Re-run: Jan 2009
The New Economy
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The dog showed up on my doorstep, shivering and whimpering, lost and hungry, minus collar, tags, or known history. Yes, I know. I know. Wisdom says, if you feed him, he will never leave. But what would you do?
The leaves had fled the poplar trees in my yard. The rime of frost was thicker each morning. Day light was migrating south. The mercury plummeted. Snow flakes gathered, reading for the long-dark-night-of-the-soul Montana winter.
I am a cat person. I do not want a dog.
The dog wagged his tail, sat on my foot and leaned into my leg. He said, “I am here to work on your relationship skills.”
Fool that I am, I opened the door and he walked in. I laid down the rules: You will not lounge on the couch. You will not track mud over the floors. You will not put your paws on me. You will bathe frequently.
But true to form, the only one making any lifestyle changes is me. I learn new habits. I make space for him. I buy and prepare special foods. I provide treats, toys and a new bed. I use a term of endearment when I call him for dinner. I change my routine. I check with him before I make plans for the weekend. I say to myself, “This is really sick.”
One day, while sitting at my desk paying bills, I say, “Dog, it is time you start to carry your own weight around here. There will be no slackers in this family,” I say this sternly. “Everyone contributes, each according to his means.”
The next day, Dog, after an expedition roaming the neighborhood, drags home the thigh bone of a tyrannosaurus rex. I heave a sigh. I imagine mountains of debris that I will have to pick up when the yard next appears, probably in May. I know Dog isn’t going to clean it up. I watch as he buries the bone in a mid-size drift, then sits, tail gouging angel wings in the snow, altogether pleased with himself.
Then I have an ‘ah-ha’ moment. That is when our relationship began to turn around. I wait until dark. I don’t want the neighbors to see me. A sliver of moon guides me to the spot marked in my memory. I pry t-rex from its frozen grave and drag it into the house. I fill the stock pot with water and boil the bone with the butt of a celery stalk, a couple onions, a few cloves of garlic, some carrot tops and assorted dried herbs from my garden. I simmer the bone about thirty hours, strain the whole mess and put up six quarts of prime soup stock. I toss the boiled bone back into the yard.
Several days later I serve dinner to friends. They rave about the soup. I smile sweetly and say, “The secret’s in the stock.”
Every few days, Dog drags home a new animal part. I note where he hides it, and under cover of night, slip outside and dig it up, throw it in the stock pot and simmer a new batch. I pat Dog on the head. Best relationship I ever had.
Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News
January 26, 2009
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Friday, March 29, 2013
Remembrance of Things Past—A Packet of Letters—Ha! Ha!
Remembrance of Things Past—A Packet of Letters—Ha! Ha!
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When I was seven years old, somewhat of a lost child, uncertain about every aspect of my life, my Indiana cousin Shirley, two years older, took me under wing. Shirley spoke with firm confidence and sureness, always. She quickly became my mentor, my hero. For the next five years she was my best friend.
Then my family moved to Montana. Shirley and I wrote frequent letters until she left for college. Over the years and over the miles, our lives split onto widely divergent pathways.
At previous reunions, we had exchanged greetings and superficial small talk. I’d had more intimate conversations with strangers on the Empire Builder. Last summer, for the first time since high school, we spent a week together. We took long walks down back roads. It seemed we never quit talking.
Both of us stayed at Aunt Mary’s home, her mother, my aunt. One morning, when we met in the kitchen for breakfast, Shirley handed me a small packet of letters. A second-grade school photo fell from it into my lap. In the picture my sweater, buttoned to my neck, covers my best dress that I wore for picture day. My lips are closed to hide the gaps of missing teeth. My hair is cut across my forehead and with another straight line below my ear lobes, bowl cut by my Dad with shears from his home barber kit.
When I opened the earliest letter, I burst out laughing. I instantly felt like the gangling young colt of a girl who had written it. Across the top of the first page I had scrawled, “Fred, Fred, You’re weak in the head. Ha! Ha!” I had sprinkled ha-ha’s throughout the four page letter. In proper letter form, I had included the date, June seventh, 1957. I had just finished sixth grade. I reported that our end-of-year tests were “pretty easy. I made the highest marks so they must have been easy. Ha! Ha!” I also wrote, “Don’t let anyone read this.” Who would have wanted to see my scribbles about school, church, weather and “mosquitoes, terrible, I have bites all over”?
I was a pious young thing. I concluded my letter with prayers and enclosed a Holy Card of the Infant of Prague. I tagged on a post script, “Do you still like DK?”
“DK” had lived up the hill from my Indiana home. I don’t recall that Shirley liked Dickie Knear; I liked Dickie Knear. Had Dickie even glanced at me, I would have been mortified. He was my secret fantasy boy-friend until two years later when I spent the summer back in Indiana. Shirley and I slurped root-beer floats in the Barnes Store in Elizabeth when Dickie and a couple buds sauntered in for Cokes. He looked like a hood, hair slicked back in a DA, cigs rolled into his white tee-shirt sleeve, pimply-pocked face. I plummeted from puppy love into disillusion.
