Sunday afternoon, I sat alone in a theater, surrounded by people and cried. There is a lot of sadness in the world. I was listening to writers speak of this sadness, expressing it so eloquently. The power of words and people who craft them perfectly is enough to bring me to tears.
Terry in turn, told a story of how Rick had been there for her when her brother committed suicide a couple of years ago. He rang, she said and started telling me a story. He didn’t say, “I’m sorry for your loss” nor try to say the right thing. He just told story until they hung up.
I missed the speakers on Saturday. Heard it was excellent, with a tribute to the late William Kittredge. Terry shared a passage from Bill’s book, Hole in the Sky, “We tell stories to talk out the troubles in our lives, trouble otherwise so often unspeakable. It is one of our main ways of making our lives sensible. Trying to live without stories can make us crazy. They help us to recognize what we believe to be the most valuable in the world, and help us identify what we hold demonic.” William Kittredge
Doug Peacock shared stories and read from his books. I confess I have not read them yet. Listening to him, I’m inclined to read them. Rick mentioned he requires his students to read, The Grizzly Years. That’s now on my “must read” list.
Another take away was a reminder of the work that needs to be done to save Yaak Valley Forest. “In addition to being the stronghold of the last 25 grizzlies in the Yaak Valley, the northwest corner of Montana holds one of the great stalwarts for any successful plan for the western United States to successfully weather the rising tide of global warming.” Rick Bass, Black Ram Project.
As a high school friend of Rick’s ex-wife, I had the good fortune to visit and stay with them in the Yaak on several occasions. We’ve floated the river, passing moose, walked in the forest, watched the northern lights from a fire tower and sat atop a mountain ridge with the taste of Rick’s freshly baked pie in our mouths as shooting stars were the free of charge showing for the night. It is, as many places are, a place worth saving.
“The cruel things I did I took to the river. I begged the current: make me better.” Richard Hugo “The Towns We Know and Leave Behind, The Rivers We Carry With Us”
Even though my daddy didn’t want another child when I came around, (I’ve been told) I knew he loved me. I can imagine that at 37 years old, he wanted to be done with having children. They already had three and two miscarriages. I can appreciate his practical thinking. He wasn’t a hands on daddy, but when I did get his attention there was laughter and teasing. The kind of teasing that feels like love. He was the youngest of four as I was. His father, Frank Scott, attorney, held positions such as chancery clerk and sheriff. His mother, Effie Lee, I understand was adored by many. She died a year before I was born, July 12, 1958. Daddy’s family held high prestige and had to hold up appearances. But there was a lot of heartache and probably secrets. I never remember a conversation with my grandfather who lived until 1985, but he had a strong presence when we gathered as family. In his later years he was known for sitting at the local park watching my high school’s cheerleaders and marching girls practice. (kinda creepy) My grandmother, Effie Lee, lost her three old second son when he ran from her arms and was hit by a trolley car. The newspaper article of the event is graphic and heartbreaking. Her son, Walter Scott, awarded a Purple Heart, silver star and bronze star was killed by Germans. Her son, Charles Scott served, was captured and imprisoned in a Nazi prison camp for 18 months. He was never the same, an angry alcoholic for the remainder of days. My daddy served in the Navy as a pilot. Effie Lee must have carried grief with grace until she died from stomach cancer at age 64. Aside from having birth order in common, my daddy and I shared the disease of alcoholism. Only in the last ten years of his life was he sober. As I began to struggle, he was there for me. We went to AA meetings together, a place he was very loved and respected. Resentment was his main offender he shared with me. He never shared the details of that resentment. I can make some guesses. I think he was a creative man who never had a chance to pursue his own dreams. He was molded into who he should be in our Southern culture, becoming an attorney and president of a savings and loan. He was asked to resign from his presidency due to his drinking and manic episodes. He was still loved by those who worked with him. The letter asking him to resign was most kind and full of concern. He was not the disease. When he took his own life in 1996, I only felt compassion, knowing how he had fought his diseases, alcoholism and manic depression, all of his adult life. As he said in his letter, he was tired. I miss him. I miss his joking ways, when the phone was for me, he would reply “I think we left her in the monkey cage at the zoo!” I miss his love of dogs (another commonality) love of hunting and fishing, his fried corn, his antics in keeping the squirrels from climbing up the pole to the bird feeder by covering it with vaseline and watching them slide down, him climbing onto the roof setting up the sprinkler to keep the house cool. I love that he tried cross country skiing when he came to visit in Montana, all the while asking where we were going and stopping for a cigarette. How my friends all loved my daddy and thought he was so funny. Yes, our house had a lot of chaos and dysfunction because of his diseases. He was not the disease. He was a kind, funny, flawed human being.
