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Looking out my Backdoor: It's a conspiracy

 

Last updated 7/25/2022 at 7:39pm



Hurricane Estelle blew in lugging a heavy cloud blanket behind her until the sky looked like cry me a river.

Day after day after day, darkness reigned and time warped, smudged and dripped down the mountain walls like Dali-esque clocks.

If one took the sky and flattened it out like a topographical map, it would be criss-crossed by rivers cascading off the edges in waterfalls. (Flat sky, flat earth, what’s the difference!)

Under cover of day as dark as nightfall, somebody sneaked in and stole the sun.

I heard rumors that “they” took the sun to Montana where, doubled up, it reigns supreme forcing temperatures into the triple digit extremes.

Meanwhile, life as usual in central Mexico, right?

Wrong. While in town for dental work, I saw my neighbor Ariel and we had a 10 minute chat. Next day, he felt sick, tested positive for COVD. We all who summer here are fully jabbed with needle marks to prove it. Life is not fair, right, Ariel?

So I self-quarantined for a week. Not that isolation is unusual this time of year, with hardly anybody about. But I have vulnerable friends, so would rather err on the side of caution.

With that modicum of extra time on my hands, I got an idea. Not a lightbulb idea. It coalesced slowly. With numbers of COVID cases and deaths on the rise everywhere, despite COVID being a left/right wing conspiracy, I figured I’d probably not grow wings and fly north for yet another year. Sigh of Disappointment.

So I consulted with my team, Leo and Josue, and asked if a bathroom could be made in the tool tunnel on the back side of the bodega, which is minimally used, most tools and manly gear residing in the other tunnel to the left side of the bodega.

Team took measurements, said it is do-able, and gave me a price less than I’d spend on a northern trip. So once a doorway is knocked through, my travel money will be flushed down the toilet, or rather, will go to build a toilet, sink and shower in a wee-tiny strip of space, but will make my bodega bedroom with en-suite much more attractive to any friends lined up for trips south to visit me.

So, if you haven’t got your passport yet, get that application filled out, please.

The destruction/construction area is covered by a roof, so take that, Hurricane Estelle. Pttttt!

The other conspiracy I can only partially blame on Estelle. The synthetics fabrics industries have rendered natural fibers such as cotton, linen and wool, very hard to find and expensive. In town there are no cotton fabrics suitable for clothing. None. Synthetics make my skin hurt. Truth.

In Guadalajara, there is a wonderful huge fabrics store with acres of cotton fabrics for dressmaking. For the past month, Michelle, Ana and I have intended a trip to the City. Every week, our plans were blown out of the water (Like that one?) by one and another hurricane, stacked off the coast, one after the other, just to foil our plans, of course. I call this the clipped-wings conspiracy.

Guadalajara is an ancient city, grown to over 6 million people, built over literally thousands of years. Parts of the city are ancient with little drainage and are vulnerable to storms. Streets flood with regularity. If Guadalajara is rainy, we don’t go. It’s that simple. We are wary, having watched videos of cars washed sideways down flooded streets, smashing into everything along the way.

Not to be outdone by mere weather or the oil industry, I have now made a new nighty from bedsheets, and three blouses from cotton beach wraps.

I’ll not thumb my nose at hurricanes or major or minor conspiracies. We plan to go to Guad next week. Will we make it? Maybe so, maybe no.

Will my en-suite be finished in time for your visit? Maybe so, maybe no.

Will the sun escape the chain of clouds and again grace our sky? See above.

——

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]

 

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