The last letter from the packet, dated the summer of my sixteenth year, is eight tightly written pages. Right off the bat, I wrote, “Don’t you dare get married until I meet him. He looks nice but looks aren’t everything. It may not be true love. You’re my godmother and I feel it is my responsibility to see that he isn’t a wolf or somebody infatuated by your great beauty and wealth. . . I think you should wait a year but if you want to rush into it, it’s your neck.” She ignored my advice. Shirley and Nick are still married.
Much of my letter was filled with social life and plans for my future. The last page brought tears to my eyes. “I told Father Pauson and he just stared at me with a ‘heaven help them’ look on his face. Brace yourself. I’m serious. I’m scared. I’m happy too. I’m going to be a nun. I’ve been thinking about joining a cloistered order such as the Carmelites. But my friends think I’ll be the first girl in my class to be married.”
My plans also included a dream to study journalism at IU but I didn’t think Dad could afford to send me. Two years later, while the ink was still wet on my high school diploma, I walked down the aisle with a young rancher.
Had my dear best friend, cousin and godmother rushed to Montana and waved the pages of this letter, filled with my unwitting wisdom, in my stubborn face, how different my life might have been. I doubt I would have joined the Carmelites. Maybe I would not have married so hastily. But she was the only person who could have talked to my scared, confused self.
But I’m puzzled. Who in the world is “Fred, Fred, weak in the head? Ha! Ha!”
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
April 11, 2013
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When I was seven years old, somewhat of a lost child, uncertain about every aspect of my life, my Indiana cousin Shirley, two years older, took me under wing. Shirley spoke with firm confidence and sureness, always. She quickly became my mentor, my hero. For the next five years she was my best friend.
Then my family moved to Montana. Shirley and I wrote frequent letters until she left for college. Over the years and over the miles, our lives split onto widely divergent pathways.
At previous reunions, we had exchanged greetings and superficial small talk. I’d had more intimate conversations with strangers on the Empire Builder. Last summer, for the first time since high school, we spent a week together. We took long walks down back roads. It seemed we never quit talking.
Both of us stayed at Aunt Mary’s home, her mother, my aunt. One morning, when we met in the kitchen for breakfast, Shirley handed me a small packet of letters. A second-grade school photo fell from it into my lap. In the picture my sweater, buttoned to my neck, covers my best dress that I wore for picture day. My lips are closed to hide the gaps of missing teeth. My hair is cut across my forehead and with another straight line below my ear lobes, bowl cut by my Dad with shears from his home barber kit.
When I opened the earliest letter, I burst out laughing. I instantly felt like the gangling young colt of a girl who had written it. Across the top of the first page I had scrawled, “Fred, Fred, You’re weak in the head. Ha! Ha!” I had sprinkled ha-ha’s throughout the four page letter. In proper letter form, I had included the date, June seventh, 1957. I had just finished sixth grade. I reported that our end-of-year tests were “pretty easy. I made the highest marks so they must have been easy. Ha! Ha!” I also wrote, “Don’t let anyone read this.” Who would have wanted to see my scribbles about school, church, weather and “mosquitoes, terrible, I have bites all over”?
I was a pious young thing. I concluded my letter with prayers and enclosed a Holy Card of the Infant of Prague. I tagged on a post script, “Do you still like DK?”
“DK” had lived up the hill from my Indiana home. I don’t recall that Shirley liked Dickie Knear; I liked Dickie Knear. Had Dickie even glanced at me, I would have been mortified. He was my secret fantasy boy-friend until two years later when I spent the summer back in Indiana. Shirley and I slurped root-beer floats in the Barnes Store in Elizabeth when Dickie and a couple buds sauntered in for Cokes. He looked like a hood, hair slicked back in a DA, cigs rolled into his white tee-shirt sleeve, pimply-pocked face. I plummeted from puppy love into disillusion.
The last letter from the packet, dated the summer of my sixteenth year, is eight tightly written pages. Right off the bat, I wrote, “Don’t you dare get married until I meet him. He looks nice but looks aren’t everything. It may not be true love. You’re my godmother and I feel it is my responsibility to see that he isn’t a wolf or somebody infatuated by your great beauty and wealth. . . I think you should wait a year but if you want to rush into it, it’s your neck.” She ignored my advice. Shirley and Nick are still married.
Much of my letter was filled with social life and plans for my future. The last page brought tears to my eyes. “I told Father Pauson and he just stared at me with a ‘heaven help them’ look on his face. Brace yourself. I’m serious. I’m scared. I’m happy too. I’m going to be a nun. I’ve been thinking about joining a cloistered order such as the Carmelites. But my friends think I’ll be the first girl in my class to be married.”
My plans also included a dream to study journalism at IU but I didn’t think Dad could afford to send me. Two years later, while the ink was still wet on my high school diploma, I walked down the aisle with a young rancher.
Had my dear best friend, cousin and godmother rushed to Montana and waved the pages of this letter, filled with my unwitting wisdom, in my stubborn face, how different my life might have been. I doubt I would have joined the Carmelites. Maybe I would not have married so hastily. But she was the only person who could have talked to my scared, confused self.
But I’m puzzled. Who in the world is “Fred, Fred, weak in the head? Ha! Ha!”
