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By Timothy Anderson Father Adam Patras ~ ~ ~ The dirt and rocks stretched as far as the eye could see. Very little still grew. The small seven year old girl, wearing a dirty white dress, climbed out of her toy wagon and immediately found her eyes filled with stinging sand. Bending down, she wiped her eyes as she attempted to untangle the dog that remained attached to the wagon. The dog wasn't playing anymore. Her “team” was on strike. Throwing the reigns down she muttered under her breath. “Fine then. You just be that way.” Besides, this was only practice for tomorrow. Tomorrow, her father would take his big draft horse teams, her horse, Babe, and the rest of their stock and together they'd drive them nearly a hundred miles to a place she'd never been. To a place that seemed mysterious and wonderful. To a place a world away from here. The girl looked around her small weathered home with detachment. Above her Montana's Big Sky loomed. Behind her, her mother's garden was decimated by drought. Ahead of her loomed tomorrow and someplace different. She didn't care where she was going. She didn't think about the place she was starting from. All she could understand was that tomorrow she would saddle up her horse. And that she was going to be riding with her father. For a week straight. ~ ~ ~ "Tim? Tim! Where are you? We were supposed to be on the road hours ago." Grandma wasn't happy. "Are you sure you want to leave so late?" I tried to sound cheerful. "Yeah, I'm sure. I'm sorry I got behind, but mom needed me to service her car. Then she decided today was her day to buy a cell phone…" "Excuses, excuses. Tim, you are always late!" She sighed. "And your mother taught you everything she knows about that subject. Neither of you have ever been on time a day in you life. I don't know where she got her sense of timing. It certainly wasn't from me. I think she learned it from your father. If that's the case, you never had a chance." "I know. Grandma, we're just plain hopeless. But it's a good kind of hopeless don't you think?" I didn't let her answer but changed the subject. "So are you excited? Do you have your bags ready?" "Well yes…so when are you going to be here?" She'd resigned herself that this was the way things were. "Right now. I'm talking to you on mom's new cell phone. Look out your window. Cool, huh?" "Timothy John Anderson, shame on you for putting your grandmother through this. I am 85 years old and I already am having second thoughts about doing this. You get up here right now and let's go before I change my mind!" "10-4!" Agnes Lopeman doesn't suffer fools easily. Even if that fool happens to be her grandson. The minute she opened the door, I kissed her before she could mutter one word. Rushing past her, I grabbed the bags and sped down the stairs to the waiting truck. Back up the stairs, I took her purse, then her hand, and one step at a time, we cautiously made our way down the stairs. "Did your mother HAVE to do all that stuff today?" "Grandma, you know mom…she is YOUR daughter…" I looked at grandma and we both busted a grin about the same time the answer to her question finished rolling off my tongue. "Guess I didn't need to ask." "Guess not." Setting Grandma's purse on the truck's floor, I bent down and waited. This was our routine. I knew the drill. First she would grab the handle on the door frame. Then one foot tentatively landed on the running boards. That was my cue. Placing both hands under her bum, I would lift as she pulled, boosting her high up into the shotgun seat. The first time I lifted her up into the truck this way, she turned and said, "Timbo, you grab me any higher down there and you'll have to marry me." I nearly dropped her in shock and then we both laughed so hard my mother threatened to permanently separate us. Today, I wasn't taking any chances. "Grandma don't make me laugh." I began lifting her into the truck. She turned, shooting me a look. She was all about getting to gettin' today. There was no time for funny business. Shutting the door behind her, I ran to my side of the truck. Hopping in, I reached over and latched her seat belt, turned the ignition and the diesel motor rumbled to life. I watched as she leaned forward and patted the dash. Her soft voice was barely audible over the noise from the engine. "Good old truck, you're gonna get us there in one piece, right?" And we were off. Eastbound on I-90, we crossed the Cascade Range. The blur of Douglas fir gave way to Lodgepole pine and then the last fingers of Ponderosa made our transition to the deserts of central Washington a given. The mountains faded in the distance and the canyons of the great Columbia River became our steadfast guardian. The sun shredded everything hot. The tan of freshly harvested wheat fields contrasted brilliantly against the deep blue sky. Billie sat alert and silent as a Chicane CD played songs about never giving up. Synthesized beats kept time marking our vehicle's motion as accumulated distance hi-fived our progress. Breaking the silence of tires, expansion joints and rhythm she looked at me. "What kind of music do you call this, Tim?" "They call it "trance," Grandma. What do you think? Do you like it?" She began pounding her fist on the dash in exaggerated motion and bobbing her head to the beat. She giggled, "It's the same thing over and over again. Are you sure this is music?" "Yeah Grandma, pretty sure. But even if it ain't music, I still like it. It's good for driving. When I'm tired, the beat picks me up and energizes me. Do you know how many times this sort of music has kept me alert in the middle of the night?" She didn't answer for a minute. "Tim, you should listen to my music. You can even understand the words to the songs. Gentlemen danced in those days, they weren't in a trance!" An image of her and my grandfather dancing across their harvest gold kitchen filled my mind. The two of them, fruitlessly trying to impress upon me that when people dance, they are not to imitate the demonically possessed. When people danced, they were supposed to touch. When people moved to music, their movements were elegant, proud, and full of virtue. I still hear her music in my mind. Songs made timeless by crooners like Andy Williams, the old Sinatra standards. Those great singers, usually accompanied by the showmanship of energetic big bands, ghost ride across the dash. I suppose Grandma Billie might be surprised to learn that I am also a fan of her era. She has no idea that some late nights, when I need to remember, I find myself listening to her music. Sentimentally dialing in to golden old timer's stations, I recollect my grandparents' dances across kitchen floors. Or my grandfather's near key renditions of his favorites. On some of those late night runs, I reflect on how their era had the corner on lyric, tune and sensibility. Especially when the long haul windshield becomes that looking glass. Leading me back to times where an AM kitchen radio and my grandfather tried to teach me the art of chivalry and respect for a woman. How to ask her to dance. How to hold her in dance. How to escort her when the dance is done. The how-to's of honor, circa World War Two. If I had it to do over again, I'd