Small town people running small towns—with help from the LGC
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The highway from Harlem to Billings at four o’clock in the morning is an empty stretch of road. Mayor Bill drove the Yukon . Council Member Sondra rode shotgun. The mayor and I were headed to the annual Municipal Elected Officials Workshop. Bill’s handsome young grandson Brandon, resplendent in Navy whites, slept upright in the back seat. Bill and I talked quietly. We noted the greening beauty of the countryside, the play of shadow as the sun rose, the abundance of wildlife.
We arrived at the Billings airport, our first stop, too early for Brandon to check in for his flight to Norfolk , so we went upstairs to the restaurant. After a leisurely though hearty breakfast, we lingered over coffee. Once we had seen the young man safely on his way, Bill and I drove to the Heights for a short visit with my sister, a visit I thoroughly enjoyed, more so since I had not seen her for a couple of years. Judy, who owns her own shop, cut my hair. We caught up on family gossip and hugs.
The workshop we were attending was provided by the Local Government Center , an educational outreach extension of Montana State University . In conjunction with the Montana Municipal Interlocal Authority and the Clerks Institute, it offers trainings, technical assistance and research for elected officials of Montana cities and towns. There were sessions for mayors and council members, city attorneys and clerks from all over the state. Once we checked into our rooms we immersed ourselves in trainings from Wednesday through Friday. City clerks and treasurers had arrived early for a full week of day and night sessions. Sometimes we met jointly; other workshops were specific to each group.
Lectures, simulated incidents, table-top exercises, group discussions, Q&A sessions—all were valuable. Emergency management, jurisdictions, the declaration process, how to request assistance—all good stuff! Issues that require public participation and deliberation, tips on researching an issue, and ways to advocate to decision makers so that public policy may be developed or changed—this was exciting! Wetlands, flood mitigation, maximizing benefits of wetlands, improving water quality—how timely. Managing conflict constructively—gathering tools and skills to effectively manage potentially contentious interpersonal and community conversations—all provocative topics.
The whole workshop experience definitely increased my ability to be effective in my role as a council person. But the best part, to me, was interacting with other elected officials from around Montana . Some were friends from previous workshops; others I met for the first time. We shared our stories. We asked multitudes of questions, to one another and to the workshop leaders. We indulged in stimulating dialogue as each workshop topic brought new challenges.
We found that most of us know the same frustrations and rewards of living in small communities. When we don’t take the opportunity to share our experiences, strengths, hopes, failures and frustrations with one another, we often get to feeling like we are pushing a heavy boulder uphill by ourselves. At least that is how I felt when I arrived at the workshop.
This was beautifully summed up by a workshop leader, “Most small towns are run by STP.” “What does that acronym stand for?” we asked. “Same Ten People”. The room exploded with laughter. And I felt at home. I learned that I am not alone.
Our jobs would be extremely difficult without the help of the Local Government Center and the trainings and workshops they hold throughout the state. Being a municipal official is a lot like getting married or like parenting. We sign up for it without a clue, without a training manual, without a step-by-step book of instructions. LGC fills the gap.
LGC means a lot to me and to my home town. Any one of us in city government can pick up the phone and dial for help. LGC personnel are always ready to answer questions, give us information, help with research, steer us in the right direction, and keep us out of jail. The Legislature, in their dubious wisdom, failed to fund the LGC this session. Instead they gave a no-strings chunk of money to the University system and suggested LGC request funding from them. I hope the University Regents listen.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 19, 2011
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Monday, May 23, 2011
Hog Fat, Red Devil Lye, and Memories
Hog Fat, Red Devil Lye, and Memories
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Last Tuesday my friend Rebecca Hofer invited me to the North Harlem Colony to watch them make laundry soap. Becky and Judy were teaching their daughters Melanie and Emberly, passing on the tradition. When I arrived, a batch was bubbling in the huge propane-fired, rectangular steel cauldron. The smells of the lye, the fat and the soap flooded my mind with memories.
Every fall when the weather turned cold, back when I was a kid, we butchered a hog. With a neighbor’s help, my Dad hoisted the hog by its hind legs over a wash tub to drain the blood for sausage. Then they lowered the hog into a kettle of scalding water. The men scraped the hair from the hide and peeled the hide from the carcass. They scooped huge curls of fat from the meat, scraped the hide clean, trimmed excess fat from the chops and roasts and threw the scraps into buckets. Dad removed the hams and sides for bacon and set them aside to sugar cure to his own recipe.
I watched the whole process in silence. I knew better than to get underfoot. The men never shooed me away.
In a Dickensian way, it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. I didn’t have a mother. I was raised by a grandma who didn’t believe in coddling children. She cooked meals and cleaned and did laundry, but very early I figured out her main job was to teach me all she thought a woman needed to know.