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
April 11, 2013
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Crazed With March Madness at Kennedy’s Bar
Crazed With March Madness at Kennedy’s Bar
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Ordinarily I don’t hang out at Kennedy’s. But the Civic Association served up a free dinner. Ordinarily I don’t bet money on anything. Even when I play poker I refuse to bet anything more than a pile of beans, especially after the time I lost my shirt. But it was for a worthy cause, a fund-raiser for the Civic Association which does good things for Harlem.
I reasoned that I had done quite well at the City Shop morning coffee group’s football pool—a three time winner. So how challenging could a Calcutta Auction be? For me, basketball is much more fun than football. The coffee guys were all excited about it, so hey, I thought I’d go check it out. I called my cousin Shirley. “Have you ever gone to that basketball thing at Kennedy’s? Uh huh. No. Me neither. Wanna go?”
So that is how Shirley and I ended up at the NCAA Tournament Calcutta Auction at Kennedy’s on a Monday night. The guys said the way it works is you buy a team. I knew that some guys had bid as high as three and four hundred dollars. I kind of envisioned a small group of die-hard, gun-slinging Doc Holiday types, spit in their eyes, hunched over wads of dollar bills. Beyond that, I had no idea what to expect when I walked in the door.
Supper was scheduled at 6 PM, so Shirley and I sauntered in (I was trying to get in character) about 6:05. The place was packed. All the movers and shakers from Harlem sat around wolfing down stew and all the fussins. Every white-haired lady in town was there. Along with several young couples, tomorrow’s leaders. I even spotted a local pastor in the crowd.
I no more than stepped foot over Kennedy’s threshold than I was tripped up by Gerald “Bear Shirt” Stiffarm, station manager for KGVA FM, which that evening broadcast pre-auction entertainment. I knew Gerald from the olden days, from school. I’m older but Gerald is smarter. He asked if he could interview me on the broadcast. So I said a word or two about how the City Council and the Civic Association worked together with common goals to make our little town the best it can be or something like that.
Shirley had worked her way to the back of the room and rounded up two empty chairs at the very last table. We filled our plates. As people finished eating they milled about the room greeting friends, placing side bets. Somehow, it didn’t feel like we were in a bar, certainly not a Gunsmoke-type bar. It felt more like a family reunion.
After we sang in celebration of Chuck’s birthday, his third twenty-second birthday (think about it), Joe Brown, another Harlem fixture, took over the mike and tossed the ball up to start the auction. Joe knew everyone in the room and where the bodies are buried. In his repartee nobody went unscathed, in a good-natured way, of course.
“What a kick!” I said to Shirley. It quickly became apparent that this year the action had heated up beyond that of former years. The higher ranked teams were nailed down for seven, eight hundred dollars and more. The highest bid came in around eleven hundred dollars. But there were sixty-eight teams, so some went low, even as affordable as twenty dollars.
Rich or poor, everybody could get in on the fun. Whole tables full of fans pooled their resources. At the table next to Shirley and me, five or six of our friends put their heads together and, with finesse, bought more than one team. Called “The Ladies”, they were well-known veterans at the game. Boss bid against employee. Neighbor bid against neighbor. Harlem bid against Chinook.
At one time auctioneer Joe Brown didn’t see a man’s arm raised to bid. Another man across the room raised his arm to point out his friend’s missed bid. “Sold,” yelled the auctioneer. The flustered friend bought a team, whether he wanted it or not.
Shirley and I watched closely. We talked it over. We decided we could afford to chip in twenty dollars apiece to buy one of the lower ranked teams. Who knows, in college basketball, anything can happen. We could even come out flush. But every time we were ready to jump into the fray, the bid went up to forty-five, fifty, sixty. Or a thousand! Finally, toward the end of the evening, we bought Pacific University for thirty dollars.
“Where’s Pacific,” I asked.
“Stockton, California,” somebody answered.
Miami, the team slated to play Pacific, was bid in at a thousand-seventy-five dollars. We got whomped, 78 to 49.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 28, 2013
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Ordinarily I don’t hang out at Kennedy’s. But the Civic Association served up a free dinner. Ordinarily I don’t bet money on anything. Even when I play poker I refuse to bet anything more than a pile of beans, especially after the time I lost my shirt. But it was for a worthy cause, a fund-raiser for the Civic Association which does good things for Harlem.
I reasoned that I had done quite well at the City Shop morning coffee group’s football pool—a three time winner. So how challenging could a Calcutta Auction be? For me, basketball is much more fun than football. The coffee guys were all excited about it, so hey, I thought I’d go check it out. I called my cousin Shirley. “Have you ever gone to that basketball thing at Kennedy’s? Uh huh. No. Me neither. Wanna go?”
So that is how Shirley and I ended up at the NCAA Tournament Calcutta Auction at Kennedy’s on a Monday night. The guys said the way it works is you buy a team. I knew that some guys had bid as high as three and four hundred dollars. I kind of envisioned a small group of die-hard, gun-slinging Doc Holiday types, spit in their eyes, hunched over wads of dollar bills. Beyond that, I had no idea what to expect when I walked in the door.
Supper was scheduled at 6 PM, so Shirley and I sauntered in (I was trying to get in character) about 6:05. The place was packed. All the movers and shakers from Harlem sat around wolfing down stew and all the fussins. Every white-haired lady in town was there. Along with several young couples, tomorrow’s leaders. I even spotted a local pastor in the crowd.