gladly turn off the MTV, and spin around that honey pined room with them, clapping at the end of each number. As we climbed out of the Columbia river gorge, the scent of freshly cut alfalfa and mint near George, Washington filled the truck. Interrupting my thoughts, Billie sighed deeply. "I just love that smell." Inhaling, she holds her breath, savoring the scent. "The smell of alfalfa will always remind me of Cutbank, Montana. When I was a girl and my family finally arrived in Cutbank after leaving Devon, I thought we'd found heaven. Those fields were so green and the water…oh Timbo, the water tasted so good. They had irrigation in Cutbank. They didn't have nothing in Devon. Nothing but dirt and cactus." Her stories begin to flow. I turn the music down. We have a different rhythm going now and it surpasses all things trance. Billie's voice reflects a soft, sing-song quality. Driving silently, I listen as she remembers “her” Montana. Small town names fill up the truck's cabin as we traverse Washington's wheat country, the Evergreen state's version of Big Sky. Billie speaks of places from her distant past. Sundance. Seville. Devon. Cutbank. Chester. Browning and Galeta. Some of these places, I recognize. Others spill out unfamiliar, my imagination left to fill in their details. Sundance sounds majestic. Devon sounds barren and desolate. Born on a dusty windblown homestead near the Sweetgrass hills, Agnes was the second of five children. Her Czechoslovakian parents spoke little English and their arrival in Montana was hardly seamless. Their union arranged in the old country prior to their immigration to North America, Billie's parents' marriage was a lifetime affair. The couple initially landed in Canada. Her oldest brother was born on the prairies of Saskatchewan. Later, immigrating to the US, the family settled in Devon, Montana after encountering a spat of "trouble" north of the border. In our family, "trouble" is a generational code word hinting of scandal or difficulty. Situations that seemed reasonable predicaments at the time, retold in present tense might not bear up under the same generous scrutiny. So they are labeled "trouble." Trouble could be anything; gambling, infidelity, or children out of wedlock. Trouble is code for don't ask any more questions. Trouble is code for it's time to change the subject. Trouble is a code for never mentioned, but always talked about. So, long story short, there was "trouble" north of the border. The family ended up in Montana prior to the droughts of the thirties. Struggling in a hard landscape where the common denominator of most of those early settlers was dirt, drought, and disaster. Hardship claimed lives, dreams, and ultimately hope. Billie lost siblings and others were born to replace them. The land forgave them nothing, and their determination was the only thing that sustained them. "Growing up, I didn't think we were poor. Everyone was poor then. No one had much of anything. I didn't even get my own coat until my brother brought one for me when he came back from the war. I didn't know any better though. You can't be missing what you don't know anything about." She paused in her recollections, her gray hair looking more silver than white. Late afternoon light licked her blue eyes. Full of youth, her expressions beamed. One story became the next, interrupted by the hesitations of dates, names, and historical order. "I can remember one time Pops came home from riding ditches or being down in Shelby and mom was out working the fields. He got all upset with her for working the horses too hard and there she was behind the team just as worn out as the horses were. You never seen so much dirt. Here she was plowing and working the fields while taking care of all these kids. I grew up with that. Always helping out. I could do anything the boys could. You had to back then." We pass a billboard featuring a denimed-up, country western diva complete with a milk mustache. I notice that the pretty woman on the billboard looks very uncomfortable in her western duds. Billie echoes my thoughts, worrying that the woman's blouse is so tight, “it's a wonder she can breathe.” "You know Tim, I never wanted to be a girl. I just didn't. That's how I got my nickname, "Billie". I didn't much like the name Agnes and when they started calling me "Billie" in school, I suppose I was proud of it. Like I'd earned the name. I enjoyed doing the same things the guys liked doing. Riding horses and being outside. Oh, I loved Montana!" For a moment she is quiet, as if the rushing memories are too much for her to verbalize. Then quietly, with a sadder tone she continues. "I still do. Even if the weather was awful. And in Montana, especially Devon, that was most of the time. Sometimes the blizzards would come in and we'd be riding our horses home from school totally blind. You couldn't see anything and you just prayed the horse knew where to go. Sometimes those storms were so bad we just stayed at school. For weeks…" Gazing through the windshield as if hypnotized by the passing scenery, her words come more slowly. By the look on her face, I wonder if she is anywhere near the present. Maybe that windshield has also become her Technicolor big screen. Maybe the scenery she presently sees is really seventy years old. In a heartbeat, entire chapters of her life fall in line. Her story, stark and brutal begins to fill in the gaps of a small Montana homestead legacy. As I listen, my imagination soars in wonder about a place I've never seen. A place she can barely remember. A place neither of us will ever forget. ~ ~ ~ For two years we've planned this trip. Two years of wondering if we would make it back to Montana, together. Health and finances, the distances and the traveling time, and the uncertainty of if our destination, kept the trip more of a dream than reality. Grandma, the strongest woman I've even known, became weak. Back problems, hip problems and finally vision problems seemed to threaten our trek. Yet one thing that never wavered was her sense of independence. And talk of going home. That was before August of 2001. Before she found herself facing a new future. Before I found myself standing by her side at the Washington Department of Licensing. Crashing head on, we collided with an unpleasant reality when, due to her deteriorating vision, Billie's driver's license was jeopardized. Bending down to take the eye test, she peered into a dead ringer for an old View-Master toy. Keeping watch next to her as she struggled to read the lines, I heard her whisper, "L….P…..Q……." Then silence. Looking up from the machine, confusion replaced her concentrated expression. Turning to face the impartial state employee, she whispered in a hesitant voice, "I can't read it…" Bending down again, she squinted, hoping against hope, by some magic, that her eyesight would not fail her now. She struggled. What of her weekly trip to the store, piloting her huge Oldsmobile Toronado? Would she suddenly have to rely on others to take her to the doctor, to the dentist, and to her weekly hair appointment? Fighting for her independence, self-determination, and dignity, Billie stood hunched over the eye test machine. The formerly sterile hush of the room became the screams of