I giggle almost every time I tear pieces of lettuce for salad makings. It’s a memory that has stuck. As a young girl, I was proud to be given the task of making salads for family dinner. Mama told me, “make them bite size.” I did. As we all gathered at the table, she remarked, “why are the salads so small?” Of course she meant to tear the lettuce into bite size pieces!
That particular salad was a standard in our house: In individual wooden bowls tear green leaf lettuce into bite size pieces, top with crumbled bacon and hard boiled eggs. Dress with vinegar and a dollop of my mama’s homemade mayonnaise. I guess the lettuce made it a salad! Her mayonnaise, with a strong lemon essence was another staple. First thing after school, my favorite snack was saltine crackers dipped in her mayo. Instead of a salad, sometimes mama would serve half an avocado and fill the center with oil, vinegar and Worcestershire sauce. It was yummy.
Salads have become an almost daily meal for me, now that I am dairy free and gluten free, they satisfy my hunger while replacing the go-to sandwiches I used to eat. Green leaf lettuce, chopped carrots, celery, avocado and sesame seeds with homemade oil and vinegar dressing. Sometimes I cheat and put in a little grated cheddar cheese without any ill effects. I have yet to find a bottled dressing that I love. Annie’s green goddess is pretty good. Olive oil, balsamic vinegar, a bit of honey, mustard and salt make a tasty dressing. My friend, Wendy, makes a good one, adding a little orange juice to it.
A favorite of mine and many of my friends since I have made it for them is feta salad: In medium to large bowl, add olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, salt and pepper. I never measure, just taste as I go. You can leave out the garlic if you don’t like it (Lola). Whisk or stir well, add green leaf lettuce, avocado and feta, and toss. Although I’m not a fan of the Athenos brand. Deli sections usually have a better selection of French or Greek fetas.
The dressing is what makes a good Caesar salad. My friend, Jane, who I met waitressing in a restaurant 40 years ago makes a mean one. She’s since been a baker, chef and worked as the family chef for three different Montana governors. She can cook for a crowd, make it look effortless and want you coming back for seconds. I texted her for her dressing recipe. Five minutes later the phone rang. After an hour of laughter and tears, she remembered to speak of her dressing before we had to hang up.
Caesar salad dressing: 1/3 white wine vinegar 1/3 oil (she likes to mix canola and olive) garlic anchovy paste mustard Worcestershire sauce lemon
The dog and I are cuddled up, coffee in hand, listening to a conversation between Krista Tippett and Padraig O’Tuama, On Being. It is aired from Ireland. The scenery around me at my week long pet sit, could be in Ireland. Padraig gives hope for unimaginable repair. It’s worth a listen.
His morning prayer:
“Neither I nor the poets I love found the keys to the kingdom of prayer and we cannot force God to stumble over us where we sit. But I know that it’s a good idea to sit anyway. So every morning I sit, I kneel, waiting, making friends with the habit of listening, hoping that I’m being listened to. There, I greet God in my own disorder.
“I say hello to my chaos, my unmade decisions, my unmade bed, my desire and my trouble. I say hello to distraction and privilege, I greet the day and I greet my beloved and bewildering Jesus.
“I recognize and greet my burdens, my luck, my controlled and uncontrollable story. I greet my untold stories, my unfolding story, my unloved body, my own love, my own body. I greet the things I think will happen and I say hello to everything I do not know about the day. I greet my own small world and I hope that I can meet the bigger world that day.