I no more than stepped foot over Kennedy’s threshold than I was tripped up by Gerald “Bear Shirt” Stiffarm, station manager for KGVA FM, which that evening broadcast pre-auction entertainment. I knew Gerald from the olden days, from school. I’m older but Gerald is smarter. He asked if he could interview me on the broadcast. So I said a word or two about how the City Council and the Civic Association worked together with common goals to make our little town the best it can be or something like that.
Shirley had worked her way to the back of the room and rounded up two empty chairs at the very last table. We filled our plates. As people finished eating they milled about the room greeting friends, placing side bets. Somehow, it didn’t feel like we were in a bar, certainly not a Gunsmoke-type bar. It felt more like a family reunion.
After we sang in celebration of Chuck’s birthday, his third twenty-second birthday (think about it), Joe Brown, another Harlem fixture, took over the mike and tossed the ball up to start the auction. Joe knew everyone in the room and where the bodies are buried. In his repartee nobody went unscathed, in a good-natured way, of course.
“What a kick!” I said to Shirley. It quickly became apparent that this year the action had heated up beyond that of former years. The higher ranked teams were nailed down for seven, eight hundred dollars and more. The highest bid came in around eleven hundred dollars. But there were sixty-eight teams, so some went low, even as affordable as twenty dollars.
Rich or poor, everybody could get in on the fun. Whole tables full of fans pooled their resources. At the table next to Shirley and me, five or six of our friends put their heads together and, with finesse, bought more than one team. Called “The Ladies”, they were well-known veterans at the game. Boss bid against employee. Neighbor bid against neighbor. Harlem bid against Chinook.
At one time auctioneer Joe Brown didn’t see a man’s arm raised to bid. Another man across the room raised his arm to point out his friend’s missed bid. “Sold,” yelled the auctioneer. The flustered friend bought a team, whether he wanted it or not.
Shirley and I watched closely. We talked it over. We decided we could afford to chip in twenty dollars apiece to buy one of the lower ranked teams. Who knows, in college basketball, anything can happen. We could even come out flush. But every time we were ready to jump into the fray, the bid went up to forty-five, fifty, sixty. Or a thousand! Finally, toward the end of the evening, we bought Pacific University for thirty dollars.
“Where’s Pacific,” I asked.
“Stockton, California,” somebody answered.
Miami, the team slated to play Pacific, was bid in at a thousand-seventy-five dollars. We got whomped, 78 to 49.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 28, 2013
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Monday, March 25, 2013
I Got Those Low Down, Mopping Water, Monday Morning Wash Machine Blues
I Got Those Low Down, Mopping Water, Monday Morning Wash Machine Blues
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Almost a year ago my washing machine started to lose its bearings. I first noticed the noise. My nearly new washing machine began to rumble-grumble like an antique steam tractor. The agitator sounded agitated. The spin cycle cycled like a dervish. Once it got up to speed the quivering machine tried to buck out of its stall in the laundry room. I did my due diligence, made phone calls, talked with washer repairmen who told me the bearings were going kaput.
“But it’s only six years old,” I protested.
“Oh, well, yeah, plastic bearings. You know. Plastic.”
So I asked the repairman, “How do I know when it’s totally broken down?”
“Water all over the floor.”
“Oh,”
I shopped. Checked top load versus front load. Modern versus conventional. Big bucks versus wash tub and scrub board. I had nearly settled my mind on an old-fashioned wringer washer. I calmed down and decided to keep the one I had until the bugger died. I’d think about it tomorrow.
I eeked out another year of service from my gasping machine. At times, while it racketed around the room, I considered going to the Laundromat for peace and quiet.
One day last week, when I went to my downstairs bathroom to shower, I stepped into a puddle of water in the middle of the rug. Coincidentally, the upstairs bathroom where I tub bathe is above the downstairs bathroom. I mopped up the water and propped the rug to dry. I figured maybe the drain in the horse trough I plumbed in for a tub upstairs was leaking. So I decided to refrain from tub baths until the drain was fixed, maybe by a real plumber. I further figured the water must have found its way through the hole covered by the light fixture and onto the rug. These were not real thoughts but more like fleeting impressions. Strangely, I didn’t bother to look up—up at the ceiling.
A couple days later I noticed that the light fixture in the bathroom downstairs had a strange look, like it might be full of bugs or something. David and Vidya had arrived for the Seed Show so I asked David if he would take down the fixture so I could clean out the bugs. “It’s full of water,” he said as he climbed down balancing the globe like a fish bowl. And it was, full to the top with rusty, scummy, mineral-rich several-day-old water.
Still not putting two and two in a row (math was never my strength), I then asked him to re-caulk the tub drain, which he did in generous gobs. Leak now, you sucker. He also re-attached the downstairs light fixture once it had dried.
Fast forward: my company left, I put a load of sheets in the washer. Once the racket stopped, I walked into the laundry room to shift sheets from washer to dryer. In my sock feet I splashed through a small lake. Two and two suddenly equaled four. I raced downstairs to a sure-enough waterfall cascading from the light fixture.
