Carrots Don’t Talk Back

by Betsy Ashton

Betsy Ashton, born in Washington, DC, was raised in Southern California where she ran wild with coyotes in the hills above Malibu. She protested the war in Vietnam, burned her bra for feminism, and is a steadfast Independent. She is a writer, a thinker, the mother of three grown stepchildren, companion and friend. She mentors writers and writes and publishes fiction. Her first mystery, Mad Max Unintended Consequences, was published in February 2013. The second in the series, Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, came out in April 2015. In her spare time, she is the president of the state-wide Virginia Writers Club. She loves riding behind her husband on his motorcycle. You’ll have to decide for yourself if and where she has a tattoo.

April 21, 2016

Years ago, one of my friends decided to leave Hollywood and move to the Denver area to raise organic carrots. He got tired of the political garbage someone in the film industry had to endure, so he decided to become a farmer. No experience. No real plan. But, he had a good reason: Carrots don’t talk back.

For those of us who enjoy peace and quiet, the idea of being surrounded by nature can be too delicious to ignore. But carrots? I. Do. Not. Like. Carrots. Except in stews. Otherwise, those orange vegetables don’t pass my lips. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ll blame my mother for always having Bugs Bunny carrots in the fridge. I remember them to be woody and tasteless. The smaller carrots you buy in bags are only a little better. When I do eat one, it’s generally a delivery mechanism for dip.

Back to peace and quiet. Two men taught me about loving peace and quiet. One was the man who fled Hollywood. I didn’t go with him, nor did we stay in touch. I never figured out if he found what he was looking for or not.

The other is my husband, Terry, who taught me to stop and smell the roses. Forget pollen, just slow down. Hear the wind. Listen to the bees. Enjoy the sun. Terry didn’t realize that was he preached was living in the moment, a Zen teaching I’d been practicing for years before we met.

I guess I needed more practice, because Terry often reminded me that I was wrapped too tightly and needed to relax. It took time to recommit to meditation and enjoying life. We live on a lake and from fall through spring we can the cove where our house is located. Within a week or two, we’ll not see the water. Once the trees leaf out, we live in a tree house, virtually unseen from the dock.

Quiet gives way to the sound of children splashing and jet skis roaring in the cove. I love the children and tolerate the jet skis. I remind myself that jet skis are revenue for the businesses at the lake. Still, couldn’t they muffle the sound just a few thousand decibels?

Until fall comes again and the jet skis return to their trailers, I’ll sit on my dock, enjoy the sun, read a few good books, and wonder what it would be like to live surrounded by carrots that don’t talk back.

How do you relax?

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