silence. Time froze as everyone behind us waited. Holding onto Billie, I felt her sway. She became smaller as I watched and her pride suddenly seemed so very fragile. In myself I sensed an overwhelming powerlessness as I knew that the woman bent over the machine was wondering if there was some way to reverse what was happening. Yet both of us knew that nothing could be done. Instead, the woman behind the counter confirmed our worst fears. "I am sorry Agnes, but we just can't renew your license. I'm sure you've been a good driver and that you still are a good driver, but your vision…" The woman looked at me helplessly as I took my grandmother's arm. She never finished her sentence. I wanted to do something, to reinforce Billie's independence. Yet there was nothing I could do. The cycle of life lays these truths out. The weak become strong. And then the strong become weak. No one in the room said anything as the clerk silently punched a hole in my grandmother's license. I felt the impatient eyes of everyone behind us, watching as the tiny piece of license from the hole fluttered silently to the floor. It felt like a piece of my grandmother remained behind us, waiting to be walked on. Waiting to be swept away. Waiting to be forgotten. ~ ~ ~ We spent our first night on the road at my ranch in the Pend Oreille country above Spokane. Sitting on a chair overlooking the river, my grandmother joined me. Watching the light fade and the evening grow crisp, we waited for the night. Down on the river the geese stirred, but aside from the waterfowl, everything was still. Across the river, the mountains became a deep shadow. The sky lit with stars. The geese quieted. Both of us were miles away. Yet together we sat in silence watching the world from the most peaceful vantage point. The next morning we loaded up for the next leg of our trip and pointed the truck toward western Montana. Billie was already into her second cup of coffee when I belted her up into her seat. Neither of us are morning people, and as I drove across the panhandle of Idaho, most of the conversation occurred in my mind. I recalled another trip with Billie, and a question that about knocked me over. Innocently poised, yet direct as hell. It came one morning after a rowdy party at the ranch. I was giving Billie a ride down to Spokane. The trip was mostly quiet. The spitting snow made driving treacherous and the roads were greasy. Her query, posed in the gentlest voice, came completely without warning. "Tim, can I ask you a personal question?" "Sure Grandma, what do you want to know?" "Were you having sex with all those men up at the ranch this weekend?" I damn near drove the truck off the road. I struggled for an answer. How do you talk about sex with your grandmother? "Grandma! No, I am not having sex with 'all' those guys." Was she really curious or was she teasing me? A serious expression remained on her face. "Did you think I was?" She looked away and shrugged. I tried putting myself in my grandmother's shoes. In her day, sexuality wasn't discussed and even a simple divorce could label you as an outcast. Women had their place. Gay people weren't even on the radar screen. Then suddenly it seemed homosexuals arrived as the biggest threat to the world since communism. I know this history, the official line that gay people are promiscuous. We have thousands of sexual partners. We get AIDS and die before we turn forty. We live perpetually in our adolescence. I knew the drill. The endless cowboyin', the one in every town bit. I'd even tasted some of it myself. Especially when I was younger. At 85, the woman sitting next to me was embracing change. Trying to understand it while trying to dislodge her prejudices. She is certainly one of the few women of her age who have been entertained on a regular basis by a tightly knit group of blue-collar gay men. Over the years cowboys have given her rides across the state and danced with her in her kitchen. Firemen have made her dinner and truckers have mowed her lawn. She's met so many "wonderful polite young men" she can't remember all their names. But sometimes, in the middle of the quiet, she will recall someone, ask if they are well, and if they are in love or out of love and will she see them again. Today's travels included lunch with one of Billie's favorites, a rugged ski jock named Beau. He met us in Whitefish in his beat up sport utility vehicle named Graceland. Beau is old school, leaning towards simpler times. Change is afoot and he isn't happy with the ski resort industry's new direction. Skiing is becoming big business and as resorts are bought and sold by major corporations. The bottom line becomes top priority. Like so many things about Montana, those who were here first resent the newcomers with their skewed priorities and witless understanding of the way things are. Rudely driven Land Rovers replace the cautious Jeeps negotiating the roads up to the ski hills. Beau isn't sure that Montana is still the place for him. But where else is there that's as good as Montana? I suspect this is the reason Beau and Billy gravitate so easily toward one another. While he's represented the US on some of the most prestigious ski slopes in the world, Beau never forgot where he came from and always returned to the Northwest. Upon their introduction two years prior, Billie told me that Beau had to be a good man if he made Montana his home. “Nothing bad ever comes out of Montana, Tim.” As we pulled out of Whitefish, I chuckled again thinking about that one awkward question. "Are you having sex with all those guys?" "What's so funny Tim?" I squeezed her hand. "Believe me grandma, you don't even want to know." "I think you're probably right, Mr. Anderson. You're a bad influence on me. It's been said there is no such thing as a bad day in Montana. As we drove across pine-framed prairies and past deep dark cedar forests, the land embraced us with tender affection. Mile by mile Billie became a younger woman as her head darted to and fro remembering different sites along the way. This was the highway to her youth. And as we drove, it was all coming back to her. We soon found ourselves skirting Glacier National Park. The sun sank lower in the horizon. Tagging the southern edge of the park, the high country was already ablaze with fall color. Yellow and orange aspen light up the ridge lines. Gaining elevation, we began to notice a deep chill in the air. "Oh, Tim. I know that cold. It feels like snow!" "Don't say that Grandma." Traveling deeper into the mountains, the weather changed. Remembering the heater controls, I rolled the windows up. Dark clouds leaped hopscotch across the jagged peaks. It is barely September, but soon light flurries blow across the highway. As we crossed the Great Divide and entered the Blackfoot Nation, the sun set behind us. Ahead, the mountains broke away, descending into the high plains. Vegetation becomes sparse. Behind us, the sky blazed with color. Parking along side the highway, we watched the cloud falls dipped in the brightest pinks and magentas. The moment was too perfect for words and I wondered if God presented such displays for everyone who journeyed this way. Billie wiped a few stray tears from her eyes and together we embraced our shared