I called a friend whose wife generously allows him to help women in distress. He came over, put a bucket beneath flood phase two, this time the rinse cycle deluge, and removed the globe and fixture. He handed me the two light bulbs. You know that tinny part on the small end of the bulb, the part that screws into the contraption to accept the electricity, that part was eaten through with corrosion.
An epiphany moment! A horrifying moment! A light-bulb moment! All those days from when the globe first filled with water until now, every single one of those days, my guests and I had used the downstairs bathroom, with the lights on, of course. At any one moment the house could have caught fire and burned down around our ears. (Do wet wires burn? Would the water have dowsed the fire? Spare me the physics.)
I drove down to Charlie’s Lumberyard and bought a new light fixture. Then I made a phone call to order another machine. Reluctantly I discarded my notion to buy a wringer washer and bought another conventional top loader.
“It’s criminal that my washer lasted only seven years,” I told the owner of the store.
“Some last five. Some will go for twenty. Plastic bearings.” He shrugged.
I stuffed my new washer full of towels, the towels that I had used to sop up the water from my failed machine, and pushed go. I’ll find someone to install my new light fixture downstairs. Meanwhile I’ll shower in the dark, glad to still have a house to shower in, glad to have a water-tight washing machine, at least for a few years.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 21, 2013
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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Almost a year ago my washing machine started to lose its bearings. I first noticed the noise. My nearly new washing machine began to rumble-grumble like an antique steam tractor. The agitator sounded agitated. The spin cycle cycled like a dervish. Once it got up to speed the quivering machine tried to buck out of its stall in the laundry room. I did my due diligence, made phone calls, talked with washer repairmen who told me the bearings were going kaput.
“But it’s only six years old,” I protested.
“Oh, well, yeah, plastic bearings. You know. Plastic.”
So I asked the repairman, “How do I know when it’s totally broken down?”
“Water all over the floor.”
“Oh,”
I shopped. Checked top load versus front load. Modern versus conventional. Big bucks versus wash tub and scrub board. I had nearly settled my mind on an old-fashioned wringer washer. I calmed down and decided to keep the one I had until the bugger died. I’d think about it tomorrow.
I eeked out another year of service from my gasping machine. At times, while it racketed around the room, I considered going to the Laundromat for peace and quiet.
One day last week, when I went to my downstairs bathroom to shower, I stepped into a puddle of water in the middle of the rug. Coincidentally, the upstairs bathroom where I tub bathe is above the downstairs bathroom. I mopped up the water and propped the rug to dry. I figured maybe the drain in the horse trough I plumbed in for a tub upstairs was leaking. So I decided to refrain from tub baths until the drain was fixed, maybe by a real plumber. I further figured the water must have found its way through the hole covered by the light fixture and onto the rug. These were not real thoughts but more like fleeting impressions. Strangely, I didn’t bother to look up—up at the ceiling.
A couple days later I noticed that the light fixture in the bathroom downstairs had a strange look, like it might be full of bugs or something. David and Vidya had arrived for the Seed Show so I asked David if he would take down the fixture so I could clean out the bugs. “It’s full of water,” he said as he climbed down balancing the globe like a fish bowl. And it was, full to the top with rusty, scummy, mineral-rich several-day-old water.
Still not putting two and two in a row (math was never my strength), I then asked him to re-caulk the tub drain, which he did in generous gobs. Leak now, you sucker. He also re-attached the downstairs light fixture once it had dried.
Fast forward: my company left, I put a load of sheets in the washer. Once the racket stopped, I walked into the laundry room to shift sheets from washer to dryer. In my sock feet I splashed through a small lake. Two and two suddenly equaled four. I raced downstairs to a sure-enough waterfall cascading from the light fixture.
I called a friend whose wife generously allows him to help women in distress. He came over, put a bucket beneath flood phase two, this time the rinse cycle deluge, and removed the globe and fixture. He handed me the two light bulbs. You know that tinny part on the small end of the bulb, the part that screws into the contraption to accept the electricity, that part was eaten through with corrosion.
An epiphany moment! A horrifying moment! A light-bulb moment! All those days from when the globe first filled with water until now, every single one of those days, my guests and I had used the downstairs bathroom, with the lights on, of course. At any one moment the house could have caught fire and burned down around our ears. (Do wet wires burn? Would the water have dowsed the fire? Spare me the physics.)
I drove down to Charlie’s Lumberyard and bought a new light fixture. Then I made a phone call to order another machine. Reluctantly I discarded my notion to buy a wringer washer and bought another conventional top loader.
“It’s criminal that my washer lasted only seven years,” I told the owner of the store.
“Some last five. Some will go for twenty. Plastic bearings.” He shrugged.
I stuffed my new washer full of towels, the towels that I had used to sop up the water from my failed machine, and pushed go. I’ll find someone to install my new light fixture downstairs. Meanwhile I’ll shower in the dark, glad to still have a house to shower in, glad to have a water-tight washing machine, at least for a few years.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 21, 2013
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We Drove A Thousand Miles to the Seed Show
We Drove A Thousand Miles to the Seed Show
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My friends, David and Vidya from Port Townsend, Washington drove to Harlem to stay the week with me and attend the Seed Show. We covered every event. Every breakfast, lunch and dinner.
“Sondra told us so much about the Seed Show. We just had to come see it.”