When the men were finished, it was our turn to take over. Grandma and I cut up the rest of the meat. We canned chops and chunks of pork in large Mason jars with a pressure cooker. Grandma put the fear into me with gruesome stories about pressure cookers blowing up, maiming and killing women, some whom she knew, careless women who didn’t maintain a clean seal on the cooker. We made sausage and head cheese and pickled pigs feet. We filled the big black kettle with the best cuts of the hog fat and, over a low, slow fire out in the back yard, rendered the fat into lard. We munched a handful of the cracklings but tossed the rest of them, along with the remainder of the fat, back into the buckets to save for making soap. We poured the lard into containers and stored them in the cool underground cellar. We worked rapidly. The pork had to be processed quickly, so as not to spoil. The only part of the pig we didn’t eat was the part we made into soap.
Soap making for the North Harlem Colony requires the labor of two families and takes two days. Out of ten gigantic batches, I have no idea how many pounds of soap they made. To make just one batch, the men filled the vat with a mixture of about thirty pounds of lye, water up to here, and forty gallons of lard and cracklings. While the men brought the mixture to a slow boil, Melanie and Emberly stirred it, keeping it moving. Once the mixture had bubbled and boiled and the soap separated from the lye water, the girls scooped it into buckets. Darius and David and Douglas carried the buckets of liquid soap and poured it into huge steel trays. Once the soap cooled, the men cut it into chunks and placed the bars in mesh bags which they then hung in a storage room to cure for two to three years. The whole time I was there, Becky and Judy never sat down, cleaning up after one batch, preparing for the next.
I remember soap making in my childhood. I remember the red and white can of Red Devil lye with the skull and crossbones poison symbol. I remember stirring those same bubbling ingredients of fat, lye and water in the black kettle over the fire, the same kettle Grandma and I had used for rendering the lard. I remember pouring the soap into baking pans and cutting the cooled soap into bars. I remember grating the soap into flakes for laundry. I remember using the bars of our lye soap to scrub floors and to take baths and wash my hair.
I grew up hearing that lye soap would cure itchy skin, poison ivy and oak, chigger bites, athlete’s foot, dandruff, acne, mites, eczema, bed bugs, head lice, and mosquito bites. It also works to clean cement. Some people use it as catfish bait. I know from my Grandma it cures a sassy mouth.
Next year I’ll go back out to the Colony when they make soap. This time I’ll pitch right in to help. I’ll take my rubber boots, a rubber apron and heavy rubber gloves and a scarf to keep my hair out of my face. I have no desire to make my own lye soap. But I might bring home a bar to see if it still works on mosquito bites.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 12, 2011
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Last Tuesday my friend Rebecca Hofer invited me to the North Harlem Colony to watch them make laundry soap. Becky and Judy were teaching their daughters Melanie and Emberly, passing on the tradition. When I arrived, a batch was bubbling in the huge propane-fired, rectangular steel cauldron. The smells of the lye, the fat and the soap flooded my mind with memories.
Every fall when the weather turned cold, back when I was a kid, we butchered a hog. With a neighbor’s help, my Dad hoisted the hog by its hind legs over a wash tub to drain the blood for sausage. Then they lowered the hog into a kettle of scalding water. The men scraped the hair from the hide and peeled the hide from the carcass. They scooped huge curls of fat from the meat, scraped the hide clean, trimmed excess fat from the chops and roasts and threw the scraps into buckets. Dad removed the hams and sides for bacon and set them aside to sugar cure to his own recipe.
I watched the whole process in silence. I knew better than to get underfoot. The men never shooed me away.
In a Dickensian way, it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. I didn’t have a mother. I was raised by a grandma who didn’t believe in coddling children. She cooked meals and cleaned and did laundry, but very early I figured out her main job was to teach me all she thought a woman needed to know.
When the men were finished, it was our turn to take over. Grandma and I cut up the rest of the meat. We canned chops and chunks of pork in large Mason jars with a pressure cooker. Grandma put the fear into me with gruesome stories about pressure cookers blowing up, maiming and killing women, some whom she knew, careless women who didn’t maintain a clean seal on the cooker. We made sausage and head cheese and pickled pigs feet. We filled the big black kettle with the best cuts of the hog fat and, over a low, slow fire out in the back yard, rendered the fat into lard. We munched a handful of the cracklings but tossed the rest of them, along with the remainder of the fat, back into the buckets to save for making soap. We poured the lard into containers and stored them in the cool underground cellar. We worked rapidly. The pork had to be processed quickly, so as not to spoil. The only part of the pig we didn’t eat was the part we made into soap.
Soap making for the North Harlem Colony requires the labor of two families and takes two days. Out of ten gigantic batches, I have no idea how many pounds of soap they made. To make just one batch, the men filled the vat with a mixture of about thirty pounds of lye, water up to here, and forty gallons of lard and cracklings. While the men brought the mixture to a slow boil, Melanie and Emberly stirred it, keeping it moving. Once the mixture had bubbled and boiled and the soap separated from the lye water, the girls scooped it into buckets. Darius and David and Douglas carried the buckets of liquid soap and poured it into huge steel trays. Once the soap cooled, the men cut it into chunks and placed the bars in mesh bags which they then hung in a storage room to cure for two to three years. The whole time I was there, Becky and Judy never sat down, cleaning up after one batch, preparing for the next.