“I greet my story and hope that I can forget my story during the day, and hope that I can hear some stories, and greet some surprising stories during the long day ahead. I greet God, and I greet the God who is more God than the God I greet. Hello to you all, I say, as the sun rises above the chimneys of North Belfast. Hello.”
Usually, I listen to an audible book or podcast while driving in the car. It especially helps while running errands in Missoula since traffic has gotten out of control with the influx of people moving here. That’s another story.
This was my introduction to Caren Beilin. I’ve put her memoir, Blackfishing the IUD on my “to read” list. As the title makes abundantly clear, the book is an argument that the copper IUD is sickening quite a lot of women — and that we listen first and foremost to women’s testimony to begin to resolve it. Some auto immune diseases stem from the IUD. As a young woman, I got a terrible infection from an inserted IUD. My later ectopic pregnancy was a result of that infection. That was the demise of a five year relationship with the love of my life as we struggled to handle the ramifications of the pregnancy in our youthful hearts and minds. That’s another story.
I got my Montana ballot in. Dear God, I hope we can keep Zinke from being elected. Monica Tranel got my vote.
The dog I’m caring for, Jessa, and I are off to hike, probably will get wet. Late afternoon, a friend and I plan to see Downton Abbey: A New Era at the Roxy Theater and eat their delicious organic popcorn with organic butter for dinner! That’s my idea of a good way to spend Memorial Day.
Hope you are having an enjoyable Memorial Day weekend. Thanks for reading.
The windy chilly weather we have been having finally broke. It was still and the sun was shining. I was headed to meet my new pet sitting client out Hwy. 200 winding along the Blackfoot river. The idea that I would have a week of pet sitting out the Blackfoot area felt like a gift. It is my favorite area, my favorite river. I want my ashes sprinkled in the river that has given me fond memories with family and friends as well as solitary restorative time. When I drove up to the homestead situated in large meadow with views of rolling hills and woods I felt even luckier. I have it in my mind to use my week caring for a dog, writing, walking and reading. I knew nothing about the owner. Another client of mine recommended me to her. As we chatted, I learned more about her and her deceased husband who happens to be a renowned Montana writer. “Yes, this is a writer’s home, write while you are here,” she exclaimed. Her dog is exceptionally sweet and stayed close as we walked a half mile to the creek, a tributary of the Blackfoot. I got to hear the history of her home. The more we talked, the more connections we discovered. She and her husband have been to Jackson, MS for a signing at Lemuria bookstore where I used to work. She remembered John, my old boss and owner. We are friends with several fellow writers. I was uplifted by it all. We toured the home, stopping to get instructions for the TV and remote. The TV turned on and there was the news of the Uvalde, TX school shooting. Then it wasn’t a good day. 24 years ago, when my daughter was in high school, our community experienced a school shooting. A fifteen year old killed two and wounded 21 of his classmates at Thurston high school. I remember it like it was yesterday, the community shock and grief, the fear of my daughter even going to school. To think that just this past year, a law was passed in Texas: a permitless carry bill that Texas conservatives had long sought for and failed to achieve. The law allows most Texans to carry handguns openly in public without going through training or having to get permits. Long guns, like rifles and shotguns, had already been allowed to be carried without a permit. Law makers are protecting gun laws, not people. They want to protect the unborn without protecting the already born. It feels overwhelming to think it is out of our hands. In spite of overwhelm I will be writing letters. I will vote in the upcoming Montana election, June 7th, after careful study. Whatever else might be done, I’d appreciate hearing about it. Meantime, I won’t take for granted that I get to “baby” sit for two of my favorite little girls tonight, a guaranteed good time.
A friend of mine asked, “how’s your heart?” It’s many things: tender, grief stricken, achy, touched, forever hopeful, strong and beating. My heart and mind are gaining radical acceptance. It is what it is, and I will move forward.
I was fortunate to have alone quiet time this week in my home, no pet sitting. Our house cat, Brenda, has not left my side sensing her comfort is needed. I left the house and found water to sit by.
