Day 1

Left at 7:30pm yesterday. Made 160 miles. Slept in truck stop in Belgrade, MT. Must remember to buy new east plugs today. Took 3 Benedryl last night, but will have to be more diligent about daily allergy pill and keeping tissue at arms reach. Stupid allergies and dry air and needy cats. It was also cold enough last night to need the heavy comfortor and for Dharma to sleep part way under the covers.

Sick in snowpocalypse

I opened the door to take this. It is very pretty, but very cold.

The danger of naming yesterday/today's storm a snow-pocalypse... is nature could take it as a challenge. Truly, there is only a foot of snow on the ground, but the temperature has been -9 for 24 hours straight. And I've been in bed sick. On Internet Black-Out Day.

The view out one of my bathroom windows. I was going to lie and say,
"look, the snow is above the windows!" but really, my shed it there, so, it's not THAT high.

Things I have learned about living in snow include the following:

1. No matter how crappy you feel, you should take out the trash. Because tomorrow, it might turn -9 degrees and drop a foot of snow. Then you will have to take out the trash AND shovel your way to the can.

I love the texture of the snow on the deck. It's fallen through or
possibly melted... And the tables I left out look like cakes.

2. The mailman really does still deliver the mail. It's so cold, I won't even open my door to reach out and get the mail, and he still delivered it. I don't think this is necessary.

I was trying to capture the dramatic sweep of snow as it mounded on the deck, then dipped toward the house.
It's very subtle though, as snow is all about preventing light and shadow from capturing it.
I like the detail on the railing!

2. People still go for walks when there is snow and it's -9. It's harder to shovel the sidewalks when they walk on it first. As much as I'd like to throw rocks at these people, it means, earlier shoveling is easier shoveling. But I'm sick, so I'm doing as little of my civic duty as possible today. (Luckily, at -9, it won't compact into ice quite as easily.)

3. If you have well-shoveled sidewalks (throughout the neighborhood), it is less work to walk to work than shovel. That is, if you live in Indiana. In Montana, the roads are not really plowed, so even if your neighbors all shoveled (including me, see #2), you will still have to climb the snow berms left by the plow (on the roads they plow) or the chaotic ones left by the cars (on most roads).

4. If you do decide to drive, be prepared for your vehicle to get stuck in deep rivets of sloppy snow at intersections. TG44WD. The normally limited parking will not be a problem, as everyone will have created spaces at the end of each row, since there is no way to see the painted lines. Of course, the rows of parking spaces do push into the road going past them, making the normally-wide-two-lane street into a claustrophobic one-lane thing, hugging the edge of the ditch.

I know it's hokey, but I love my oak tree-with-a-face. I think it is my standard image for how the weather is looking outside.

6. No one understands how cold it is when the numbers become negative. No one. You go outside, and you think, "Minus 9 feels kind of the same as 9." That's what it wants you to think. It is already killing you, but trying to convince you everything is OK.

My mom called yesterday. In my fever-riddled state, I just kept mumbling "Minus nine." My mom asks, "So are you running the heater, or are you conserving energy and just adding an extra blanket?" "MINUS NINE," I began screaming like a loon. Then I tried to compose myself and pointed out it would be difficult to walk around the house if I let it get that cold, and sit on the toilet, and flush the toilet when the pipes all froze, and then there are the cats. Ah, that's what happens in minus nine.

Minus nine is also great for figuring out which of your windows are good, high quality ones (most of them), and which suck (the ones the previous owner chose in the sunroom, which don't match the rest). There is a find lace of ice around the drafty parts.

This last picture is dumb, but I wanted to relate some stories. This shed (I assume from the previous owner... there were only two other owners, and this shed reeks of a younger owner's bad decisions) was not installed on a level foundation, so the doors don't properly close. At some point, it was on fire too, which made a 1' hole in the corner. Anyway, I stacked bricks in that corner, and set rocks against the door to keep it closed. It's hard to open and closed, but I kept finding it open. So I used rocks. It's been closed the last few times I looked at it. This morning, it was open. So the mystery of who/what opens it begins. I imagine there are five deer in there right now, huddled against the cold. I already blogged in the past about the bunnies that live in the original shed (to the right, above). I hope it's full of bunnies.

Ducks in my yard, lead to adventures

When I got my coffee this morning, I noticed this handsome couple sleeping in my front yard. Something about Billings seems to draw in the ducks. There are ducks everywhere, in couples, in bromances, in threesomes. Every now and then, a pair takes refuge in my yard. (You can see the lawn is getting green, yet there is still snow in the upper left!) I grabbed my SLR and went out to photograph them (this image was done with the phone; editing RAW files takes time!). Satisfied, I went back in, grabbed my bag, and headed to work.