silence as we listened to heartbeat of the Front Range country. The winds blowing across the plains created the sounds marking the fading of the day. At the same time, the caress of the prairie breezes on our upturned faces was the gentlest kiss, welcoming us home. Returning to the warmth of the truck, we resumed our journey. With range cattle everywhere, and long ago schooled in the dangers of getting in trouble on the reservation, I cautiously avoided hitting any of the roaming livestock. Although US-2 is a national highway, the Blackfoot Nation is a nation within a nation and the Indian rule of law is the law. On the 'rez, just dare to hit an average Hereford calving cow. In a heartbeat, the ordinary genes of that cow become extremely rare. The dollar signs of just compensation defy justice. Soon, the lights of Browning, Montana appeared. Dipping in and out of coulees, we lost elevation and played hide and seek with the glow that marked this oasis on the plains. Eventually the city, nestled in a deep valley, spread out before us. From a distance, Browning could be Anywhere USA. From a distance the main drag, appears prosperous and brighter than the other surrounding streets. From a distance, the lights welcome and provide refuge against the desolation. From a distance, it's a typical small town Friday night as on the southern outskirts of town, giant floodlights illuminate the high school football game we listen to on the radio. From a distance this oasis is not a mirage. Only upon closer view does everything change. The football game lets out, and as we came to the first light, a mounted posse of six Native Americans rode down the center of the highway, just this side of higher than a kite. This was not a typical Friday night in typical small town America. This was Browning. The wild-eyed horses, prancing in the middle of the intersection, their nostrils flaring, could just as well be circa late eighteen hundreds. The Indian riders, one hand on the reins, the other extended into the air, could just as well be sporting Colt 45's. They could as easily be celebrating returning from some raid on newly arrived European settlers, their war cries and whoop-whoop-whoop-it-up dare more than just the celebration of high school football rivalry. Regardless, the riders reared up, daring anyone to challenge their rule of the main drag. In the darkness, all traffic came to a standstill as the riders hoist beers high into the air, their horses pivoting under the last working streetlight. In Browning, everything is surreal because it is too real to believe. We did not tarry. We did not linger. We sped through Browning. As the lights of that faux safe harbor faded behind us, my grandmother sighed through her exhaustion, "Well that place sure hasn't changed much." Overhead, the dark skies cleared. Even the smoky remains of the recently extinguished Glacier National Park wildfires that had burned for weeks seemed nothing more than a bad memory. Occasional headlights burned our eyes and ever on the lookout for drunk drivers, I marveled that this section of the highline highway had no shoulders. The 'rez, in all her history, remains a stark reminder that federal highway dollars can forget about some places, especially if that place is far enough away from Washington and far enough away from anyone who matters. Eventually, the smells of alfalfa and irrigated fields replace the mustiness of what we've left behind. As we rise onto a plateau, Billie straightens. "I think we're getting close to Cutbank. The air smells so sweet…" She inhales deeply, savoring the awakening of her senses. "I couldn't forget that smell if I wanted to. We're almost there, Tim. I can feel it." Sure enough, five miles later we dropped into a ravine and climbing up the other side, we found ourselves in Cutbank. Big enough to get noticed and then ignored, Cutbank is often home to the coldest place in the continental U.S. Cutbank is also home to some of Montana's most fluctuating fortunes; mainly those who live and die by oil, wheat, and cattle revenues. Cutbank is better than Browning, as the town's antsy high school kids will tell you while working from the wise vantage point of the Taco Johns Drive thru Window. But that ain't saying much. Billie and I drove through town and then backtracked to make sure that we hadn't blinked and missed something. Retracing the main drag, we found we hadn't. Spying a Super-8 motel, we took advantage of AARP discounts, a non-smoking room, and free cable. In the space of a single segment of CNN Headline News, both of us were sawing Z's, dreaming our own sweet dreams of Big Sky. Come morning light, we headed for the Cutbank Chamber of Commerce, where Billie and I grabbed handfuls of complimentary Montana travel brochures and accepted the complimentary granola bars given to us in the hope that we might put in a complimentary word for all things Cutbank on our return home. We looked at the maps. We looked at the brochures. We looked for the familiar names. The familiar places. We looked everywhere for places that should be there but weren't. Billie tried to remember, but couldn't. A vast emptiness marked where her history should be. The man behind the counter asked if he could be of assistance. Billie's face lightened. Her posture straightened. Unfortunately, the smiling man behind the counter could not remember any place west of town called Sundance. A place she remembered as being on the 'rez, about 15 miles out of town, up there, on the plateau. The man knew of a place called Seville, but it was long gone. Seville had been a rail station. Then years later, Seville became but a siding along the old Great Northern/Burlington Northern line. The man shrugged helplessly. Anymore he didn't know if even the siding remained. Certainly, there wasn't a one-room schoolhouse left there. He didn't remember any talk of warm, wonderfully lit late night summer dances, or children's horses hobbled out back. "How long have you been gone Mrs. Lopeman?" "Seventy years. More or less. I was a Loskot back then." "That's a long time to be gone." He wanted to help, but even though he was gray-haired and old enough to be retired, this was before his time. I felt my grandmother's disappointment. How could a place as wonderful as Sundance Montana must have been simply vanish? Getting into my truck, we turned around and drove west out of town, back onto the Blackfoot reservation and back the way we'd come the night before. Heading toward the sweet alfalfa fields, to a place where the Front Range shimmered in the distance. Heading to a place that they said no longer existed. A place that Billie had once known as home. Ten miles out of Cutbank, we turned off US-2. As we drove north, the roads turned to gravel. Billie was sadly silent as we crossed the old railroad tracks. Nothing looked familiar. At the point of turning back and nearing exasperation, I followed a dirt road that ran parallel to the tracks until it ended at a gravel lane. Tacked high on a post, a scrawled name pointed to a homestead that still appeared occupied. "GUITH." I knew the name. I'd known the name as long as I'd been alive. For generations our families had been connected. As we approached the homestead, Billie's face lightened. We