Our first event Thursday was the wool judging. Vidya knits, so she was particularly interested. “I was surprised to see so many varieties of wool on display, to get to talk to the judge about the wool. I was amazed at the different breeds of sheep. The judge was so knowledgeable, so thorough and conscientious as she handled the fleeces. And it was a special treat to see the young girl who won the Youth Division. She was so delighted with her ribbon.”
Thursday evening we sampled Death by Chocolate. David said, “That event was well named. It was very hard to place my vote. I had to sample some a second or third time to make sure I had made the right choice.”
After fasting the requisite twelve hours, we returned to the High School to have our blood drawn at the Health Fair, an annual event arranged by Fran Hodgson, Blaine County Health Nurse in conjunction with Western Health Screening of Billings. Vidya said, “I’ve never been any place where the health department makes something like this available. Look how it draws the people. The Seed Show is the perfect place to do it. We are happy to be able to take advantage. I’ve put it off, having my blood tested, for years because it is so expensive.”
After having our blood” vampired” out into tubes, we devoured a delicious breakfast served by the Harlem Civic Association. Then my friends and I helped Kris Shaw hang her own art along with a display for Art Duff, an artist from Chinook who died in November and for whom this year’s Show was dedicated. There is nothing like volunteering to make a stranger feel like “part of”. By the time we’d finished, my Washington friends knew Kris, her husband David and many of the “neighbor” artists.
David commented, “I couldn’t believe how many artists were here given how lightly the area is populated. Art seems to be an important part of the Show, on equal standing with other endeavors. The gallery was always packed. The number of people who attended and bid at the Friday night auction is further evidence of the importance of art in this area.”
Vidya added, “I loved the quality of the children’s art—that had to be due to the encouragement of their teachers. What a gift that the kids can display their work where the whole community gets to see it.”
“One thing that disappointed us, we expected to see more ag exhibits, more agricultural influence,” said David.
“We wish we could have seen all the exhibits judged like we saw the wool judged,” added Vidya. “We learned so much listening to the judge’s feedback. I wanted to see everything in depth, to hear all the details. We are impressed by the number of loaves of bread, the pies, cupcakes. We would have liked to hear all the judges’ comments.”
“Pie should be the state food of Montana,” added David. “A real staple of the diet, based on what we see wherever we go, like at What the Hay and the Seed Show. The money the pies brought at auction! That really demonstrates support. People come prepared to buy. They know they will spend a hundred dollars—some high price—for a pie. They are donating for their community. Amazing.”
After the pancake supper Friday night, served by the FFA, my friends told me, “We get a real sense of community here. Look at how hard everyone works to make the Seed Show happen. Everyone, the kids and the adults, together. The pancake supper is great, the whole community, all ages, all the diversity, whole families gathered. Every time we come to Harlem some community thing is going on and we get to go. Like the benefits for the Volunteer Firemen or the Ambulance Crew. There is always something going on that says ‘community’.”
After the banquet Saturday night, weary and sated as we were, I asked “So, is there anything you’d like to add, final impressions?”
“It’s kind of what we expected. Kind of not what we expected. All the stuff that goes on in this area, this empty land, here in Harlem, the county, the region. Basically it’s all home grown. The car show in Turner. The Blaine County Fair in Chinook. The Fall Festival in Havre. Everybody participates, whole families. Where we live, there are cities nearby. So kids, and adults too, go to the city to do city things. Here it’s a long way to the city. It’s all home grown.”
“Yet the pace is leisurely. It’s relaxed but things get done. I know there is stress. Of course, you have stress. But it’s not the same kind of stress. People don’t rush. People take time out to talk to you. They don’t act impatient, brush you off. People like to talk. It’s not such a stratified society like most places. There are so few people, everybody’s job is important to everybody else. Everybody counts. It’s good.”
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 14, 2013
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My friends, David and Vidya from Port Townsend, Washington drove to Harlem to stay the week with me and attend the Seed Show. We covered every event. Every breakfast, lunch and dinner.
“Sondra told us so much about the Seed Show. We just had to come see it.”
Our first event Thursday was the wool judging. Vidya knits, so she was particularly interested. “I was surprised to see so many varieties of wool on display, to get to talk to the judge about the wool. I was amazed at the different breeds of sheep. The judge was so knowledgeable, so thorough and conscientious as she handled the fleeces. And it was a special treat to see the young girl who won the Youth Division. She was so delighted with her ribbon.”
Thursday evening we sampled Death by Chocolate. David said, “That event was well named. It was very hard to place my vote. I had to sample some a second or third time to make sure I had made the right choice.”
After fasting the requisite twelve hours, we returned to the High School to have our blood drawn at the Health Fair, an annual event arranged by Fran Hodgson, Blaine County Health Nurse in conjunction with Western Health Screening of Billings. Vidya said, “I’ve never been any place where the health department makes something like this available. Look how it draws the people. The Seed Show is the perfect place to do it. We are happy to be able to take advantage. I’ve put it off, having my blood tested, for years because it is so expensive.”