When I got home, neither cat greeted me at the door, which was strange. Usually they do. After I put my bag down, Dharma (my little blue-gray cat) came out, blinking I had caught her by surprise. Delighted, I ran around the house trying to find where she had spent her day. Sure enough, there was a warm spot next to my pillow in bed. Awww.

I still didn't see Torah (my 18-lb. dark-gray and white cat), but he is less likely to jump up from a nap. I made myself a salad and went out to the front stoop to sit in the sun and eat it. The snow was mostly gone, and it had warmed up. My salad was awesome: red lettuce, grape tomatoes, and fresh mozzarella.

Another half-hour went by when I realized I still hadn't seen Torah. It was strange. So I started to look for him. In the closet? No (what a mess of shoes). In the cupboard? No (still more cupboards than things to put in cupboards). In the office? In the sunroom chair? In the basement? No. I was calling his name, calling "kitty kitty" and, in the basement, resorted to shaking the food box rigorously. Torah? Kitty kitty?!

As I gave up on the basement, and turned to go, I heard the tiniest noise, like a rustle. Not a Torah noise, but something. Was he in the litter box? No. I called him again. Then, the tiniest squeek of a "Meh" (which is what his voice sounds like. Despite his impressive size, his voice never grew larger than a runt kitten's). I looked around; no cat. Then I looked up at the basement window (which faces a shed, so has a textured applique). The blurry, dark silhouette could be nothing else than Torah, standing in the basement window well. I rushed outside, realizing he must have gotten out during my duck-photo-shoot, wondering if he was in a fight, or hurt, or covered in mud; amazed he wasn't dead in the street (indoor, declawed kitties have a bad rap for being vulnerable). Torah waited patiently in the basement well for me to get him, looking curious as I called him, occasionally inquiring "Meh?"

I gave him a pile of cat treats. Hopefully, he will remember them if he gets out again, and stay in the yard, like he did today. I considered looking for his warm spot, but decided not to imagine his adventures.

Sorting your style

Three years ago, I was offered a job at a small, Midwestern, rural college. I had been living in my dead grandmother's house for the same amount of time, finishing up and recovering from grad school. When this job offer arrived, I was faced with the universal but daunting task of sorting through my things from all stages of my life (the parents dumped what was left of my childhood in the driveway), as well as the things from several other peoples' lives (I did not dump my dad's abandoned things in his driveway*).

Riddled with the burden of strong attachments, five garage sales and countless boxes sent to the thrift shop or dump brought me to Indiana with 15' of a cargo truck worth of stuff. There were things missing in there, such as a dining table and chairs, a microwave, a washer/dryer, a guitar, an office chair (now I have two), and winter clothes and blankets. Oh, and of course an SUV and a travel trailer. What was in there was an odd assortment of furniture (contemporary, antique, traditional), more knick-knacks than I care to admit owning, boxes of art supplies and forgotten projects, and tubs of family memorabilia that sees the light of day once a year.

In Indiana, of course, it turns out there isn't a lot to do in a small town, and I have often passed time with my retail therapists, the local antique shops.

Last week, another life-altering job offer arrived in the mail, and I find myself opening and peering into boxes and onto shelves I haven't seen in a while. I'm noticing a few funny observations.

1. I still like the knick knacks. Damn.
2. When I moved to Indiana, I had meticulously packed and labeled things. When I got here, I had to change rentals twice. The second time, I didn't bother wrapped things, but threw them into labeled boxes, thinking they would be unpacked soon (there is a desk in my spair room covered in the contents of a box. I couldn't decide where they should go, so I left them on the desk. They are snuggled under dust now. Ick). Now, I'm carefully wrapping for cross-country travel, but not really labeling, as I plan to /unpack/ every box when I get there and put it all away!
3. I can't decide what "style" I am. This is bothering me. When I came out here, I'd lived in a small bungalow, not updated, and thought I was moving to old, big house paradise. Now I'm here, I see how many have fallen into termoil, their owners unable to keep up on the maintenance or recoup the money for a restoration. Suddenly, midcentury ranches look awesome. Even so, my possessions sit, pout even, in the 'eclectic' genre, and fight the tight lines of modernism.

So, I've decided to get rid of everything and start from scratch.

Everything except the boxes and books. Why do those knock knacks have such a hold of me!! At least I hide them in boxes and don't put them all out. /That/ would be crazy.