were looking at one of the two Montana homes she'd been raised in. This was all that was left of Sundance. When we knocked on the door, a small frail woman appeared. When I introduced us and explained the purpose of our visit, she smiled and ushered us inside. "I'll get Cliff. I'll be right back." As we sat in their small kitchen Billie began to remember names and order fell among the chaotic fragments of her history. With in moments, we met Cliff Guith, a short round man who walked with a cane and a limp. Beaming as he entered the kitchen, he described himself as the youngest, the richest and the handsomest of the Guith boys. Immediately remembering Billie, Cliff familiarized his daughter and his wife Shirley with his childhood playmate. "C'mon, listen up.” He pointed to his daughter, a married woman out of Texas, “I will tell you some stuff. Most of which is true." After coffee and conversation, Cliff followed us outside. "This is my dog Damn It! Or Darn It when the grandkids are around". Cliff pointed toward an old golf cart. Hop in Billie. I'll give you a tour around." Following behind them, I marveled as Montana history poured fourth. Confirming that the house was once the home of Billie's parents, he pointed off to the southwest and marked where the old school house had been. "Nothings left of it now…well maybe the steps. But that's about it." He spoke about the living on the Blackfoot Nation as a white man. "It's like everywhere. There are some good people and some bad ones. Browning ain't no ordinary small town but this ain't no ordinary country either." Inside one of the outbuildings a painstakingly restored covered wagon caught our attention. Pulled by fine teams, the impressive wagon had awards in parade after parade. We ran our hands over the smoothly polished wood as my grandmother reminisced. We stood there a very long time, the light streaming in through the chinks in the falling down barn. And then it was time to go. As I helped Grandma into my truck, Cliff approached. Grinning wildly, he cackled, "Tim, I think there's been a mistake. Here in Montana it's our custom that when you visit someone up here on the highline, the host keeps the newer pickup truck." I looked over at Cliff's beat up truck and shook my head. He patted me on the shoulder and laughed. "Yep, you got Montana in you. No around here falls for that line either." We rolled east. Back through Cutbank, toward Shelby and the plains. To the Northwest an abrupt range rose breaking the sky. I looked at my grandmother, "What is that over there? She didn't know. She should have remembered. She was born at the southern flank of those hills. The Sweetgrass Hills. She did remember Devon. Galeta. The prairies. The wind. The dirt. As I drove and listened, her voice became like the land we passed through. Dry. Parched. Weathered. In August 1916, Billie was born at the headwaters of Willow creek within sight of the Sweetgrass Hills. Fifteen miles north of Devon, Montana, at the top of a slight coulee, the creek was sporadic at best and the home where she was born gave new meaning to an efficient floor plan. The family remained at her birthplace until she was seven. Many settlers discovered that attempting to tame this promising land was prone to tragedy. The railroad brochures heralded the highline as just this side of heaven but homesteading the plains was a journey closer to the edge of hell. The soil was transient, carried by winds that never brought much rain. The tall green prairie grasses were often elusive. Towns that sprang up at regular intervals along the Great Northern Railroad would be dead 25 years later. The majority of the farms spread out north and south of those whistle stops, would go under. But the land would carry their names for generations. The names stuck, even if the settlers didn't. The Loskot's family fortunes were no exception. At seven years of age, with one buried sibling remaining behind in Devon, Billie found herself driving the family's stock the 98 miles to the other side of Cutbank. They herded all they owned to the paradise we'd just left, a now forgotten pause named Sundance. At the time, the young girl figured the future had to be brighter than where they'd been. Sundance: A place where the waters flowed year round. A place where the mountains shown in the distance. A place that was no place like Devon. We drove through Shelby and I stopped to relieve myself in a pullout next to the fairgrounds on the eastern edge of town. Getting back into the truck, Billie started laughing. "Look at that, Timbo!" I read the sign to which she pointed. It stated, "Shelby thanks you for your contribution." The laughter was a Godsend. Billie's narrative reminded me of the saddest lonesome song. I couldn't comprehend the challenges of that era. A hundred mile ride at seven? Endless uncertainty and making do with nothing. I'd always felt the woman sitting beside me was larger than life. I just never knew what a giant she was until now. Arriving in Devon, we turned off of Highway 2. Parking next to the railroad tracks, I walked among the abandoned buildings. Weathered wood and empty storefronts hinted at big dreams. The grain elevators stood empty, casting shadows across the tracks. At the railroad grade crossing, four crosses stood side by side marking a horrible collision with a train. The wind whined among the still standing buildings and in spite of the late summer heat, I shivered reflexively. All those dreams carried away with the dust. Kidnapped by the wind and the elements of weather. Huge plans. Giant, crushing defeat. As bad as Devon was then, it was never like this. Riding north on gravel roads, we approached Willow Creek and Billie spoke of her own crashed dreams. In her teens the family left Montana for good. The prettiest of the two girls, she endured poverty and went on to cosmetology school, surviving wars both on the home front and abroad. Her first two marriages did not have happy endings. As a single mother, she raised my mother Cheri on grit and determination. Billie did what she could and when that wasn't enough, she did without. Eventually Cheri's talented horsemanship skills won her a title as Spokane Rodeo Princess. Billie finally found love when her third marriage took. But by that time Cheri was a young woman and she'd spent her youth as one of the first generations raised in modern single parent households. Long before the free wheeling sixties, and the sky rocketing divorce rates of the seventies, Billie knew all about men who fell behind on child support, the trials of single mothers, and wondering if there was anything redeemable about the opposite sex. It was an education Montana never prepared her for. But then again it did. The road became rougher and I pondered all this history. Billie couldn't look at me as she stared out over the country. In the fourth year of drought, everything was parched. I wondered if somewhere out there a oasis might appear in this deserted country. I wondered if my grandmother had ever found her oasis. Somewhere to wash off all the dirt. A place to get cleaned up and refreshed. I couldn't imagine facing the struggles of her life. The difficulty of meeting each challenge that came her way. People didn't divorce in