After having our blood” vampired” out into tubes, we devoured a delicious breakfast served by the Harlem Civic Association. Then my friends and I helped Kris Shaw hang her own art along with a display for Art Duff, an artist from Chinook who died in November and for whom this year’s Show was dedicated. There is nothing like volunteering to make a stranger feel like “part of”. By the time we’d finished, my Washington friends knew Kris, her husband David and many of the “neighbor” artists.
David commented, “I couldn’t believe how many artists were here given how lightly the area is populated. Art seems to be an important part of the Show, on equal standing with other endeavors. The gallery was always packed. The number of people who attended and bid at the Friday night auction is further evidence of the importance of art in this area.”
Vidya added, “I loved the quality of the children’s art—that had to be due to the encouragement of their teachers. What a gift that the kids can display their work where the whole community gets to see it.”
“One thing that disappointed us, we expected to see more ag exhibits, more agricultural influence,” said David.
“We wish we could have seen all the exhibits judged like we saw the wool judged,” added Vidya. “We learned so much listening to the judge’s feedback. I wanted to see everything in depth, to hear all the details. We are impressed by the number of loaves of bread, the pies, cupcakes. We would have liked to hear all the judges’ comments.”
“Pie should be the state food of Montana,” added David. “A real staple of the diet, based on what we see wherever we go, like at What the Hay and the Seed Show. The money the pies brought at auction! That really demonstrates support. People come prepared to buy. They know they will spend a hundred dollars—some high price—for a pie. They are donating for their community. Amazing.”
After the pancake supper Friday night, served by the FFA, my friends told me, “We get a real sense of community here. Look at how hard everyone works to make the Seed Show happen. Everyone, the kids and the adults, together. The pancake supper is great, the whole community, all ages, all the diversity, whole families gathered. Every time we come to Harlem some community thing is going on and we get to go. Like the benefits for the Volunteer Firemen or the Ambulance Crew. There is always something going on that says ‘community’.”
After the banquet Saturday night, weary and sated as we were, I asked “So, is there anything you’d like to add, final impressions?”
“It’s kind of what we expected. Kind of not what we expected. All the stuff that goes on in this area, this empty land, here in Harlem, the county, the region. Basically it’s all home grown. The car show in Turner. The Blaine County Fair in Chinook. The Fall Festival in Havre. Everybody participates, whole families. Where we live, there are cities nearby. So kids, and adults too, go to the city to do city things. Here it’s a long way to the city. It’s all home grown.”
“Yet the pace is leisurely. It’s relaxed but things get done. I know there is stress. Of course, you have stress. But it’s not the same kind of stress. People don’t rush. People take time out to talk to you. They don’t act impatient, brush you off. People like to talk. It’s not such a stratified society like most places. There are so few people, everybody’s job is important to everybody else. Everybody counts. It’s good.”
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 14, 2013
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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
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Pye, Pye, Miss American Pye
Pye, Pye, Miss American Pye
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Our church has lost so many of our bakers this year that we may have to forgo serving pies at the Seed Show luncheon,” Bev told me recently. “We might have to substitute cheesecake or something.”
“No! No! You can’t give up pies.” I lined up my arguments. “It wouldn’t be the same. Pie at the Montana Seed Show is a tradition. Pie is expected. Pie is an institution. Besides, what about Arnold? He hangs out at the Seed Show just for pie. That’s what I’ve heard. Sometimes he has six pieces a day. That’s what I’ve heard.” I went into a state of minor panic. I really didn’t care about Arnold. I cared about me!
The Lutheran Ladies have served homemade pie at the Seed Show forever. Whatever else they serve is incidental; people show up for the pie. Why else would hundreds of people stand in a line which winds twice around the hall and through the cafeteria, if not for homemade pie. Once the Civic Association finishes serving breakfast, the Lutheran Ladies set out mid-morning pie and coffee. And they serve mid-afternoon pie and coffee until the pie is gone.
As you stand in the lunch line, listen to the conversations around you. The merits of pies are debated, discussed, decided, studied and re-decided. “I want blackberry this time.” “Not me. My favorite is chocolate meringue. I hope they’re not out.” “Mmmm. I like apple.” Finally the line moves forward into the serving area and there you are, standing in front of at least fifty delectable slices of pie. The choice is overwhelming. Just as you decide on peach, the man in front of you snatches up the last slice of peach pie. “Dang napple-snapples.” Now what. Oooh, the coconut cream looks rich and, well, creamy. You point, “That one.”
I can’t imagine being at the Seed Show without a slice of pie. In my consideration, cheesecake is not a viable alternative. Now I make a mean homemade cheesecake, fresh and high and light and rich. It is expensive to make, takes forever and dirties every dish in the cupboard. And I’ve had cheesecake at a few doings, fundraisers for one event and another. What Bev was talking about as an alternative to homemade pie was the insipid cheesecake made from the easy-squeezy store-bought mix. I won’t say they are inedible but they don’t make me want to go back for more, especially when they are topped with plops of glommy pie filling straight from the can.
Pie is considered as American as the Fourth of July. But, actually pie is universal. Historical evidence points to numerous versions of “pye”, mostly filled with meat, as in four and twenty blackbirds. But during the early lean and hungry years in the colonies our pioneer mothers turned to baking pyes with the simple foods at hand. They lopped the tops off pumpkins, scooped out the seeds and stringy stuff, filled the pumpkin bowls with milk and set them on the open hearth to bake. In later years they added spices and put them in a grain-based “coffin”. The first pye pans these pioneer women devised were round “to cut corners”. Flour was expensive and less flour was needed to make a round crust. These pans were flat and shallow so the “pyes would go a long way”.