I remember soap making in my childhood. I remember the red and white can of Red Devil lye with the skull and crossbones poison symbol. I remember stirring those same bubbling ingredients of fat, lye and water in the black kettle over the fire, the same kettle Grandma and I had used for rendering the lard. I remember pouring the soap into baking pans and cutting the cooled soap into bars. I remember grating the soap into flakes for laundry. I remember using the bars of our lye soap to scrub floors and to take baths and wash my hair.
I grew up hearing that lye soap would cure itchy skin, poison ivy and oak, chigger bites, athlete’s foot, dandruff, acne, mites, eczema, bed bugs, head lice, and mosquito bites. It also works to clean cement. Some people use it as catfish bait. I know from my Grandma it cures a sassy mouth.
Next year I’ll go back out to the Colony when they make soap. This time I’ll pitch right in to help. I’ll take my rubber boots, a rubber apron and heavy rubber gloves and a scarf to keep my hair out of my face. I have no desire to make my own lye soap. But I might bring home a bar to see if it still works on mosquito bites.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 12, 2011
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Friday, May 6, 2011
Fear of Flying
Or: The Winds of Insanity!
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Fear of Flying
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Saturday morning, with a last minute invitation and a whim, I threw a change of clothing and my toothbrush into a small bag, shoved in a book for just in case, climbed into my trusty van Roshanna, and with a “Giddy-up Go” pointed her east, and keeping a tight rein on the steering wheel, bucked the wind all the way to Glasgow to visit my high school classmate Jim.
The sky above looked like a gigantic upside-down blue mixing bowl. Half way to Dodson I noticed lake-wind effect clouds moving in from the southeast, beautiful and billowy. A hundred puffs of cloud, each shaped like a flying saucer, soared in perfect fleet formation. I could hardly take my eyes from them.
By the time I drove through Malta , I was not so much looking at the sky as trying to keep out of the sky. My van is not aerodynamically engineered. Yet she kept trying to take off, up, up, and away, into the wild blue yonder.
According to the NOAA report from Glasgow , the wind held steady at thirty-six mph, gusting to forty-eight. These certainly were not tornado-force winds. However, out on the open road rolling across the Plains of northeastern Montana , this is considerable force.
I focused on holding the steering wheel in a death grip, glad I had not removed my pile of winter-traction sandbags. Whenever I drove through a cut in the hills, the wind picked us up and moved us four feet to the north. A four foot shift on narrow two-lane US 2 made me feel grateful there were few travelers sharing the road that blustery morning.
Normally I love to fly. I prefer flying as a passenger in a small plane, one in which I know the pilot. The irony struck me that my craft is small and I know the pilot intimately. So there I was, taxiing down the runway of US 2, valiantly trying NOT to lift off. I realized in that moment that I was afraid of flying.
Actually, I was not so much afraid of flying as I was afraid of landing. I especially wanted to land in an upright position, four wheels down, on the same stretch of asphalt from which I had lifted off.
Then another fear struck me. Here I was, preparing to solo, and I did not have a pilot’s license. Think of the consequences. The FAA would investigate. They would discover that my craft had none of the requisite navigational equipment. I had failed to file a flight plan. I would undergo endless hours of interrogation. Undoubtedly a hefty fine. Perhaps time behind bars. Maybe blindfolded facing a firing squad. Certainly a special restriction stamped on my MDL. Oh, the humiliation.
In my favor, air traffic was light. One meadow lark clutching a fence post and two geese wading through the grass. The wind had grounded all sensible birds.
I finally made it to Glasgow . My friend Jim peeled me out of my van and treated me to a drive out to Gun Site, a private hunting preserve he shares with his partners. We saw hundreds of white tail deer. Later Jim prepared a gourmet meal and we enjoyed scintillating conversation.
My trip home the following day was less eventful. Again, my van and I bucked the wind, but it was a mere breeze in comparison to the gales of the previous day. For entertainment I watched the needle on the gas gauge go down as the greening landscape unfurled before us.
I may have to get a new steering wheel. I noticed where my hands grip in the ten o’clock and the two o’clock positions, the wheel is squeezed very thin. While it is in the shop, I wonder if I could have the mechanics weld on retractable wings. I think a roof-mounted propeller would be especially attractive. I wonder where I can take flying lessons.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 5, 2011
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Fear of Flying
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Saturday morning, with a last minute invitation and a whim, I threw a change of clothing and my toothbrush into a small bag, shoved in a book for just in case, climbed into my trusty van Roshanna, and with a “Giddy-up Go” pointed her east, and keeping a tight rein on the steering wheel, bucked the wind all the way to Glasgow to visit my high school classmate Jim.
