belongings from storage.

Lani and Ariel exited Etzatlan about when winter entered, gone off to lounge on a beach somewhere near Manzanillo.

John and Carol, in a fit of stir-crazy, packed up their ancient VW Van-Go and took off just because they could.

Exactly one year ago this week we began hearing news about this strange new virus. That’s not exactly true. That March week was the first in which we actually listened to the news we had been hearing since the autumn.

By the end of March, we had battened down the hatches against this raging storm. One year, folks. For me, a year of very little eyeball-to-eyeball, hands across our brick border walls, real live social interaction; most often just a wave and a shout of “howdy.”

These last three weeks with my on-going bodega renovation project, I hardly noticed my lack of neighbors. Now that my bodega work is done, I notice.

I’m scared. Really scared. I’d like to blame the pandemic, to blame my lack of socialization. It’s my mind, you see. I fear I’ve lost the plot, gone around the bend; I fear that my last wing-nut fell off and rolled under the refrigerator.

One minute I’m sipping coffee, nose in a book. Then …

Without any thought, as if I were in a blackout, I came to consciousness, appalled, with scrub rags in hand, washing windows, with no earthly idea how I’d gotten there. In fact, before I’d noticed what I was doing, I was scouring down my second window.

I hate washing windows, a thankless, repetitive task. I’ll do anything to put off window washing. If I could still physically get down on the floor without risk of not ever getting back up, I’d rather tackle the grout between the floor tiles. OK. Maybe that was a slight exaggeration.

I don’t mind most household chores; even get a sense of satisfaction from keeping countertops clean and dishes washed. I like a clean floor.

My windows to the world? They can get really dirty before I cave in to necessity and put them on my “round tuit” list. And I’ve no qualms about dropping the task to the bottom of the list on a daily basis.

Once your feet are wet, might as well wade across. So I finished the job, rinsed out my cleaning cloths, grabbed my discarded book and went out to the patio.

But I couldn’t read, couldn’t concentrate for worry. How had this strange action happened? Might seem a small thing to you, but I’m worried. Scared.

I’m sorry. You don’t understand. This is serious. This is not the real me.

I cannot find any logical explanation. Not for washing windows without malice aforethought.

Zombie Apocalypse?

Aliens have sucked out my brains?

I’m the victim of an evil conspiracy to turn all the women of the world into Stepford Wives?

I’ve lost my mind?

——

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].