The Road Least Traveled—In the Footsteps of Least Heat-Moon

The Road Least Traveled—In the Footsteps of Least Heat-Moon ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
So many decisions! So many choices! After spending hours on the phone with my daughter, under the assumption that two heads are better than one, a cliché not necessarily true but I needed someone to hold my hand, we concluded that there is no wrong road.

I am now homeless. My auction sale is Saturday out at the Havre Fairgrounds, so come, say good-by to me. Early next week I will head out. All the right roads beckon. Being me, I want to drive every road. What way to take? Which way to go? I have two, no, three criteria. I want to visit my son and granddaughter and friends in Seattle. I wish to explore hot springs, so my route will necessarily zig and zag. And I intend to be at the border November 5, to be met by my friend who will help me drive south on foreign roads.

That leaves me a month to travel north border to south border. In the last week I have entertained routes and changed my mind no less than two dozen times. I could zoom over to Seattle, hugs and kisses, and race to the Border. Google map, which does not have my best interests in mind, assures me I could make the border from Harlem in 23 hours. Not my style—no, not my style at all.

Google does not know that I despise Interstate Highways. Interstates homogenize and pasteurize travel. One tends to head up the on-ramp, grip the wheel and proceed as if Death is on one’s heels, as indeed, it may be. Interstates cross through the most beautiful parts of the country and assure that you, the traveler, see none of it. You don’t dare slow down and look. You tend to eat franchise food and stay in franchise motels, all within sight of the ramps.

Like William Least Heat-Moon, I prefer to travel the "Blue Highways", the by-ways and back roads. I want to be able to stop for a power nap when tired, eat in mom-and-pop cafes, walk in the nice little city park along the river, and admire the architecture of the old buildings in the center of downtown. One of my favorite off-the-map motels features a pyramid of homemade huckleberry jellies for sale at the counter. You won’t find that at a Holiday Inn Express.

A couple days ago, I heard from Tara, one of my "girls" from when she and my daughter were in college. Tara lives in Las Vegas. She told me Vegas sits in the middle of geo-thermal heaven with more than three-hundred hot springs. Immediately my mind changed once more. I’m feeling like my neck is on a swivel.

As of today, my loosely held plan is to spend a week or ten days getting out of Montana/Idaho, soaking in hot water at some of my favorite north-country hot springs. I’ll take Highway 2 to Seattle to spend a week or ten days with family and friends, then head south. But I have not defaced my maps with markers. No route is permanent in my mind. Nothing is cast in concrete.

Leaving Seattle is where my fun really begins. This morning I lean toward I-90 to I-82 to I-84 to Pendleton, gratefully exit the interstate for 395 to Reno, a lovely and relatively empty route. From Reno perhaps I’ll head east on 50 to Ely. South on 93 to Vegas to explore and soak and visit with Tara and Tim. Or maybe Seattle to Sacramento to Reno to Vegas. Or Seattle to Ellensburg to Pocotello to Salt Lake to Vegas. See what I mean?

Leaving Vegas, I can stay on 93 into Phoenix. Somewhere along the way, I will need to turn south on 85 which will take me through Why and into Lukeville and to my border crossing. My map is rather vague about how to do this. Tele-transportation, perhaps.

If you look at the US map in the front of your travel atlas, you can see my quandary. In the western United States, there are a lot of ways to get from here to there on relatively isolated roads. Roads where one can dream; where one can imagine what life is like in this town, in that little ranch house way off over there with the yard light shining. Roads where the waitress pouring coffee stops to ask you where you’re going. She’ll tell you about the bridge out up the way and the best place to stop for lunch. Roads with towns that make one want to turn in and stay a while.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 26, 2013_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

No Habla Espanol But I Do Gestures Well

No Habla Espanol But I Do Gestures Well
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Just today a gentleman in Great Falls, upon hearing I will soon move to Mexico, mirrored my enthusiasm, "Oh, I love Mexico. My wife and I go to Cancun every year." Then he followed with "Aren’t you afraid to go to Mazatlan? We hear so much bad news about the drug traffic there. Even in Cancun, when we walk the beaches, we are accosted by people trying to sell us drugs."

"Well," I answered, "I have walked alone and with friends through many districts in Mazatlan and on the beaches and nobody has ever tried to sell me drugs." I almost felt disappointed. Do I look that, what, boring, intimidating, Pearl of the Pure Heart, or just plain old?