The outpouring of love, phone calls, texts, cards, invitations to dinner, flowers, someone brought me coffee, has wrapped me in comfort. I feel very loved. Thank you all!
It felt serendipitous, to have a conversation with Lee Rizzo about my idea of connecting the older generation with the younger generation. She has a CD release concert coming up on June 11th at the Dennison Theater here in Missoula. Part of the proceeds from the concert will go to Mother Moon Project, supporting mothers and babies in birth and postpartum. She encouraged me to reach out to them about the possibility of creating a network of “grandmothers” to help during infant hood. I’m waiting to hear back.
If you live in Missoula, I highly recommend Lee’s concert. Last year, she gave me one of the early release CDs. It’s a driving companion and I find myself singing her songs in my head. CD’s available at local record stores with a digital download available soon on her website.
The judge did not grant me time with my grandchildren. I was prepared for that. Even so, the tears are there, as well as the need for quiet and reflection. Bottom line: I was not the mother my daughter needed me to be. That is my sorrow.
This thread popped up on twitter. A friend is writing about the repair of her marriage through her husband’s addiction and sobriety. It is a remarkable story. She often post thought provoking questions. What is true for my daughter is she remembers things I did, that I don’t. She felt fear when she saw my anger. She did not have the mother she deserved. That is truth. Yes, I am a different person today, recovered. Even with the news of the court ruling, nothing in me wanted to go get drunk. That is what I would have done in the past. I would have lashed out at someone and lost their trust and respect. My emotions are with me today. What I do with them is what is different. This weekend is Mother’s Day. I plan to walk among the trees and find some water to sit by.
It is the eve of a court ruling. A judge will determine whether I am able to see my grandchildren or not. It could go either way. I am preparing myself for the either way. There are a lot needs in the world that need to be met. One is childcare. The other is for some who are aging; a sense of purpose. Our contemporary world allows folks to travel, to move to a desired place. Often, leaving parents and grandparents behind. I could begin a network of connecting the two. It could be for one-on-one childcare, or a childcare center run by “grandmothers”. Certainly, background checks would be done, applications, letters of reference, all the necessary checks. I’ve operated a childcare program before; I know how to do all that. However, this ruling goes, I want to continue to have a full life and yes, a sense of purpose. When I learned I would be a grandmother, my heart was so full of hope. Hope first, that my child and I would come together and heal our wounds. That she would accept my help, that we would communicate effectively, and past wrongs would be forgiven. Visions of trips to the library, hikes, bike rides, reading, driving to sports and lessons, all the while laughing, embracing and kissing the hurts away with my grandkids came into view when I first heard the news of being of a grandmother.
However, the judge chooses to rule, I like the idea of connecting the needs of children and an older generation. I’ll run with that idea and see what I can make happen.
He has risen. Yes, Jesus did. But Robert, who owns the hotel, went through a bad bout of shingles, got hit by a car and had two cataract surgeries this past year, will turn 83 on Easter Sunday. The second cataract surgery was this past week, so eye drops are still happening four times a day until the first of May. He refuses to do them himself. He knows his short term memory is going and could forget. Also, I know he loves all the attention, as he hears the latest of any goings on in the house, telling a joke or stories of his past (which he has begun to repeat often). I usually do the drops. When I am away pet sitting I stop by to help when I can. Otherwise, someone created a group text to organize the giving of the drops. Robert still stays active each day. He plays cards regularly and goes for walks. He stays upbeat and positive. One evening he said, “I am feeling discouraged.” I replied, “Oh, how so?” His come back was “I didn’t say anything.” That was the end of that.
Sunday, someone is cooking a ham. Housemates will potluck around that. The birthday man loves mashed potatoes, they will be my contribution. Certainly, we will fill the house with flowers. Robert with his dutch heritage loves his flowers.
Just last week, I showed Robert a picture of a great horned owl, I captured on camera. He loves it and wants a print. We looked through some of my photos from other potlucks, etc at the hotel. I’ve printed those as well and will add to the photo albums of past years at the hotel. Those will be his gifts.
It will be a simple, yet sweet celebration of an 83 year old Dutch man who continues to rise.