The sky above looked like a gigantic upside-down blue mixing bowl. Half way to Dodson I noticed lake-wind effect clouds moving in from the southeast, beautiful and billowy. A hundred puffs of cloud, each shaped like a flying saucer, soared in perfect fleet formation. I could hardly take my eyes from them.
By the time I drove through Malta , I was not so much looking at the sky as trying to keep out of the sky. My van is not aerodynamically engineered. Yet she kept trying to take off, up, up, and away, into the wild blue yonder.
According to the NOAA report from Glasgow , the wind held steady at thirty-six mph, gusting to forty-eight. These certainly were not tornado-force winds. However, out on the open road rolling across the Plains of northeastern Montana , this is considerable force.
I focused on holding the steering wheel in a death grip, glad I had not removed my pile of winter-traction sandbags. Whenever I drove through a cut in the hills, the wind picked us up and moved us four feet to the north. A four foot shift on narrow two-lane US 2 made me feel grateful there were few travelers sharing the road that blustery morning.
Normally I love to fly. I prefer flying as a passenger in a small plane, one in which I know the pilot. The irony struck me that my craft is small and I know the pilot intimately. So there I was, taxiing down the runway of US 2, valiantly trying NOT to lift off. I realized in that moment that I was afraid of flying.
Actually, I was not so much afraid of flying as I was afraid of landing. I especially wanted to land in an upright position, four wheels down, on the same stretch of asphalt from which I had lifted off.
Then another fear struck me. Here I was, preparing to solo, and I did not have a pilot’s license. Think of the consequences. The FAA would investigate. They would discover that my craft had none of the requisite navigational equipment. I had failed to file a flight plan. I would undergo endless hours of interrogation. Undoubtedly a hefty fine. Perhaps time behind bars. Maybe blindfolded facing a firing squad. Certainly a special restriction stamped on my MDL. Oh, the humiliation.
In my favor, air traffic was light. One meadow lark clutching a fence post and two geese wading through the grass. The wind had grounded all sensible birds.
I finally made it to Glasgow . My friend Jim peeled me out of my van and treated me to a drive out to Gun Site, a private hunting preserve he shares with his partners. We saw hundreds of white tail deer. Later Jim prepared a gourmet meal and we enjoyed scintillating conversation.
My trip home the following day was less eventful. Again, my van and I bucked the wind, but it was a mere breeze in comparison to the gales of the previous day. For entertainment I watched the needle on the gas gauge go down as the greening landscape unfurled before us.
I may have to get a new steering wheel. I noticed where my hands grip in the ten o’clock and the two o’clock positions, the wheel is squeezed very thin. While it is in the shop, I wonder if I could have the mechanics weld on retractable wings. I think a roof-mounted propeller would be especially attractive. I wonder where I can take flying lessons.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
May 5, 2011
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Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Like a Hitch in Your Get-Along
Step, hitch, step, hitch, step, hitch!
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Like a Hitch in Your Get-Along
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I leaned against my kitchen stove talking with a friend, mindlessly staring at the cupboard across from me. Suddenly my eyes popped. “That pull on the bottom drawer next to the sink is crooked. I have lived here five years and I have never seen it until just this moment. I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”
In half a heartbeat I crossed to the drawer, pulled it out, and checked to see if one of the screws had fallen out. My house is old. My kitchen is old. My cupboards are old. And the drawer pulls are old. So a loose screw might have been the problem. Both screws were tight. “Now that I have spotted this glaring flaw, I’ll see it every time I come into the kitchen. Oh, woe is me.” I lifted my arm across my eyes in mock despair.
I like to think of myself as a person who notices things. Most things. Well, some things. Last week I climbed out of the driver’s seat of my van and noticed the door panel was hanging on solely by the screws in the door handle. The entire bottom was loose. The pocket where I keep maps, a rag, ropes, a packet of bungee cords, an umbrella, a corkscrew, gloves, a pair of water shoes, some wet wipes, two rocks, a window scraper and a bent screwdriver was hanging loose. There also was a scrap of paper, a note to myself torn from an envelope flap. It read: short on top, long on bottom back. It meant what screws went where, from a job at some long forgotten time. It meant the short screws went on top and the long screws went on the bottom back. Simple.
“Look at that. How long has this door panel been hanging open like this? My maps are poking out. I wonder what I’ve lost. I wonder when it jarred loose. I can’t believe I never spotted it.”
My friend, Steve, who was in the van with me opened his door and slid out. “Hmmm,” he said. “Have you noticed this side?”
I looked across the seats to the passenger door. It was also hanging on by the two screws holding the door handle onto the panel. “Oh,” I said. “How could this be? I’m in and out of my van every day. How could I be oblivious that the door panels are falling off?”