Last weekend Terry came to my house with his young son, TJ. They loaded my van with boxes and other items I had packed for the trip. I wanted a test run, so to speak. Since I will be taking with me only what I can get into my van, I needed to see just what would fit. Normally I trust my judgment of spatial relations. But I wanted to make sure I could take all my carefully selected, packed and Spanish- labeled treasures.

Imagine my face-splitting grin when everything fit—and all in the front of the van. I have lots of room. "Figure out what else you want to take and I’ll come back in a few days to finish," Terry told me.

So I wandered room to room. I carefully considered this and that. Especially the ‘this’ and the ‘that’ items I had first wanted to keep and later rejected. I retrieved my Kitchen Aid Mixer, vintage 1963. I discovered that I had said my good-bys. I am at peace with letting go of my treasures and items of beauty for others to enjoy.

Since I have oodles of room, I’ll ask Terry to spread the boxes over the whole floor of the van. Of course, there will be some last minute additions, some items I still use every day. And some, like a few plates, bowls, a skillet, one knife, fork and spoon, I’ll leave for the new owner to adopt or toss.

I’ve been blessing the house for Kim. I want her to receive as much pleasure from living here as I have. This home provided me a launching pad for new ventures in growth, such as serving on city council and related boards. Where else could I have acquired so much fodder for "Looking out my back door". My intuition tells me that Kim is ready to expand her life too. I want to leave her that legacy, so I go from room to room and plant good memories.

One more week of living in this house, living out of a suitcase and with a depleted refrigerator. But I’m so busy that I hardly notice. Today I attended another final board meeting. I hesitate to say good-by, rather, hasta luego. I have made new friends, some I feel I’ve known forever. We will keep in touch.

Tomorrow Craig is coming to spend a day or two. I met Craig about a dozen years ago when I cast him in "Nice People Dancing to Good Country Music", his stage debut. He spent much of his time on stage with his head beneath the hood of an old truck dropping bolts into an oil pan. We got to be good friends. We do what friends do; we visit.

It is hard to leave the good people I have come to know. Remember, the road runs both ways. I’ll be back to see you. And you will come spend time with me in my new casa, address as yet unknown. So make sure your passport is up to date.

In my new home, because I’m still the same old me, I will surround myself with new art, more books, and every variety of experience. Since I’m a great tour guide, when you visit, I’ll take you places and show you things nobody else would ever think about.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep in touch through my articles. The next couple months I may not write a consistent article a week, but I will keep them coming. After my auction sale, I’ll be on the road, making my leisurely way south to the border. There are a couple hot springs I want to check out along the route. Once I get to Mazatlan and get settled, I hope to keep showing you what is going on out my back door.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 19, 2013
Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the High Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.
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The Seed Show, Nostalgia and Home-Made Pie

The Seed Show, Nostalgia and Home-Made Pie
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Only a few days before the 63rd Montana Seed Show and a nearly palpable excitement shimmers in the Harlem air. It’s contagious. As I make my rounds in town, to the post office to pick up my mail, then to city hall to pay my water bill and on around the corner to Albertson’s for buttermilk because I have a yen for biscuits in the morning and across the street to the Senior’s Center to say hello to Katie and whoever is hanging around, I hear, over and over, “See you at the Seed Show!”

Nobody asks, “Are you going to the Seed Show?” It is understood that unless one is stuck in the hospital or off vacationing in the Bahamas, this weekend one will take in the Seed Show. The Montana Seed Show is an essential ingredient in the glue that holds Harlem together; a bonding element that makes Harlem our home.

My Uncle Jim was one of the founders of the Seed Show. He was the family member who encouraged my Dad to transplant us from southern Indiana, from a small farm near the Ohio River to a much larger farm on the much smaller Milk River. I was in the seventh grade when I went to the Civic Center with my Dad for my first Seed Show.

The Civic Center, an imposing two-story building complete with a basement, occupied the block where the bank now sits. It housed the city office, the police station and jail, the telephone office, the library and a gymnasium with a balcony above and a stage to one side. This venerable building was the heart of our community. The school, city government, and business, professional and civic groups used the Civic Center. Our Harlem Wildcats played basketball there. We high school students strung the gym with crepe paper streamers for the school carnival. Every year old time fiddlers from all around took to the stage, tapped their feet and plied their bows to ancient melodies. And until the building burned to the ground in January of 1968, it was the home of the Montana Seed Show.

