A Horse Is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course

A Horse Is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course

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My daughter Dee Dee sent me pictures of my granddaughter Toni , now seven years old, with her new horse, Jill. Toni’s grandfather thinks Jill is still his horse. From the evidence of the photograph, a girl and her horse, cheek to cheek, eyes closed in blissful rapture, this horse belongs to Toni, no question.

Back in October my daughter and her family moved “home” to Montana. Dee Dee had lived in Washington several years. Toni was born in Japan and the family ended up back in Washington, stationed for discharge. For my son-in-law Christopher, home had been Florida and aboard Navy ships, so Montana is a fresh new experience for him.

The family now lives near Glendive, on Grandpa’s ranch, in an old farmhouse across the way. Toni slams out the back door, races over to Grandpa’s house, pulls him out to the corral to saddle up Jill and go riding, a lead rope between them. The picture I like best shows Jill and Toni, nose to nose, gazing with complete adoration into one another’s eyes. Both creatures smile.

Grandpa figures he should buy Toni a pony. Dee Dee laughs. Six hours distance away, I laugh too. At seven, Toni is already too tall for a Shetland. Dee Dee and I both know that Grandpa is remembering Pony, a retired circus horse we bought when Dee Dee was two years old. Pony was one belligerent, ornery cuss of a Shetland. Before he’d let Dee Dee ride, Dad would climb on the saddled pony, his feet dragging on the ground, to “buck him out”. This became ritual for a while, especially in early spring, when after an idle winter, Pony had plenty of pent up snort and energy. Every time Dad straddled the saddle, Pony bucked his unwanted rider onto the hard rocky ground.

Then two-year old Dee Dee, little girl that she was, would walk up to Pony, pick up the dangling reins, hand-over-hand herself up into the saddle and ride all around the barn yard. Dee Dee lived and breathed horse. She crawled over, under, around and between Pony’s legs, braided ribbons into his tail, fed him watermelon and bubblegum. We adults could not get close enough to throw a loop on that stunted black and white devil-horse.

When we needed to bring Pony in from the pasture, it turned into a most pitiful sight. We’d drive out into the field and stop at a distance. We could see Pony, already aware of us, squaring off, spraddled legs ready to spring away. We’d give Dee Dee, now about four, a bucket of oats and a halter and set her off to catch her horse while we hid out, crouched behind the pickup. Pretty soon, here she’d come, little boots crunching through the short grass, Pony following on the lead.

I’m delighted Toni gets to ride. I’m extra delighted Toni has her own horse. At seven, all I wanted was a horse. All I got was want.

I didn’t get to ride until I was married. Even then I never had a horse of my own. I learned to ride on my husband’s rope horse. I could not have had a better teacher. Sputnik was soft-mouthed and gaited, traits I was too ignorant to appreciate until much later. Sputnik was smarter than I by a long shot. He loved to work cattle. All I had to do was hang on, hold a loose rein, pay attention and follow his movements with my legs. Even if we’d been working horseback all day, often in the evenings, my husband and I would saddle up again. We’d head out along Deer Creek, ride through the coulees and across the pastures. I loved every minute.

The thing I miss most about ranch life is having a horse. Sure, I suppose I could figure out a way to ride now and then. But it would not be riding with a purpose, working cattle. Not to mention, it’s been how many years since I was horseback and I’m stove up to boot. I’d need a stepladder to mount. These years later, while maybe an old plug would be the smart thing for me, it would not do. Sputnik spoiled me.

I love to picture Toni racing Jill across the open fields. She’ll smell the mingled sage brush and sweat of her horse, feel the warmth of bunched muscles beneath her seat. She already has the heart for the life. She and Jill share a bond, a trust that cannot be taught. In Grandpa, she has a trainer who will teach her most of what she needs to be a good rider. Jill will teach Toni the rest.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February 28, 2013
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My Homecoming

My Homecoming
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Mom decided to take off for the balmy warmth of Mexico and left my brother and I to fill in for her. There is no way I can fill her creative shoes, but I’ll give it a try.

This summer I came back to Montana for the first time since I graduated from college. Oh, I’ve been back for visits, but flying in and out is just not the same as driving. Driving makes the experience more solid for some reason.

I loaded the typical mom van with husband, 2 daughters (18 and 5), luggage for 2 months (after all we would be gone 2 weeks) , toys, games, movies to entertain, snacks to feed an army, and 3 dogs. Picture one of the dogs being a petite English Mastiff. Yep, we were loaded to the gills for this adventure.

As soon as we got out of Seattle snarling traffic and crossed Snoqualmie Pass it was a heavenly drive. I never really notice how wound up tight I am until I get out of the traffic in this region and get back to normal drivers. I love when you meet in the middle of a lonely stretch and both drivers give a friendly finger lift of acknowledgement. They do that in Seattle also, just with a different finger.

After seeing 17 deer on the sides of the road and a semi grill, I decided St. Regis was a grand spot for our first night. We camped in a cabin built at the turn of the last century with a spent rifle casing in the yard. Enough said.