*I dropped some off, but not all. I'm very nostalgic and he is not. If there was something interesting, I held onto it, lest it be tossed.

Big Moves

Outside of a few details to iron out, the above image shows my future place of business.

Wednesday night- Livingston, MT

I spent the night in Billings, at a wonderful little Trailer park, and the next morning took a visit to the University campus. I almost got a job here once. It was fun to imagine working there. It was a lovely campus, and a lovely area.

I traveled to Livingston, just north of Yellowstone. I had hoped to spend the night in Yellowstone, but was delayed leaving Billings (drama replacing my empty LP tank. Don't ask. Just know, the aluminum, custom tanks are on my wishlist). I stopped around 6PM, mostly because I was bored of driving, and the cats were bored too. I found a little brewery and had Coconut Fried Shrimp with Blue chips, and locally brewed beer. Delicious. Well, heavier food than I am used to, so I felt over-full. The bar was furnished with locals, wondering how I had ended up there, and they bought me a second and third beer to hear my story and have me listen to theirs. They also said there would be no way I would find camping at Yellowstone this late in the day, which I later learned was true.

I learned they were hunters, fishers, truck drivers, construction workers. The bar-tender was also the local driver's license dispenser. They were complaining about the economy, complaining about ex-wives, complaining about the democratic president ("you're a teacher. You probably voted for him. Answer me this: knowing what you know now, would you vote for him again?"), complaining about how many people worked for the government and soon the country would be socialist.

I had a good time, but was generally disgusted with what I heard. Times are hard, I know. Over the bar were many posters about the ocean, and a tiny framed portrait of FDR. Weren't things worse during his time? Here I am driving through state and national parks put together and government funded during that time to try to ease the pain of the economic crash. FDR is still being criticized for these decisions, but I am thankful for my parks, roads, and dams. I said to the man at the bar, "The other candidate was insane (he agreed with me). You would rather have a crazy person running the country?" He retorted with some kind of racist rhetoric he probably heard at that same bar, denouncing the president's birth legitimacy. I wanted to say, "who you calling an immigrant, Pilgram?" I did point out that this country was built on and based in immigration and new ideas, and he should get over it; and he shouldn't repeat lies.

Despite all this conversation, we remained jovial, and I left with very mixed feelings.

Injun country

I just finished listening to Shalimar the Clown, as I rolled into the Crow Nation and the Battlefield of General Custer and Sitting Bull. Perhaps the novel put me in a dark mood about the whole thing. Perhaps it is also my nature to purposefully not visit battlefields and war sites, yet I drove here on the urging of a kind woman I bought homemade bar-b-que sauce from. As Shalimar concluded, i felt waves of shock and horror, and tears of injustice; it covered a number of social and political issues, and described in detail the methods of holocausts and ethnic cleansings in recent history. Maybe that is why when I looked at the battlefield, I saw a place where a people stood up, faught, and for a moment, won the battle against being cleansed from their homelands, from the face of the earth. And I was a little angry it didn't help them in the long run. I was angry that the site was not a celebration of their victory, but a mourning of the defeat of these troops, a memorial for this fallen general. I was confused. I suppose I was supposed to feel patriotic pride for those fallen men, but weren't the winners the Americans too? Wasn't the spirit that won the day that day (133rd anniversary next Thursday) the same that won our Revolution? Yet we do not celebrate them the same way.

As I sat in the McDonalds later, seeking my WiFi fix, I saw the people of the reservation, fattening their children in the American Way on French Fries. They are living on the reservation that Sitting Bull fought to be free of (a concentration camp? a relocation camp? a zoo?). And McDonalds moved in to feed the captive audience. Is that is American spirit?

Afterword:
I want to point out that the Americans had restraint when it came to the ethnic cleansing of the countryside. People are still alive and live to tell the tale. Their culture may be altered completely, to something unrecognizable from what it was. But perhaps culture is supposed to be fluid, adjusting with the times. It still feels too forced.

Battle of Little Bighorn, Montana

Alice Avion at Battlefield of Little Bighorn

"Nine dead soldiers and a seed cloud"
There is a "memorial" marker (look more like gravestones) that marks where a soldier had died. The battelfield was dedicated as a memorial in 1879, with various versions of mouments erected, culminating in these gravestones, and a big monument over a mass grave, installed in 1940.

"Bird on bird of Indian Memorial at Little Bighorn"
Native American memorial, installed in the 1997 by the National Park Services after much lobbying by native peoples.

Big Sky Country