those days. Single mothers received scorn and ridicule, no matter the circumstance save a war casualty. Women were to stay home in the kitchen. Forget about daycare. Most 'ladies' didn't drive and the careers available to single mothers were limited. It took courage for my grandmother to divorce her first husband for his unfaithfulness and the second for his alcoholism. And it took courage to marry her third. I saw no shame where she saw failure. I didn't see the dirt where she felt unclean. Yet, try leading another to their oasis. Try getting those who have been shamed, felt scorn, and struggled all their lives to drink of the rejuvenation of forgiveness, to acknowledge their accomplishments, and success stories. Ironically I think Billie offered more acceptance toward my being gay than she'd been willing to allow herself. People from her generation normally do not embrace sexuality differences. Yet when I truly needed her support, she'd been there. Even if it meant straining the relationship with her only daughter. "Tim, I think you should slow down." My grandmother interrupted my thoughts. "I think that was Willow Creek we just crossed." We looked out over the prairie as I slowed the truck. "I don't remember this at all. Where are the trees? And there isn't any water in the creek. I remember playing in that creek and the trees, they can't be all gone! I don't see our house, and I don't recall that ravine over there or those mountains. I can't imagine not remembering those mountains. How could I not remember, what did you call them Tim? The Sweetgrass Hills? But I know this is where it should be. This is Willow Creek. This has to be where I was born." I turned around and we drove slowly back and forth over a two-mile section of dusty dirt road. According to my map, this was exactly the place. Yet, it was windswept, desolate and not much else. "Tim, are you sure we took the right road?" "Yes Grandma, I'm sure." In the saddest voice, she said it almost to herself and I wouldn't have heard her had the wind not quit. "There's nothing left here. Nothing." ~ ~ ~ That night we were to stay at a cattle ranch up in the Sweetgrass Hills. I was to pick up a pin ball machine for Marty Demarest the NPR producer who'd first put me on the radio in Spokane. The Demarest family ranch was mere minutes from my own family's old homestead. Neither my grandmother nor I'd ever met our hosts, and in spite of all my years on the road, I was hesitant to show up on a complete stranger's doorstep. As we drove toward the ranch the elevation increased. Climbing up through grassy hills, crossing the saddles formed as one hill met another, I had a difficult time keeping my eyes on the road. This was one of the most peaceful places I'd ever been. The Sweetgrass Hills consist of three major buttes that skirt the border between Montana and Alberta, Canada. The three buttes are named West Butte, Middle Butte, and East Butte. The several thousand acre Demarest Ranch is poised between the Middle and East Buttes, near Whitlash Montana. As we cleared the last rise before dropping into Whitlash, Billie seemed to brighten. "This is sure pretty. I can't believe somewhere so nice was so close to our place all this time." I had to agree. East Butte was more like a peak than a butte. The top half was covered in tall dark forest, with lush green grasses forming a natural skirt around the lower foothills. Whitlash wasn't much. A series of houses, a steepled white church, and a post office. I wondered what growing up in such country might have been like. Everything was so pure and clean. The rest of the world seemed a lifetime away. The ranch stood nestled in a coulee with a couple of houses clustered together. Surrounding the houses, assorted barns and outbuildings reinforced a sense of security. Behind the barns a creek gurgled and the views in every direction were breathtaking. Getting out of the truck, I cut the engine and listened as the wind whispered through the Cottonwoods. An elderly man approached and immediately beat me to my grandmother's side to help her out of the truck. Chivalry was certainly not dead on the highline. Before I could blink the 90 year old man had Billie's arm and was leading her into his home. By the time I grabbed her bags and followed them into the house, they were already seated in his kitchen and talking as if they'd known each other for years. The rugged elderly man with the snow-white hair took such gentle care of my grandmother. I watched as an older generation reminded me of the manners and care long since vanished in our culture. Claudie and his son Doug ran the ranch. Claudie recently authored and published his autobiography, "Cardboard Ponies and Buckin' Broncs" about his experiences as a lifelong Montana cowboy. He still rode and helped out as he could on the ranch but many of the duties were transferred to his son Doug. Doug was off at an art auction in East Glacier on the Blackfoot Nation but would be back later that night. We told Claudie about our struggle to find my grandmother's homestead and the two of them spoke about histories that occurred long before my own time. As they conversed, additional names returned to her memory, old holdings with older family names and long ago abandoned homesteads. The Loskot name was unfamiliar to Claudie but their time in Devon was so brief, it wasn't surprising. Eight years when measured against ninety years of history is but a blink of an eye. Especially when you've covered as much ground as those two have. The next morning we met Doug Demarest. A handsome rancher with a gentle laugh and colorful speech, Doug asked if he could show us around after breakfast. We both eagerly agreed and in the space of a few hours we learned about his quarterhorse breeding program, the challenges of ranching, the current five year drought, and the difficulties of the modern world. Pulling out of the ranch, Doug drove us down toward Devon. Pointing out historical and sacred Native American spiritual sites, he explained the weather patterns, crop patterns, and traditions of the locals. He reminisced that Whitlash had always been the best place; that the yearly cattle branding brought everyone in the area together and that fresh baked pies had a habit of showing up on a regular basis unannounced. "You know, I don't think we know where the keys to the houses are. I don't think if we wanted to, between the two of us, we could lock the places up. Well actually we could…but only from the inside. And a lot of good that would do us." Doug acknowledged that the world is imperfect, especially this close to an international border. He was well aware of the influences the international boundary might attract. "I just leave the keys in the car. If someone come through here on the run, I want them to take newest car, the one with the most gas and the one that will get them the farthest. And I don't want them to wake me in the process.” Following the same roads my grandmother and I had traveled the previous day, we again attempted to find her birthplace. Near where Willow creek begins, Doug pulled over and parked his truck. Billie took his hand as we stepped out of the truck. Watching my grandmother against the hugeness of the plains, she looked very