The next day began bright and early and we hit the road. After living in Seattle for 4 years, it is amazing how fast one gets acclimated to 45-68 degree temps year round. 104 when we hit Glendive was a little bit of a shocker. It’s a dry heat I told the kids. Somehow, I had forgotten about all the bugs. Dogs and kids had a great time chasing all the grasshoppers.

After the sun started to head to bed, my youngest couldn’t contain herself any longer and had grandpa out saddling his newest horse, which became hers. For the week in Glendive, daily rides were a must. She even rode the second day, right after breaking her arm at the family picnic. Glendive has a beautiful hospital, full of very nice people.

It was sad leaving family and friends in Glendive, but we headed to Harlem for the next leg of the journey. The road was mostly empty, with occasional semis until we hit Highway 2, then we saw a vehicle every half hour or so. My favorite part of this journey was seeing the billboard for Ft. Belknap Casino stating “It’s more fun than feeding the cows”. I took a picture and sent it to my friends at Tulalip Tribes where I work. They have a huge casino and I asked whether they thought this might be a new advertising trend.

We arrived at Grandma’s and took over. Her cats, formerly ours, hit the old shed and didn’t come out until we went to bed every night. The mosquitos all welcomed us and feasted at every opportune moment.

I have so many memories from Harlem and Hays. I couldn’t believe how many changes there were, and how much was the same. I took the kids on several drives and I would tell stories as we went about my different memories. I had always talked about the tree where I used to go to smoke cigarettes because I figured the leaves hid the smoke when I was 9. I was sad to see it had been cut down and is now just a stump. I wondered where the young went to be sneaky now.

All these memories got me really thinking about what I want to do with the next 20 years of my work life. I am a mental health therapist and was planning on finishing my doctorate in the hopes of getting that “I can conquer the world” feeling back. After sitting around the campfire with a friend I had graduated with, she said she had the same reason for getting her doctorate, and it didn’t work. I thought of what I really had always wanted to do, and it was law school. I stayed up all that night thinking of how I would love that.

I drove through the rest of Montana, Browning, to Idaho, and back to Washington in a fervor of excitement. As soon as I got back I jumped online and signed up to take the Law School Aptitude Test. I believe 50 is not too old to start my new career.

I’m not going to law school to work in a big law firm or make millions, I want to move home. I feel the need to move home and let our youngest grow up in a place with strong community values. I want to wave at neighbors and bake when someone is sick. I grew up with that. My children have been all over the U.S. and Japan as a military family. They know what’s out there in the world, but they don’t know what it’s like to have roots. Now that my husband is out of the military, it is time to get back to my roots. I’m ready to come home. So watch out Montana, the Robart’s are headed back home.

Dee Dee Robart (Rattey) for Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 26, 2012
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Our Retractable Umbilical Cords

Our Retractable Umbilical Cords

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Arlene, Leanna, Sharon and I sat around the table in Arlene’s kitchen in Watson , Saskatchewan , drinking tea and wine and comparing our lives. I grew up in eastern Montana , the others in eastern Saskatchewan . We are all women of the Prairies. We all left home vowing never to return. We each opted for a complete cultural change and each landed in a Big City . We made our lives, were happy, and now, here we are, back home again.



Sharon was the first one of us to respond to the subtle but definite pull back to our roots. Ten years ago, she and her husband Ron were on their way from Vancouver to Newfoundland to seek adventure on the opposite coast and to look over a restaurant which sounded promising. They stopped in Watson to visit Sharon ’s family. Sharon ’s mother Sophie was beginning to need extensive care. And the little café at the intersection of the two highways just happened to be for sale. Figuring one’s fortune was where one found it, within days Ron closed the deal on the café and began work to expand and rebuild. Over the years, on their rare days off from the restaurant, the couple began making Sophie’s house into their own home.



Because Sharon and I are close, you could say we are sisters of the chosen variety. Arlene asked, “How do you two know one another?” We laughed and our answers tumbled out. “We are buddies.” “Yes, we met in 1992 at a workshop on Mount Shasta where we were paired up.” “As buddies, we were responsible for one another, had to know where the other one was at all times.” “And since part of the experience was in the wilderness, this was important.” “We discovered we have common interests plus shared geography.” “And you oughta hear our coming of age stories.” “And we were the only two at Shasta who grew up in isolated country. It’s a bond of understanding.”



During the time I lived in Seattle and she in Vancouver , we continued our friendship, visiting three or four times a year. “Once Sharon moved back to the Prairies, our visits were infrequent. So the first person I called to announce my return to Montana was my buddy Sharon.” “Doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “I’ve been expecting this.” “Now we try to get together several times a year.”



Arlene, Sharon ’s cousin, returned to settle in Watson following several life changes, which included the deaths of her parents and a brother. Leanna is Sharon ’s hometown friend whose Mom had died only two months previously. That week she was stacking up piles and making keep-sell-toss decisions over her mother’s lifetime collections which filled every shelf, closet, wall, room, nook and cranny in the house. If Leanna finishes sorting, dispensing, and disposing in her own lifetime, we will all be surprised. The stuff could fill the Museum of Kitsch .