I do notice the big things, I do. Like just now, my house seemed awfully humid, rather like the tropics in high summer. I went straight to the laundry room where my dryer was running. Sure enough, the vent thingy, you know, that flexible white plastic stuff stretched over coiled wire that carries the lint out, had split open where it attached to the dryer. Lint was flying everywhere. The pile of lint behind the dryer looked like a soft gray nest, rather like a mouse nest. So I pulled the dryer away from the wall, dragged in my vacuum and cleaned. As long as I had the vacuum out I pulled the refrigerator away from the wall and cleaned the air intake and whatever that grid is which gets all icky.
Despite my need for order, annoying little things go wrong all the time. For example, my shop heater which hangs from the ceiling on long bolts has rattled all these five years. I had the installer in to look at it. He poked around and shrugged his shoulders. The irritating rattle gets louder the more it throws out heat. So Steve got the ladder from the cabin, climbed up and pulled the panel off the side to see if he could solve the problem. Interestingly, without the side panel, it didn’t rattle. Hallelujah! After five years, problem solved.
This afternoon Steve fixed the door panels. Tomorrow I’ll go to Charlie’s and get the dryer thing. I’ll buy a metal one this time. Oh, rats, cats and bats! My heater just kicked back on and the blasted rattle is back. It’s like a hitch in my get-along. I’ll have to live with it. And I’ll live with the crooked drawer pull and grin when I notice it. It’s not even a pebble in my shoe in the grand scheme of things.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
April 28, 2011
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Like a Hitch in Your Get-Along
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I leaned against my kitchen stove talking with a friend, mindlessly staring at the cupboard across from me. Suddenly my eyes popped. “That pull on the bottom drawer next to the sink is crooked. I have lived here five years and I have never seen it until just this moment. I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”
In half a heartbeat I crossed to the drawer, pulled it out, and checked to see if one of the screws had fallen out. My house is old. My kitchen is old. My cupboards are old. And the drawer pulls are old. So a loose screw might have been the problem. Both screws were tight. “Now that I have spotted this glaring flaw, I’ll see it every time I come into the kitchen. Oh, woe is me.” I lifted my arm across my eyes in mock despair.
I like to think of myself as a person who notices things. Most things. Well, some things. Last week I climbed out of the driver’s seat of my van and noticed the door panel was hanging on solely by the screws in the door handle. The entire bottom was loose. The pocket where I keep maps, a rag, ropes, a packet of bungee cords, an umbrella, a corkscrew, gloves, a pair of water shoes, some wet wipes, two rocks, a window scraper and a bent screwdriver was hanging loose. There also was a scrap of paper, a note to myself torn from an envelope flap. It read: short on top, long on bottom back. It meant what screws went where, from a job at some long forgotten time. It meant the short screws went on top and the long screws went on the bottom back. Simple.
“Look at that. How long has this door panel been hanging open like this? My maps are poking out. I wonder what I’ve lost. I wonder when it jarred loose. I can’t believe I never spotted it.”
My friend, Steve, who was in the van with me opened his door and slid out. “Hmmm,” he said. “Have you noticed this side?”
I looked across the seats to the passenger door. It was also hanging on by the two screws holding the door handle onto the panel. “Oh,” I said. “How could this be? I’m in and out of my van every day. How could I be oblivious that the door panels are falling off?”
I do notice the big things, I do. Like just now, my house seemed awfully humid, rather like the tropics in high summer. I went straight to the laundry room where my dryer was running. Sure enough, the vent thingy, you know, that flexible white plastic stuff stretched over coiled wire that carries the lint out, had split open where it attached to the dryer. Lint was flying everywhere. The pile of lint behind the dryer looked like a soft gray nest, rather like a mouse nest. So I pulled the dryer away from the wall, dragged in my vacuum and cleaned. As long as I had the vacuum out I pulled the refrigerator away from the wall and cleaned the air intake and whatever that grid is which gets all icky.
Despite my need for order, annoying little things go wrong all the time. For example, my shop heater which hangs from the ceiling on long bolts has rattled all these five years. I had the installer in to look at it. He poked around and shrugged his shoulders. The irritating rattle gets louder the more it throws out heat. So Steve got the ladder from the cabin, climbed up and pulled the panel off the side to see if he could solve the problem. Interestingly, without the side panel, it didn’t rattle. Hallelujah! After five years, problem solved.
This afternoon Steve fixed the door panels. Tomorrow I’ll go to Charlie’s and get the dryer thing. I’ll buy a metal one this time. Oh, rats, cats and bats! My heater just kicked back on and the blasted rattle is back. It’s like a hitch in my get-along. I’ll have to live with it. And I’ll live with the crooked drawer pull and grin when I notice it. It’s not even a pebble in my shoe in the grand scheme of things.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
April 28, 2011
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Thursday, April 21, 2011
Missoula Children’s Theatre Comes to Harlem
Missoula Children’s Theatre Comes to Harlem
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Saturday night, right here in my own home town of Harlem , I attended a live theatre production. Along with two hundred excited parents, family members and friends, I watched thirty children, cast in a variety of roles, cavort across the stage in “Pinocchio”.