I close my eyes and memory takes over. I walk through the doors of the auditorium. Rows of planks across sawhorses, trays of seed potatoes, sugar beets, wheat, oats, and barley. Sheaves of baled hay or gently tied bunches of loose hay, and trays of stinky (to my nose) silage. Colorful ribbons designate rank of achievement. In my mind, I walk beside Dad, up and down each row and inspect every agricultural offering. None hold the least interest to me. I poke at mounds of sheep’s wool with their distinctive odor and feel of lanolin. I cast a cursory glance at the commercial displays ringing the perimeter of the gym. I linger over the pie display. I imagine the anticipation as the few chosen women assemble ingredients for the bake-off under the watchful eyes of the judges.

Soon Dad is deep in conversation with other Valley farmers or perhaps with one of the town merchants. I slip away to find school mates, shed my heavy winter coat and head scarf and toss them in a pile on the bleachers. Arm-in-arm, we girls walk ‘round and ‘round the gym. I imagine that a certain boy might look at me with a special twinkle in his eye, because I certainly am looking at him. I would be mortified if that boy spoke to me. That wasn’t done. How times have changed.

Most of the farmers and ranchers wore heavy plaid wool coats and hats with ear flaps. My Dad’s coat was red and black. Town men wore dressier coats, longer and most often of a solid color. All the men sported black rubber buckled galoshes, an item of dress necessary for both farmyard and Harlem’s dirt streets. Women wore either cotton house dresses or rayon “Sunday” dresses with hats and gloves and handbag. If she were a farm wife (an excruciatingly apt term), a woman might wear humiliating black galoshes. Town women wore clear plastic overshoes that fastened with a snap on a flap, designed to fit over high heels. I may have been only twelve, but I noticed the difference.

Though there is no sugar beet industry in our area and few potato growers, the Seed Show still stresses the value of “good seed, good fellowship and good neighbors”*. Today’s Seed Show, now located at Harlem High School, has changed vastly. Tables have replaced planks over sawhorses. A canvas covering protects the finish of the gym floor. In addition to the traditional baked goods, the pies and breads, this year the committee has added cup cakes. An entire area is devoted to needlework and quilts. The school’s old gym houses an art gallery with an auction Friday night. Out in the industrial arts building one can ooh and ah over restored tractors and cars of yesteryear. Wool displays now include demonstrations of carding and spinning. Add woodworking, the health fair, the educational and commercial exhibits, and one of my favorites, the chili cook-off.

Today men are not excluded from baking or women from wood working. Today you cannot distinguish farmer from townsperson by dress. The black overshoes disappeared long ago. One thing I must mention is the home-made pies served in the cafeteria. In my well-fed opinion, Harlem ought to be designated the pie capital of the world. See you at the Seed Show.

*p.524 Thunderstorms and Tumbleweeds

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 8, 2012
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Five Dollars

It was a five dollar day with five dollars being good value.
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Five Dollars


We drove south out of Dodson, up onto the plateau and out toward the mountains. We passed the turn off at the long dirt road to the place where I used to live, a life-time ago. I recognized the same barbed-wire gate. Sun dappled the hills. A slight breeze teased the grasses. A perfect day.

Signs marked “Auction” pointed us in the right direction. Oak pallets, each heaped with an assortment of goods, snaked across the field. Beyond the pallets, lined out like an old-soldiers honor guard at a funeral, slumped dozens of derelict cars and pick-ups, trucks, tractors and machinery. Stacks of lumber, tools, wire, boxes and bins of parts and nails and bolts flanked scattered outbuildings.

I signed in and received the number 100. A good omen. I wandered over to the row of pallets where the auctioneer hawked trash and treasures. I didn’t spot anything I wanted, but, feeling mischievous, I started a bid at two and a half. I was certain somebody else would pick it up from there. Three. Then four. The bid went to five. Why not? Okay. Seven-fifty? Going once. Twice. Sold for five dollars. Gulp! I had just bought a pallet. I had not intended to buy it. I had no idea what was on the pallet other than a large brown boxy thing and an old pressure cooker minus the petcock and handles.

While the auctioneer proceeded along the row, I stopped to paw through my acquisitions. Within moments, I sold a box of dishes and a box of assorted car parts. That paid for my pallet. Soon I had sold or gifted everything but the cooker and a box of canning jars.

An hour passed before I bought another pallet; again, for five dollars. It was heaped with odd dresser drawers, minus the dressers. Some old wood. A mix of cabinet doors. A sturdy box with dividers for storing all manner of things. It could have lived in a tool shed, a kitchen or an office. But what did I really buy? The dresser drawers will be raw material for art projects. Wait till you see what I can do with a dresser drawer.