What brought us back? How did we each land in our parents’ houses? Never once did one of us say, “Gosh, I would love to live in my hometown in my parent’s home.” Sharon and I even paid good money for these houses which we did not want. Bit by bit, room by room, we have turned these old-fashioned but well-built houses into homes that fit us. Now Arlene and Leanna are beginning the process that Sharon and I have nearly completed: pitching, patching and painting. We all had sworn that we would never return. Yet, here we are, living fully and happily.



Each of us had a theory to explain what drew us back: family duties, a personal need to start over, a quest to rediscover familiar values, love for the land, insanity (?). As we sat around the table, we developed the answer to our questions. We are born with an invisible but retractable umbilical cord. It stretches to allow us every experience we choose. Then at a certain time, un-definable, it reaches its limit and begins retracting, pulling us hand over hand back to our beginnings.



Will we stay put forever? Are we stuck here? Who knows? The answer will be different for each of us. Maybe the umbilical cord will stretch again. But we’ll never go far away in spirit. The distance back will never be as long.



Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 21, 2010
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The Lumberyard

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The Lumberyard

I moved home to Harlem and into my Dad’s house and stacked boxes to the ceiling in every room. The previous year I had made the decision to return to Harlem, hoping to spend more time with my Dad, but he passed away before I could make the move. In Washington I lived in an artist’s Pacific Northwest Style home. I moved back to Harlem to a well-built house which, to my eyes, had all the charm and style of a 1950’s double-wide. I had a vision of how I wanted the house to look.

“The house has good bones,” I said to my friend Kathy, from British Columbia, who helped me drive a truck-load of boxes and furniture. “It just needs a little cosmetic work to give it my personal touch.” I was thinking just some paint and some flooring. But you know how when you rip into a project--one thing leads to another. Kathy and I could do a lot of the work ourselves and we did. But we soon hit the place where we needed help.

The previous summer, as I was heading out of town and back across the mountains, I had seen a trailer with “Lawn Services” and a phone number hand painted on the side boards. I jotted down the number, and called once I arrived back in Washington, and hired Billy, sight unseen, to mow the lawn and keep the rag-weed down. So when I reached the place of needing help for some of the heavier work, I called Billy. “We need somebody to help with some simple remodeling,” I said.

There was a brief silence as Billy, on the other end of the phone, contemplated my use of the phrase ‘simple remodeling’. “Well, I do some of that,” he said. Thus began a long-term business arrangement which has turned into a friendship.

One day I said, “Oh, Billy. We need a double-hex dooley dunker. Shoot, I guess I’ll have to go to Havre to get it and that’s gonna take half a day. Dang. I hate stopping in the middle of a project.”

Billy replied, “Go to Charlie’s”

Now I knew the Lumberyard sat out there along Main Street at the edge of town, ringed by stacks of lumber and pallets of building materials. I had even gone in occasionally to buy bolts and screws and odd pieces of board. But I was used to shopping at the big box hardware stores, each an acre or more in size, with parking lots that take up a half-section of prime farm land, all within minutes of my house. When I was in Washington, I shopped for things I knew I would need for my Montana home and at bargain prices, I thought, and trucked them over the mountains on each trip. Foolish woman.

So I drove down to the Lumberyard, fearing this would be a waste of time. To my surprise, Charlie poked around on the shelves somewhere in back, and sure enough, held up just the right double-hex dooly dunker.

Remodeling took two years. Every time I went back to Charlie’s, the same thing happened. I finally realized that whatever I needed, even the jiggily-whumpus-serrated-end gouger, was somewhere in the bowels of the local store—the back room, the loft, outside, behind the seasonal display, bottom shelf, top shelf, somewhere--and at a price no higher than the super-sale-super-store and frequently less costly. Today I never bother to check anywhere else.

One day Billy said to me, “Your electric meter is falling off the side of your house and I’m not going to fix it. You need an electrician who can have the power shut off at the pole.”

Sighing, I headed for the Yellow Pages. I had already knew that this would be an exercise in futility. In this country everyone knows everyone else within a 200 mile radius, so why bother to advertise in the Directory. For a city person used to finding everything through the Yellow Pages, this was frustrating.

So, “Who do you recommend, Billy?”

“Call Charlie.”

This is how I discovered the Lumberyard is also an information clearinghouse. If Charlie didn’t know who to recommend, the guy standing at the counter waiting for his 1600 pounds of baling supplies to be loaded onto his truck, probably would know. And if he didn’t, he would ask someone else, until the problem was solved. Now, when I am stumped for an item or a person to fix it for me, I know what to do. I call the Lumberyard, right here my home town.

I might not find 32 brand names and styles of double-hex dooley dunkers, but I will no doubt find the tool to do the job, or somebody who knows how to make me one, and will meet the neighbors, catch up on the news and hear a funny story. Now try to find that in the big box super store.

Sondra Ashton
January 25, 2009
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