But for me the fun began the previous Sunday afternoon when Dan Watson and Lydia Jane Graeff, a team of directors from the Missoula Children’s Theatre, drove their little red truck into my driveway, and came inside to meet me and to see what was to be their home for the following week. I showed them to their rooms so they could unpack and take a few moments to relax before their work began.
Missoula Children’s Theatre has been around for forty years. If co-founder Jim Caron, out of a job and on his way to Oregon , had not broken down while driving his ancient VW van near Missoula , MCT might not exist. While waiting for repairs, he noticed a poster advertising auditions for the musical, “Man of La Mancha”. “Why not,” he thought, “just for fun”. He found himself cast in the play and during the run developed a friendship with Don Collins who played the lead.
After “ La Mancha ” closed, Caron and Collins formed a company to present theatre for children. Their efforts in Missoula were such a success that soon Jim and Don were receiving requests from other communities to perform for their children.
When they started they cast adults in the plays, with children only playing appropriate roles. In the winter of ’72 the company was booked to travel to Miles City for a production of “Snow White”. Jim and Don were hesitant to take seven children on that long trip over the icy roads. They took the radical step of driving to Miles City ahead of the rest of the crew, hoping they would find seven children willing to spend the week of preparation and be part of play. Four hundred fifty children showed up for auditions and the present form of Missoula Children’s Theatre was conceived.
Today hopeful directors audition to be part of Missoula Children’s Theatre. They are intensively trained and placed in teams of two which travel throughout the United States in little red trucks with the MCT logo prominent on the doors. International teams take theatre around the world. My new friends, Dan and Lydia , rookies with MCT, are touring “Pinocchio” to Montana and Wyoming communities. In their truck they carry their clothing and personal effects, the scripts, lighting, props, costumes, make-up, sets and all the equipment needed to create a stage wherever they go. Every Sunday they arrive at a new home. They cast up to sixty children and rehearse throughout the week. On Saturday they raise the set, run through a dress rehearsal, briefly rest and on Saturday evening the kids perform for the community. After the play, Dan and Lydia tear down the set and load all the equipment back into the truck. Early Sunday morning they head down the road.
For some communities MCT is the only live theatre to which their children are exposed. This is the second year that the newly organized Harlem PTO has sponsored MCT’s appearance. Last year sixteen children participated. This year thirty children signed up for the hard work of rehearsals every night after school. This is not just simple entertainment. MCT states “the primary goal, indeed the organization’s mission, is the development of life skills in children through participation in the performing arts.” I know how hard our kids worked, because I saw their directors drag through my front door chewing their hair at the end of the evening, looking like road kill. Yet each day, Dan and Lydia returned to school eager to help the kids build the next layer of competence.
Finally the big night arrived. I went to the high school to see the play performed on the same stage where we had plays when I was a student. The old gym, with its stage on one side, is the only remaining part of old Harlem High. I sat through the performance, a grin pasted across my face, delighted at the bravery of the kids. I silently cheered for each young actor and held my breath whenever the action on the stage came to a halt, evidence of lost lines. But these children did it. They pulled it off. The show was a triumph.
After the play, parents took thousands of photographs, locking in memories forever. Dan and Lydia , together with a few community members, broke down the stage and packed the entire set and all the equipment into the little red truck. We came back to my house to celebrate and over a feast of pizza, talked theatre and life (and aren’t they the same thing) until midnight. Sunday morning I waved good-by to my two new friends as they headed down the road to their next gig.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
April 21, 2011
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Saturday night, right here in my own home town of Harlem , I attended a live theatre production. Along with two hundred excited parents, family members and friends, I watched thirty children, cast in a variety of roles, cavort across the stage in “Pinocchio”.
But for me the fun began the previous Sunday afternoon when Dan Watson and Lydia Jane Graeff, a team of directors from the Missoula Children’s Theatre, drove their little red truck into my driveway, and came inside to meet me and to see what was to be their home for the following week. I showed them to their rooms so they could unpack and take a few moments to relax before their work began.
Missoula Children’s Theatre has been around for forty years. If co-founder Jim Caron, out of a job and on his way to Oregon , had not broken down while driving his ancient VW van near Missoula , MCT might not exist. While waiting for repairs, he noticed a poster advertising auditions for the musical, “Man of La Mancha”. “Why not,” he thought, “just for fun”. He found himself cast in the play and during the run developed a friendship with Don Collins who played the lead.
After “ La Mancha ” closed, Caron and Collins formed a company to present theatre for children. Their efforts in Missoula were such a success that soon Jim and Don were receiving requests from other communities to perform for their children.
When they started they cast adults in the plays, with children only playing appropriate roles. In the winter of ’72 the company was booked to travel to Miles City for a production of “Snow White”. Jim and Don were hesitant to take seven children on that long trip over the icy roads. They took the radical step of driving to Miles City ahead of the rest of the crew, hoping they would find seven children willing to spend the week of preparation and be part of play. Four hundred fifty children showed up for auditions and the present form of Missoula Children’s Theatre was conceived.