I set a limit to my bids based on what I could spot in the jumble on the pallet. And no matter how much I desired a particular treasure, I recognized when someone else wanted it more.

An auction is a bitter-sweet place to spend the day. It is a book of somebody’s life, easily deciphered but just as easily misunderstood. This ranch was probably homesteaded, in the last wave of homesteaders, if I read the pages right.

I looked out over the hills. Something within me yearns for this life, isolated as it is, out here on the flat with the snow-covered Little Rockies directly south and the Bear Paws a notch over to the west. I lived out here during the sixties, snowed in every winter. We farmed with horses and an obsolete tractor. We had no running water though we had a good deep well. We had no bathroom facilities. We had no money but we were rich in living.

My friends dragged me away to take a break from my heavy spending. We sauntered over to the cook wagon. Replenished with a generous bowl of hearty beef stew, we marched back into the fray.

We watched buyers haggle over the old car bodies. Much as I might covet an antique auto to restore, if I hauled a junker home I could do no more than watch it continue to rust. The auctioneer, like a mother hen with chicks, herded his brood around some large sheds. We ended up by the ruins where a fire had burned down the main house.

Oh. That answered a lot of questions. A woman I had noticed before, hanging on the fringes of the auction, told me that her uncle had died in the house fire. He was ninety-three. She grew up on this farm. The pain of her loss was reflected in her eyes.

Around the edges of the debris surrounding the burn stood several old stools. Some had three legs. Some had four. Some had legs each a different length. Some legs faced different directions on the same stool. This was not the work of a craftsman. But I recognize treasure when I see it. I piled up six of the stools and bid on them. I’ll paint them each a different color and plant them in my back yard. I’ll surround them with pots of petunias. Five dollars well spent.

Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
April 22, 2010
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I'll Bid Five Dollars

This morning
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I’ll Bid Five Dollars


We drove out of Dodson several miles south, up onto the plateau, out toward the mountains. We passed the turn off with the long dirt road to the place where I used to live, another life-time ago. I recognized the same barbed-wire gate. Sun dappled the hills. A slight breeze played with the grasses. A perfect day.

Signs marked “Auction” pointed us in the right direction. Oak pallets, each one heaped with an assortment of goods, snaked across the field. Beyond the pallets, lined out like an old-soldiers honor guard at a funeral, slumped cars and pick-ups, trucks, tractors and machinery, dating from the early 1900’s upward, though none from this century. Several outbuildings were surrounded with carefully sorted stacks of lumber, tools, wire, boxes and bins of parts and nails and bolts.

I signed in and received number 100, a good omen, I thought. I wandered over to the pallets where the auctioneer worked. Trash and treasures. I could find a treasure in the mix on each pallet. I knew every person here would choose a different treasure.

I had not been there five minutes before I started a bid. Two and a half. The bid went to five. Why not? Okay. Seven-fifty. Once. Twice. Sold! Gulp! I had just bought a pallet. I had not really intended to buy it. I had no idea what was on the pallet other than a large brown boxy thing and an old pressure cooker minus the petcock.

The auctioneer proceeded along the row of pallets and I stopped to paw through my acquisitions. Within moments, I sold a box of dishes and another box of something else I did not want. That paid for my pallet. Before the day was over I had sold or gifted everything on my pallet except for the cooker and a box of canning jars. Now, I may never can meat or garden vegetables again, but, then again, I might.

An hour passed before I bought another pallet; this one for five dollars. It was heaped with odd dresser drawers, minus the dressers. Some old wood. A mix of cabinet doors and a sturdy box with dividers creating slots for storing all manner of things. It could have fit into a tool shed, a kitchen or an office. What did I buy? Art projects. Wait till you see what I can do with a dresser drawer.

I bid on some other stuff, but I set my limit, according to what I can see on the pallet. And no matter how much I might desire that particular treasure, I recognize when someone else wants it more.

An auction is a bitter-sweet place to spend the day. It is a book of somebody’s life, easily decipher and just as easily misunderstood. This place was probably homesteaded, and possibly in the last wave of homesteaders, if I read the pages right.

I look out over the hills. Even today something within me yearns for this life, isolated as it is, out here on the flat with the snow-covered Little Rockies directly south and the Bear Paws a notch over to the west. I lived out here during the sixties, snowed in every winter, farming with horses and an obsolete tractor, no running water though we had a good deep well, and no facilities. We never had any money to spend but we were rich in living.