“There’s got to be a solution,” I told Bev. “I’ll become a volunteer Lutheran for a day and help bake pies. I bet you can find several others in the community willing to pitch in and help you through this desperate situation. How many pies do you want me to make, two or twenty?”
Yesterday I donned my Lutheran apron, the one I wear when I roll out lefse, and made two apple pies. I like a fat, fruity pie with a thin flaky crust, even though they always bubble over in the oven. After I baked the pies and let them cool, I wrapped them tightly so they wouldn’t lose moisture and popped them into the freezer where they will be safe until the Seed Show. Then I had to clean the oven.
Later this week I’ll bake a couple rhubarb pies and next week I’ll make Juneberry. As a lapsed Catholic helping out the Lutherans, does this doubly fulfill my obligation for Lent? After all, I’m baking them, not eating them. At least, I’ll abstain from pie until the Seed Show when I plan to stand in the slow-moving line along with everyone else, thinking about which pie most makes my mouth water. I sure hope somebody bakes peach.
Easy as pie. Crisis averted. Well, yes, but I will have to clean the oven again.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking at my back door
February 21, 2013
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Our church has lost so many of our bakers this year that we may have to forgo serving pies at the Seed Show luncheon,” Bev told me recently. “We might have to substitute cheesecake or something.”
“No! No! You can’t give up pies.” I lined up my arguments. “It wouldn’t be the same. Pie at the Montana Seed Show is a tradition. Pie is expected. Pie is an institution. Besides, what about Arnold? He hangs out at the Seed Show just for pie. That’s what I’ve heard. Sometimes he has six pieces a day. That’s what I’ve heard.” I went into a state of minor panic. I really didn’t care about Arnold. I cared about me!
The Lutheran Ladies have served homemade pie at the Seed Show forever. Whatever else they serve is incidental; people show up for the pie. Why else would hundreds of people stand in a line which winds twice around the hall and through the cafeteria, if not for homemade pie. Once the Civic Association finishes serving breakfast, the Lutheran Ladies set out mid-morning pie and coffee. And they serve mid-afternoon pie and coffee until the pie is gone.
As you stand in the lunch line, listen to the conversations around you. The merits of pies are debated, discussed, decided, studied and re-decided. “I want blackberry this time.” “Not me. My favorite is chocolate meringue. I hope they’re not out.” “Mmmm. I like apple.” Finally the line moves forward into the serving area and there you are, standing in front of at least fifty delectable slices of pie. The choice is overwhelming. Just as you decide on peach, the man in front of you snatches up the last slice of peach pie. “Dang napple-snapples.” Now what. Oooh, the coconut cream looks rich and, well, creamy. You point, “That one.”
I can’t imagine being at the Seed Show without a slice of pie. In my consideration, cheesecake is not a viable alternative. Now I make a mean homemade cheesecake, fresh and high and light and rich. It is expensive to make, takes forever and dirties every dish in the cupboard. And I’ve had cheesecake at a few doings, fundraisers for one event and another. What Bev was talking about as an alternative to homemade pie was the insipid cheesecake made from the easy-squeezy store-bought mix. I won’t say they are inedible but they don’t make me want to go back for more, especially when they are topped with plops of glommy pie filling straight from the can.
Pie is considered as American as the Fourth of July. But, actually pie is universal. Historical evidence points to numerous versions of “pye”, mostly filled with meat, as in four and twenty blackbirds. But during the early lean and hungry years in the colonies our pioneer mothers turned to baking pyes with the simple foods at hand. They lopped the tops off pumpkins, scooped out the seeds and stringy stuff, filled the pumpkin bowls with milk and set them on the open hearth to bake. In later years they added spices and put them in a grain-based “coffin”. The first pye pans these pioneer women devised were round “to cut corners”. Flour was expensive and less flour was needed to make a round crust. These pans were flat and shallow so the “pyes would go a long way”.
“There’s got to be a solution,” I told Bev. “I’ll become a volunteer Lutheran for a day and help bake pies. I bet you can find several others in the community willing to pitch in and help you through this desperate situation. How many pies do you want me to make, two or twenty?”
Yesterday I donned my Lutheran apron, the one I wear when I roll out lefse, and made two apple pies. I like a fat, fruity pie with a thin flaky crust, even though they always bubble over in the oven. After I baked the pies and let them cool, I wrapped them tightly so they wouldn’t lose moisture and popped them into the freezer where they will be safe until the Seed Show. Then I had to clean the oven.
Later this week I’ll bake a couple rhubarb pies and next week I’ll make Juneberry. As a lapsed Catholic helping out the Lutherans, does this doubly fulfill my obligation for Lent? After all, I’m baking them, not eating them. At least, I’ll abstain from pie until the Seed Show when I plan to stand in the slow-moving line along with everyone else, thinking about which pie most makes my mouth water. I sure hope somebody bakes peach.
Easy as pie. Crisis averted. Well, yes, but I will have to clean the oven again.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking at my back door
February 21, 2013
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