Today hopeful directors audition to be part of Missoula Children’s Theatre. They are intensively trained and placed in teams of two which travel throughout the United States in little red trucks with the MCT logo prominent on the doors. International teams take theatre around the world. My new friends, Dan and Lydia , rookies with MCT, are touring “Pinocchio” to Montana and Wyoming communities. In their truck they carry their clothing and personal effects, the scripts, lighting, props, costumes, make-up, sets and all the equipment needed to create a stage wherever they go. Every Sunday they arrive at a new home. They cast up to sixty children and rehearse throughout the week. On Saturday they raise the set, run through a dress rehearsal, briefly rest and on Saturday evening the kids perform for the community. After the play, Dan and Lydia tear down the set and load all the equipment back into the truck. Early Sunday morning they head down the road.
For some communities MCT is the only live theatre to which their children are exposed. This is the second year that the newly organized Harlem PTO has sponsored MCT’s appearance. Last year sixteen children participated. This year thirty children signed up for the hard work of rehearsals every night after school. This is not just simple entertainment. MCT states “the primary goal, indeed the organization’s mission, is the development of life skills in children through participation in the performing arts.” I know how hard our kids worked, because I saw their directors drag through my front door chewing their hair at the end of the evening, looking like road kill. Yet each day, Dan and Lydia returned to school eager to help the kids build the next layer of competence.
Finally the big night arrived. I went to the high school to see the play performed on the same stage where we had plays when I was a student. The old gym, with its stage on one side, is the only remaining part of old Harlem High. I sat through the performance, a grin pasted across my face, delighted at the bravery of the kids. I silently cheered for each young actor and held my breath whenever the action on the stage came to a halt, evidence of lost lines. But these children did it. They pulled it off. The show was a triumph.
After the play, parents took thousands of photographs, locking in memories forever. Dan and Lydia , together with a few community members, broke down the stage and packed the entire set and all the equipment into the little red truck. We came back to my house to celebrate and over a feast of pizza, talked theatre and life (and aren’t they the same thing) until midnight. Sunday morning I waved good-by to my two new friends as they headed down the road to their next gig.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
April 21, 2011
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Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Diner, The Witch and The Birthday Cake
When a surprise is not a surprise is a surprise! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Diner, The Witch and The Birthday Cake __________________________________________________________________________________________ I have been looking for any excuse to get out of town after being held hostage by winter. I especially wanted to see my friends Ron and Sharon in Watson , Saskatchewan . Also, I didn’t trust winter to stay gone, so it would be a comfort to have a friend along to share the eight hour drive north. Steve, a good friend from Silverdale , Washington , arrived for a visit on the Empire Builder last Tuesday. I jumped at my opportunity. “Steve, did you bring your passport? Good, let’s go to Canada .” I wanted to surprise my friends, but I wanted it to be a pleasant surprise. So I emailed Sharon : Do you like surprises? Sharon replied: I love surprises. That’s all I needed to know. So early Thursday morning we quickly pack our bags and leave. Ten miles out of Harlem , we hit the snow fields. Not fields of snow: snow fields. There is a difference. In the valley, the snow has melted into the thirsty earth. In the hills, snow is deep and creeks run swift through the coulees. Our day is sunshine bright and our spirits run as high as the creeks, out of their banks with excitement. After crossing the border at Turner/Climax we stop for a farm-style breakfast in Shaunavon, one of my favorite towns, continue north to Gull Lake, east on Highway 1 to Regina, through the beautiful city and north on Highway 6 to Watson. Snow and high water, geese and deer, hawks, coyotes and a wolf flank our journey. We pull into the parking lot at the Quick Stop Diner at 5:30. Sharon flies across the parking lot and grabs me in a hug. “I knew you were here. One of our customers saw you drive in and said, I see your friend from Montana is here.” I introduce Steve and we hustle inside. I sneak back to the kitchen and surprise Ron with a big hug. Lilia, the other member of the Quick Stop team, spots me and rushes over to wrap me in her arms. In the diner I recognize several customers, all of whom grin and wave or nod to me. “You’re back, eh?” “How long are you staying?” “Good to see you.” I planned a surprise, but I am surprised in turn by how warmly I am received. “We’ve come to help,” I announce. “And to celebrate my birthday. I brought our own aprons and Quick Stop tee shirts. I’ll bus tables.” “And I’ll do dishes,” Steve said. And so we do. Friday the little diner bustles with customers all day long. Everybody is responding to a sunshine day with easy-going talk and laughter. Sharon, Ron and Lilia incorporate us into their little operation. I deliver orders from the kitchen, pour coffee and clear tables. Steve helps both on the floor and in the kitchen. For me, the highlight of the day comes when a woman arrives with a three year old daughter and her two sons about fourteen and sixteen. The little bright-eyed charmer watches