My friends and I took a break from our heavy spending and sauntered over to the cook wagon. Replenished with a generous bowl of hearty beef stew, bread, dessert and a drink, we headed back into the fray.

We watched buyers haggle over the old car bodies. Much as I might want a restored antique auto, if I hauled one home, I could do no more than watch it continue to rust. The auctioneer, like a mother hen with chicks, herded his brood around some large sheds. We ended up over where a large fire had burned down the house.

Oh. That answered a lot of questions. I had figured one of the sheds was originally a house and the owner must have moved to town long ago. Wrong. His niece wandered over and told me that Ole was ninety-three years old, when last December he died in the house fire. She grew up out here on this farm and the pain of loss in her eyes was easy to read.

Around the edges of the pile of debris surrounding the burn were several old stools. Some had three legs. Some had four. Some had legs different lengths. Some legs faced different directions on the same stool. This was not craftsman work. But I recognize treasure when I see it. I piled up six of the stools and bid on them. I’ll paint them each a different color and plant them in my back yard. I’ll surround them with pots of petunias to honor the memory of the old gentleman and my day at the auction.
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A Good Time Was Had By All

A few minutes ago I waved good-by to friends from the west coast. I feel happy, because while they were here we had such fun. Sad, because they are headed down the road. Happy, because they love this country and its people like I do.

When friends arrive, I put on my tour guide hat. We discuss possibilities and make lists of things to do and places to go. Creating an agenda takes time. There are always critical components, which include drinking coffee, eating goodies hot from the oven, and catching up on life events.

Eventually we hit the road in search of adventure. One morning we head for Havre. But a Saddle Butte Smoked Meats outfit is parked alongside the highway in Chinook. Hey, shopping for essential elements of life is part of the fun. And this morning I had fried my last pound of bacon to accompany sour dough waffles. So I drive around the block and swing in alongside the trailer, buy bacon, chat about the selection of goodies, then pull back onto the road. My friends and I talk turkey. Smoked turkey. Why not? I turn around and head back into Chinook.

One more scenic detour to the tune of “I wonder what is down that road?” and we arrive in Havre. We buy books by Montana authors. We dent the inventory of threads and yarns at the Ben Franklin. We hang out at the train station to watch folks arrive and depart on the Empire Builder, a regular stop on the tour. But the crowning highlight of our day in Havre, is the auction sale of a fifty year collection of Avon . None of us use Avon . I am allergic to any scent. Turns stinky on my skin. I’ve tried them all. But the hook that pulls us in is the sheer incredulity of garnering these items for over fifty years. What was the attraction for the woman who did this? Who was she? We have to see.

We walk into the VFW hall and our jaws drop. Boxes fill the room. Six hundred boxes generously, fully packed. We browse products, collectables, crafts, and knick-knacks. We each choose a box of interest and memorize the number. We sit through an hour of the auction loving every minute of the action. Is this box really a bargain? Are these valuables? Should I bid on the next one? That man in the blue jacket bought ten boxes. What will he do with it? If I buy my box, how much will I end up donating to the Salvation Army? We leave with no loot to pick through. The experience is the gift.

Another day we visit friends at the North Harlem Colony, compare crochet techniques, eat June-berry pie and sip mint tea. Filled with pie, stories and comfort, we head north up the highway on the lookout for baby antelope. We see herds of antelope but no babies. Is it too early? Or are the young obeying mom’s orders—drop and don’t move? We note few houses but many abandoned homestead sites. We try to imagine the lives of the early settlers, their hardships, their joys, the isolation of these people in this place here at the top of the world.

We swing into Turner, drive around the grayed and ancient tumble-down buildings, admire the school, walk along the raised bed where the railroad spur was years ago, peer through cracks in the old station, the granaries. We land at the Border Bar in time for an early dinner. If you haven’t been there, go soon. Talk with the people who love their town of seventy-five citizens. Celebrate their vitality.

We drive back to the valley in awe of cloud shadows on the coulees, mountains detailed in the distance, the beauty of sunlight and antelope at play on the plains.

When my friends drive a thousand miles to visit me, they always help out with a project. Sunday we clean flower beds, perk up my old cabin in the back yard with bird houses and an original A&W sign purchased for a dollar at a different auction. And we eat smoked turkey.

There are leftovers on our list, things we did not take time to do or see. These are seed for their next trip, our next adventures. We part with reluctance and smiles. A good time was had by all.

Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
April 9, 09