small and frail. Each step was tentative and careful. We walked the perimeter of a small bluff that faced east with sweeping views of the Sweetgrass Hills. "I still don't remember those mountains. I know they were there…but it's funny how you can remember some things from your childhood…and others just slip away." I remembered her mother, my great grandmother Anna Loskot. A strong willed woman, I imagined the kind of grit it took to homestead in such a hot unforgiving place. I couldn't picture how miserable it must have been in the winter. Did she ever just give up? Walking off toward her left, I came upon an old foundation near where Billie said she thought her place had been. Just across the road and slightly northwest of the old, still standing Guith homestead, I could see how we'd missed it the day before. Low-lying cactus rose around the edges of the weathered foundation. The size of that foundation sure wasn't much. I rummaged through some rusted metal and found an old bent Ford radiator, a collection of stones, and a small medicine bottle. Picking up the medicine bottle I held it to up into the sunlight. Where the light hit the oxidized parts, the slightest purple reflected back at me. Astrological symbols were imprinted on the glass, almost as if that small bottle still held a few late night dreams within its colored walls. I put the bottle in my pocket. Seconds later I spooked a huge buck standing in some tall creek grass. As he bounded off to the south, I watched the clouds of dust kicked up by his frantic retreat. Looking in all directions, my gaze seemed to find nothing but lonely yesterdays. I wondered how many families had lost their dreams up on those plains. Where had they rebuilt their lives? Did they ever look back to the places now reclaimed by the buck fleeing across the horizon? When we returned to the ranch, Claudie met us and as soon as Grandma opened her door he was there to assist. The two of them tentatively making their way into the house was the sweetest sight. In her absence, he'd been on the phone with local ranchers who contacted other ranchers. The names from the night before scattered like seeds were returning bearing fruit. Filling in the holes, Billie and Claudie patched additional gaps in their history. More questions were answered and some new ones raised up. Doug asked me to accompany him to check on the stock and I gladly rode with him. The moment was unforgettable. Petting some of his horses, I watched the sun slip behind Middle Butte as the sky became a blaze of color. When we returned to the ranch house in the twilight, Claudie was entertaining my grandmother with the tricks of his small dog. Bouncing a small rubber ball, the miniature dog would bark and scurry around as the two of them laughed. Doug looked at me and remarked, "That would never go over with my dog. His attention span is like a Bartlett pear…It doesn't last long." ~ ~ ~ Leaving Montana behind, I looked over at Billie as we rolled through the Clark Fork country. The sun set and behind us the mountains turned pink and then faded into gray. In the higher elevations, small remaining snowfields seemed to beckon like porch lights. I gazed at Billie as the scenery seemed to mesmerize her. Billie Lopeman is an extraordinary woman. I'd easily say she was heroic. While she might sometimes feel she hadn't tried hard enough, and maybe she was ashamed and embarrassed about the way some things turned out, I knew she'd done the best she could. And sometimes, she did better than that. No one has a crystal ball. No one leads perfect lives. Only God can see the future clearly and I suppose only God has any responsibility for its outcome. Many of the world's religions speak of judgment, the horrible reckoning at the end of our lives for everything a person has ever done. Judgment that occurs after it's all said and done. Judgment when it's too late to change a damn thing. In my mind, judgment doesn't seem to leave a lot of room for doing the best you could. Judgment is more for the perfect folk who never went sideways, got lost, or made a mistake. Billie was never perfect. She was never going to be. At times I wanted to relieve her of the guilt that she'd put herself through. I could see what she couldn't. I could forgive that which she wasn't able to. Acknowledging my bias I say she's the stuff of heroes just the same. She never quit. She never contributed to the mayhem around her. She just did the best she could. She told me once that one relationship can haunt you for the rest of your life. At the time, I didn't want to believe her. I know that you can't change the past. But as I've grown older, I see what she means. One relationship or misstep can alter the rest of your life. The heart is our most protected and fragile organ. Maybe over time the pain will lessen. Maybe the bite of the sting isn't so acute. Maybe some of the idealism and naiveté will return. Maybe. If we let it. We never get to edit our own history. I believe that life is like good barbecue chicken. If it's good, it's messy. It gets all over everything. It leaves ghastly stains, and best of all, it's a bitch to clean up. Yet in spite of the hassle, it's the most wonderful taste of heaven. As the shadows grew longer and the first headwaters of Lake Pend Oreille caught the fleeting reflections of dying thunderheads, I thought about my own life and doing the best you could. I've never had a crystal ball either. Some things that should have been obvious to me haven't been. Dancing through a few messy relationships and the resulting fallout, I have had to answer for those passion plays. No matter how we package our missteps, under scrutiny it always seems obvious that there must have been a better path. No one else can quite understand the pain and humility of bad decisions quite like the person whose made them. Trying to account for the unaccountable is a very messy mud bath. But I also have to wonder if quite a bit of the judgment we endure happens right here on earth. It's the self-inflicted kind. We passed through the small town of Hope, Idaho nestled on Lake Pend Oreille. Hope is such a beautiful word and the namesake of the town reflecting into such a mountainous and perfect place couldn't have been more accurate. Hope is the first cousin to serenity. Changing the things you can. Letting go of the things you can't. And holding on to doing the best you can. All done while hoping for a better day. ~ ~ ~ Billie is sitting in front of me. It's the beginning of January. A gray western Washington day has settled over us. Her snowy white hair is freshly permed and her vibrant blue eyes dance. Sitting together, we ponder our lives over simple foods and easy recollections. In a matter of months, she will be a great grandmother and I will be an uncle. We are both terrified that we got to be this old. Somehow time slipped by. How can it be that for 48 years I wasn't even a part of her life? On the other hand, she has always been front and center in mine. Looking at her I joke, "Grandma, how did you ever survive all those years without me? "I don't know, Timbo. I guess I didn't know what I was missing." Long silences bring pause to spurts of conversation. We eat, we watch the ships ply Puget Sound. We watch the jagged Olympic Range tag the cloud falls and we watch each other. She is a million miles away. Maybe retracing last summer's road trip to Montana. Maybe back in Spokane, front and center in those days of the big bands. Watching her, I see that faraway look. But are her thoughts really in the past? Maybe she is looking ahead. Maybe she is pondering her next hand in the card game of life. Maybe she is still waiting for God to deal her a royal flush. All I know is she is a long way from here. We eat our turkey sandwiches and feast on potato salad. We talk more about Montana. That tremendously amazing and the miraculously wonderful past. The brutality. The grace. That gift, that we somehow managed to share a September Montana together just before our world seemed to forever change in one horrific morning. A morning with a label. 