me come and go, smiles at me and gives me little waves, so I make a point to stop by their table frequently with a word or two. Finally the toddler motions me over and announces loudly, “You are funny. Are you a witch? I think you are a witch.” “Why, thank you. I do believe I am.” I laugh, pleased. I recognize praise when I hear it. Her mother, however, is mortified. I can tell Mom wants to crawl under the table, hopefully to disappear through a hole in the floor. “No, no, no, she gave me a compliment,” I assure Mom. “Your little girl knows happy magic when she sees it, like that of the good witch, Glenda, from the ‘Wizard of Oz’.” The boys grin and nod their agreement. I cherish that compliment all day. As the last customers wave good-by, Sharon locks the door. Sharon, Steve, Lilia and I finish the closing chores. In the kitchen Ron grills lamb chops with all the trimmings. We sit down to the feast, tired and hungry. We bask in the satisfaction of a good day, well worked, with good friends and the magic of hearts at ease. And then another surprise appears, a birthday cake with candles flickering. Ron had baked it for me first thing that morning. My friends urge me to make a wish. I close my eyes and wish the love and the joy that surround us this moment be with us every day all year long. I blow out the candles and cut the cake. It is a magic birthday, the best birthday I ever had. Sondra Ashton HDN: Looking out my back door April 14, 2011 _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My Million Dollar Idea of the Day
Theoretically, each of us has at least one million dollar idea per day. We generally don't recognize it! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My Million Dollar Idea of the Day _____________________________________________________________________________________________________ I lie in bed at night and worry. I worry about us here in Blaine County . I don’t need a census report to know our population is decreasing. Nowhere is this more evident than in my own home town of Harlem , where the population today hovers near seven hundred souls. Our small town, once a thriving commercial center, long ago ceased to grow. We desperately need a reason to exist. The last snow storm inspired my latest brilliant idea. Winter nails some of us behind closed doors as we watch the thermometer plummet. The same winter that paralyzes me invigorates others, those hardy winter sports enthusiasts who think winter was created just so they can play. Like I said, I lie in bed at night and worry. Some of those worries turn into ideas. Most of the ideas I discard and wisely so. But one idea took hold. Why not develop a ski area in Harlem . Where? North of town, on the hill up out of the valley where the old dump used to be. Now it’s a container site. What if we turn it back into a dump and build up a mountain of trash, upon which we’ll then build our ski resort? People from all over the country are desperate for a place to truck their garbage. They’ll pay big bucks. The money thus generated will fund the project. It’s perfect. Don’t laugh. There is precedent. If the enterprising folks of Evanston , Illinois , who built Mt. Trashmore Ski Area completely out of garbage, (ditto for Crystal Ridge in Milwaukee, Mt. Trash near Detroit, and even Mt. Blackstrap Ski Hill south of Saskatoon) can turn trash into cash, so can we. My excitement mounts. The view from the dump is as spectacular a vista as one will find anywhere. I see the Swiss chalet-style lodge perched atop the hill, overlooking the expanse of the valley. Down below the train chugs along the tracks, stops at the new station, disgorges hordes of happy winter frolickers where the fleet of limousines awaits to carry them to the Lodge. The frozen river meanders between serpentine banks. Zambonis smooth the ice for skaters who waltz to the music of Harlem ’s famous Milk River Oompah Band. On a clear day, and when is it not a clear day on the Hi-line, majestic mountains define the southern horizon. I see lifts and trails, the lights at night. The lifts carry beautiful people adorned in the latest outdoor fashions. Teams of St. Bernard rescue dogs patrol the slopes, casks of brandy snug around their necks. Laughing children zoom down on their sleds. Hardy cross country skiers traverse the valley. The hills hum with the happy racket of snowmobilers’ racing motors as the power driven sleds throw curtains of snow in their wake. The ski hill is the flagship idea; this is where it starts. Winter sports facilities will shoot up like mushrooms on a soggy day. In a natural progression, we’ll build an ice arena for hockey and another for curling. Working together we stand to make a fortune. Investors will fight to grab a piece of the action. We need a business plan, a vision, a mission statement, a state of the art office complex, executives, clerks, secretaries, sales teams, designers, accountants, workshops, desks, reams of paper, telephones, computers, paychecks, taxes, lobbyists, benefits, bonuses, copiers, fax machines, humidifiers, coffee makers, water-coolers, doormats, pencils, a logo, a corporate name, advertising, parking spaces, electric bills. There is much to consider. Ah, picture the hustle and bustle on Main Street . Every store full and overflowing with colorful ski wear, boots, parkas, train loads of merchandise. Our new bank, a veritable mirror of prosperity, looms above the booming business sector. Fountains spout around ornate statuary in the town square. New housing developments and condominiums ring the city. International hotels sprout overnight. Population explodes. Opportunity abounds. Destination: Harlem , Montana . We’re back on the map. Sondra Ashton HDN: Looking out my back door April 7, 2011 ____________________________________________________________________________________________
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