9/11. After speaking about the holidays and the affect this year's Christmas story had on our family, she looks at me. Abruptly, her tone changes. "Have you heard anything from New York?" I look at her shrugging. "No Grandma, I haven't heard anything. There's been nothing from my agent in two months. 9/11 changed all that. I guess they aren't buying new books back there right now. I don't know about getting published. It might never happen. I am still a good truck driver though no matter what. Can you love an unpublished, best-selling author?" She nods. The question never needed to be asked. More silence. I tell her about a Kenworth I am looking at. That it is a brighter red color than Lil' Red Ride 'em Good was. That she has new rubber and fairly tall gears. More importantly, I felt good energy from her. I confess that I still don't know where fuel prices are heading. Or when and where shipping rates will finally bottom out. Getting another truck of my own is a scary dream. "Oh, Tim. Stay running local. You can't go back on the road long hauling again. That's no life." She is getting disgusted with me. "Haven't you had enough of that? You are too damn smart, too talented to drive a truck. You just have to get it out of your system." "It's not that easy Grandma. Besides I don't want to run coast to coast again. But I want my own rig again and I am sick of driving other people's shitty equipment and constantly dodging the law. I want the power to say no to the bullshit and not have to worry about losing my job over it." She changes the subject. We are back to the writing. "You think you are ever gonna get published?" She asks the question like she may already have her answer. Almost as if something else is on her mind. "Tim, I don't want you to get mad at me for what I am about to say. You know I love you. You know I think you are a good writer. But, I wonder if the reason you aren't successful is because of the gay thing. Why do you have to advertise it? Why does everything you write about have to do with being gay? Most people don't want to read about that. They don't want to know." Twelve years of Sunday School and seventeen years of "pride" and gay literature never prepared me for this. Her questions are not ones I can answer. She is my closest friend and we have lived through hell together. I know her story inside and out. She's lived through mine, inside and out. Where she came from. Where she went. Where she wanted to go. Where she ended up. We shared Her Story uncensored and raw. Billie was a single, divorced mother raising a child alone in a time where women didn't divorce. She knew what it was like to have an asterisk attached to her name. To face judgment over a runaway train she couldn't have controlled if she wanted to. She didn't want the same for me. She wanted me to have an easier road. One that wasn't dust covered, thirsty, and prone to blow downs and cloudburst, flash flood and white out, or worse depression and obliteration. But I want to share my story in my writing. To say I came this way. I observed. I went on. Advertising "it". The gay thing including this whole sexual orientation quicksand-her words hung there. I listened to them knowing that Billie Lopeman does not have a mean bone in her body. Sitting in her living room, listening to the clock tick and the silence, I'd be liar if I didn't wonder myself. Maybe I shouldn't be so open about “it.” Yet being gay is not just about sex. It isn't just about pride parades and gay bars. If it was, then ”it” wouldn't be worth mentioning. Being gay is about different radar screens and perceptions. The world is a better place because gay men and women are here adding our unique contributions. If you are honest, then “it” affects everything. A man's job, a man's friends, a man's dreams, his hopes and his nightmares. Including “it” or not including “it” is like that asterisk after your name that notes there is more to the story. More to the picture. But maybe, as my grandmother wondered, is that footnote always appropriate to disclose right then and there, on the spot? I have an asterisk after my name. Timothy Anderson, gay trucker. Gay Christian. Gay horseman. The gay part says I might not be suitable for children. Might not be suitable for adults. I can still hear my father. "You want the broadest possible audience Tim. Why limit your marketability?" Those who love me can't help but worry. Their concerns are genuine. They worry about my story. They worry that being openly gay is about limitations. That “it” limits who I am. That “it” limits what I can say and who will listen. The timing of disclosure is what separates statesmen from the fools. I have seen enough to see that I haven't seen enough. No asterisk. No advertisement. Mine is just a small simple story. Part raw and totally real. A story about grabbing gears, hitting the brakes, with a few wrecks thrown in here and there. My misfortunes told like everyone else's misfortune. Like my grandmother's misfortunes. Like my father's misfortunes. I finally answer. "Grandma, if I didn't write about it all, it wouldn't be the whole story. It wouldn't be real. The good part of any story isn't the same ol' same ol'. It's the unpolished honesty. The places you've been that maybe someone else hasn't. Or maybe its reminding them that they've been there too. Even if it might seem embarrassing or personal that's what people connect with. I'm not the first gay trucker. I won't be the last. But I been fortunate to meet some wonderful people along the way and see some tremendous scenery. Just like you have. And no matter how you package it up, we've all got something to say. We all have something to share." And in the end, it's all tremendously wonderful. © 2002 Timothy Anderson ~ ~ ~ Editor's Note: Claudie Demarest's illustrated book "Cardboard Ponies to Buckin' Broncs" is available through mail order. The book relates Claudie's experiences in Liberty County Montana from his childhood through the depression years, the forties, and on to the present. A great deal of Claudie's life was spent on a horse and he treats readers to a taste of the way life was. Written by a Montana Cowboy who participated in the final taming of the West, Claudie's book is available by sending a check or money order for $16.00 plus $3.00 shipping and handling to: Claudie Demarest Box 7 Whitlash, Montana 59545 |
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